Chapter Twelve
Vic
He woke up alone.
The other side of the bed was cold. Morning light slanted through the blinds. Vic sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, and heard movement in the kitchen.
He pulled on his jeans and padded out, grabbing his shirt along the way.
Bonnie was already dressed—jeans, fresh tank top, hair scraped away from her face into a ponytail—pouring coffee into a travel mug. She looked composed. Distant.
“Morning, Bunny,” Vic said, voice still rough with sleep.
She glanced at him, expression carefully neutral. “Morning. Coffee’s fresh if you want some.”
Vic leaned against the doorframe, studying her. The easy heat from last night was gone, replaced by every one of her walls snapping back into place.
“You kicking me out already?” he asked, half joking, half serious.
Bonnie didn’t smile. She screwed the lid on the mug and finally met his eyes.
“Look...last night was fun. Really fun. But I don’t do the morning-after thing. And I definitely don’t do repeats.”
The words hit him like a cold splash of water.
He nodded slowly, keeping his face calm even as something twisted in his chest. “Got it.”
She handed him the travel mug. “There’s a bus stop two blocks down. Or you can call an Uber. Whatever.”
Vic took a slow drink of the coffee, their gazes locked for a second. The spark was still there, but Bonnie shut it down immediately.
“Thanks for filling in last night,” she said, already moving toward the door like she had somewhere to be. “You killed it.”
Vic pulled on his boots in silence, then paused at the doorway.
“Bonnie.”
She looked back at him, guarded.
“I don’t regret it,” he said quietly. “Not even a little.”
For a fraction of a second, her expression softened. Then the walls slammed back up.
“Take care of yourself, Montrose.”
She closed the door behind him with a quiet click.
Vic stood on the porch for a long moment, coffee warm in his hand, the taste of her still lingering on his lips.
Then he shook his head, let out a low breath, and headed down the stairs.
Another night. Another exit.
But this one felt different.
And he already knew he wasn’t done with Bonnie—not by a long shot.
***
Bonnie
Bonnie carefully closed the door behind Vic and leaned back against it, eyes shut, heart still hammering from the night before.
Fuck.
She could still feel him—the heat of his hands on her skin, the low rumble of his voice in her ear, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only woman for him.
That was exactly why she’d kicked him out just after the sun came up.
She pushed off the door and stalked into her tiny kitchen, pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee she didn’t even want. Her hands were shaking. She hated that.
Bonnie had learned a long time ago that letting people stay the night meant letting them think they mattered. And the second they thought they mattered, they started expecting things. Expecting her to soften. Expecting her to need them.
She didn’t need anyone.
She’d built her life that way—guitar in her hands, her own band, her own rules. Men were fun. Sex was fun. But the morning after? That was when they started looking at her like they wanted more than she was willing to give.
Vic had been...different.
He hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t made stupid promises or tried to charm her into something serious.
He’d just matched her—beat for beat, fire for fire—like he’d been waiting his whole life to play with someone who could keep up.
The way he’d looked at her when she was riding him, the way he’d laughed low and rough when she bit his shoulder, the way he’d held her afterward like she was something precious but not fragile...
It had terrified her.
So she’d done what she always did.
She’d shut it down hard.
“Take care of yourself, Montrose,” she’d said, like he was just another guy. Like last night hadn’t been one of the best nights she’d had in years.
Bonnie stared down into her coffee, jaw tight.
She regretted it already.
Not the sex. Never the sex. But the way she’d iced him out.
The way his face had gone carefully blank as she handed him the travel mug and basically shoved him toward the door.
She’d seen the flicker of hurt in his eyes before he locked it down, and that knowledge of pain had twisted something ugly in her chest.
He hadn’t deserved that.
She already knew Vic was solid. Steady in a way most musicians weren’t. The kind of man who showed up when he said he would. The kind who could match her onstage and in bed and still look at her like she was worth respecting the morning after.
And she’d thrown him out like he was nothing.
“Goddammit,” she muttered, setting the mug down too hard.
She picked up her phone and stared at his contact. Her thumb hovered over the message icon.
She wanted to text him.
Something casual. Something that said last night was incredible without sounding needy. Maybe even You still in town?
