Chapter Seventeen #2
Vic had noticed the kid hanging around rehearsals and the clubhouse for weeks now—quiet, talented, but carrying a weight on his shoulders that didn’t belong to someone his age.
Chase moved through the space like he was trying not to take up too much room, guitar always close, eyes sharp but guarded.
There was something familiar in the way he watched everyone, like he was waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him.
One sticky afternoon, while Vic was alone in Bear’s garage studio working through some new rhythms on the kit, the side door creaked open. Chase stood there, guitar case in hand, looking unsure whether he should interrupt.
“You mind if I sit in?” he asked, voice low but hopeful.
Vic wiped sweat from his brow and shrugged. “Grab an amp. I’m just messing around anyway.”
Chase’s face lit up—just a flicker, but it was there. He set up quickly, plugging in his guitar and adjusting the strap like it was second nature.
They started simple. Vic laid down a loose blues progression on the drums. Chase answered with clean, emotive leads that surprised Vic with their maturity.
They played for hours.
Chase was good—really good—with a natural feel for melody and a touch that could go from delicate to ferocious in a single phrase. But he played with a kind of desperate intensity, like the music was the only thing keeping something ugly at bay. Vic recognized the feeling all too well.
Between songs, they talked.
“You ever feel like you’re just...waiting for everything to fall apart?
” Chase asked during one break, picking absently at his strings.
He didn’t look up. “Like no matter how hard you try, one day your dad’s reputation or the club’s expectations or something...
everything...is gonna come crashing down, and it’ll be your fault? ”
Vic set his sticks down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The kid’s words hit close to home.
“Every damn day,” Vic admitted. “My old man was a mess. Chased every high, every gig, every woman who looked at him twice. Left a trail of burned bridges and broken promises. I spent years trying not to become him and still ended up repeating half his mistakes.”
Chase finally looked up, eyes haunted. “My dad...he’s larger than life around here. Everyone expects me to be just like him. Or better. But what if I can’t? What if I’m just...me?”
Vic studied the younger man for a long moment. There was real fear there—not just stage fright, but the deep kind that came from living in someone else’s shadow.
“Then you keep showing up anyway,” Vic said softly. “That’s what matters. Talent’s cheap. Showing up when it’s hard? That’s rare. You’ve got the talent, Chase. And you’ve got heart. The rest...you’ll figure it out one day at a time. One song at a time.”
Chase was quiet for a while, fingers still moving over the fretboard. Then he nodded, almost to himself.
“Thanks,” he said, voice rough. “Most people just tell me to suck it up. Or that I’m lucky to have the name I do.”
Vic gave a small, tired smile. “Lucky’s overrated. I’d rather be good.”
They played another hour after that—looser this time, more trusting.
Chase started taking bigger risks, stretching out solos, even throwing in a few vocal ideas on a new riff they were messing with.
When he finally packed up, there was a lightness in his step that hadn’t been there when he walked in.
“Thanks for letting me sit in,” Chase said at the door. “Means a lot.”
“Anytime,” Vic replied. “Door’s always open.”
***
The garage was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional tick of cooling engines outside. Once again, Vic and Chase had been jamming for hours but had drifted into talking. They sat on the old couch, instruments set aside, two bottles of water on the floor between them.
Chase bent over and grabbed a water, then began picking at the label on his bottle. “You ever think about family shit when you’re playing?”
Vic let out a short laugh. “All the time. Music’s the only place that ever made sense when nothing else did.”
Chase was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “I was twelve before I found out Mason was my dad.”
Vic turned his head, surprised. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. My mom—Carrie Sosa—kept it from both of us. Told me my dad was some guy who wasn’t around.
So I met him when I was twelve, and he showed me from the first that I mattered.
It rocked on like that for a while, seeing Mason a few days a month, but he’d disappear into a black hole between visits.
Then one day when I was fifteen, she just...
dumped me on his doorstep. Suitcase in my hand, told me, ‘Bye, baby,’ and drove off. I was a Sosa until that day.”
“Jesus, Chase.”
Chase shrugged, but his shoulders stayed tight. “Mason took me in. Never hesitated. But it messed me up for a long time.”