But her thumb wouldn’t move.
She wasn’t going to be the one who called. She never was. Letting someone know she wanted them around felt too much like weakness. Like handing them power over her. And Bonnie swore a long time ago that she’d never give anyone that kind of power again.
Not after her dad left.
Not after every boyfriend who eventually got tired of her “attitude” and her long hours and her refusal to play house.
Not after watching her mom fall apart. Watching as her brothers tried to hold her together by sheer willpower and failed.
She tossed the phone onto the counter like it had burned her.
Vic Montrose would either call her or he wouldn’t. If he was smart, he’d stay away from her brand of complicated. If he wasn’t...
Bonnie pressed her palms to her eyes and let out a shaky breath.
She already knew she’d answer if he called.
She just wasn’t going to be the first one to reach out.
Some walls, she wasn’t ready to tear down.
Not even for a drummer who made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t in years.
***
Bonnie stood at her kitchen window, coffee gone cold in the mug she’d been holding for twenty minutes.
She’d already deleted his phone number and was now second-guessing that action.
The house was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old floorboards when she shifted her weight.
Morning light slanted across the scarred hardwood, catching on the half-empty bottle of whiskey from last night and the damp towel she’d dropped by the couch after her shower.
She still smelled like him.
Sweat, smoke, that faint trace of the cedarwood soap he must use.
It clung to her skin no matter how hard she’d scrubbed.
Her body ached in the best and worst ways—thighs sore, back marked with faint fingerprints, lips still tender from the way he’d kissed her like he was trying to memorize her.
She pressed two fingers to her mouth and closed her eyes.
Fuck.
The gig had been...everything.
From the second Vic sat down behind her kit, something had shifted.
The groove she’d been chasing for years had finally clicked into place like a lock she didn’t even know was waiting.
He hadn’t just kept time. He’d answered her.
Every growl of her guitar, every rasp in her voice, every risky tempo change—she’d thrown it at him, and he’d thrown it right back, bigger, deeper, more alive.
The crowd had felt it. She had felt it in her bones.
And then the sex.
God, the sex.
She’d never been with anyone who matched her so completely—onstage and off. He hadn’t tried to tame her. Hadn’t gone gentle when she wanted rough. Hadn’t asked for promises when she wanted to forget the world existed.
And then this morning she’d kicked him out like he was some random one-night guy.
Bonnie set the mug down too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim, and she didn’t bother wiping it up.
She crossed to the tiny desk in the corner, the one piled with notebooks and crumpled lyric sheets next to three different guitars leaning against the wall.
She dropped into the chair, grabbed the nearest notebook, and flipped to a blank page.
Her hand shook a little as she picked up a pen.
She wrote the first line before she could talk herself out of it.
He hit the downbeat like he knew every scar I tried to hide
She stared at it. Too on-the-nose. Too raw. She crossed it out so hard the pen tore the paper, then tried again.
Thunder in the pocket, steady when I break
Eyes on me like he’s reading every note I didn’t play
Better. She kept going, the words coming faster now, messy and half-formed, the way they always did when she was trying to outrun her own head.
He doesn’t ask me to stay, but he makes me want to
Leaves fingerprints on my skin like he’s writing something true
I kicked him out at dawn, said I don’t do mornings
But the bed still smells like cedarwood and warnings
Bonnie let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead.
This was dangerous.
She could still picture the way he’d looked at her when she told him to leave. That careful, steady expression—like he’d been expecting it but hoping she wouldn’t. Like he saw straight through the walls she’d spent years building and still wanted to stay anyway.
She wrote another scrap, the pen moving almost angrily now.
I built these walls brick by brick, calloused hands and pride
Swore no man would ever get inside
But he played like he belonged there
Like the rhythm was ours to share
She dropped the pen and shoved the notebook away.
Stood up. Paced the small living room once, twice, then grabbed her acoustic from its stand.
She sat on the edge of the couch, guitar across her lap, and started picking out a slow, minor progression.
The same four chords she’d been circling for weeks, trying to find the right words.
Her voice came out low and rough when she sang the first attempt.
“Thunder in the pocket...steady when I break...”
She stopped. Shook her head. Tried again, softer.