Chapter Seventeen #3
Vic stared at the concrete floor, the old ache rising.
“My mom left when I was six. One morning she was there making pancakes, and the next morning she was just gone. No note. No nothing. A neighbor called my Grams, and she sent Rosie to pick me up. I didn’t know him at all; my guess was he and my mom had a fun weekend.
But he was an easy target for hero worship for a little kid.
I think I was glad to have a dad, a brother.
Moving evidence of his unfaithfulness likely contributed to my stepmom and brother leaving a few years later.
No goodbye. Rosie said they got tired of the life, tired of him, tired of me.
I spent years thinking if I was just better—quieter, tougher, better at drums—maybe someone would’ve stayed. ”
He swallowed hard.
“Rosie...he tried, in his own fucked-up way. But he was always chasing the next high, the next gig. When he died, it was because of some bar fight in Murfreesboro. Grams called me from the hospital. I wasn’t ready. Still not sure I am.”
The garage fell silent. The weight of both their histories pressed down on them.
After a long stretch of quiet, Chase spoke again, voice rough.
“My mom was murdered last year.”
Vic’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Yeah. A blood relative killed her. Cut her hand off after she was dead.” Chase’s jaw flexed. “I was glad it wasn’t an overdose. Sounds fucked-up, but...I was relieved. At least it wasn’t her choosing to leave me again.”
Vic stared at him, the words hitting like a punch to the gut.
“Holy fuck, Chase.”
The shock was raw in his voice for a second. Then he caught himself, shifting on the couch so he was facing the kid more directly.
“I can’t even imagine having that kind of finality about my mom,” he said quietly. “At least with mine, there’s still this tiny part of me that wonders if she’s out there somewhere. There’s still this...possibility, even if it’s stupid. You don’t even get that.”
Vic closed his eyes for a moment, the low hum of the garage fading as an old memory surfaced without warning.
He was four, maybe five. The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and coffee.
His mother stood at the stove in one of Rosie’s old band T-shirts that hung down to her knees, humming along to the radio while she flipped pancakes.
Her dark hair was messy from sleep, and when she glanced over her shoulder and caught him watching from the doorway, her whole face lit up with a smile so bright it felt like the sun coming out.
“There’s my favorite boy,” she said, voice warm and sleepy. She opened her arms and he ran to her, pressing his face into her stomach as she hugged him tight. She smelled like vanilla and laundry soap. “You want chocolate chips in yours?”
He’d nodded against her shirt, and she’d laughed—that soft, musical laugh he used to think could fix anything. She’d lifted him onto the counter so he could watch, letting him stir the batter with a big wooden spoon while she kissed the top of his head.
For a few perfect minutes, the world had felt safe. Complete.
Just pancakes, his mom’s arms, and the radio playing low in the background.
Vic opened his eyes, the memory slipping away like smoke. The ache that always followed settled heavy in his chest.
He still didn’t know what had made her leave.
But he’d never forgotten how it felt when she stayed.
Chase nodded slowly, eyes on the floor.
Vic reached over and gripped his shoulder, squeezing hard.
“You’re not your mom’s mistakes, man. And you’re sure as hell not what she left behind. Mason claimed you. Bear looks out for you. The whole damn club has your back. And so do I. You’re not alone in this. Not anymore.”
Chase was quiet for a long moment, then gave a small, grateful nod.
“Thanks, Vic.”
They sat there in the comfortable silence that only comes after heavy truths have been shared. Vic felt the strange, warm certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be—not just for himself, but for the kid sitting next to him.
Family wasn’t always blood.
Sometimes it was the people who stayed.
***
Chase started seeking him out more often after that.
They jammed regularly. They talked between songs—about music, pressure, what it felt like when your father’s legend loomed so large that it cast everything else in shadow. Vic became the steady older-brother figure the kid clearly needed, offering quiet advice without judgment.
Mason noticed.
One evening, after Chase had left the garage smiling for the first time in days, the national president pulled Vic aside near the bikes.
“You’re good with him,” Mason said, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Kid doesn’t open up easily. Never has. Not even to me most days.”
Vic shrugged, wiping his hands on a rag. “He’s got talent. Just needs someone in his corner who gets it. Who’s been there.”
Mason studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp but not unkind. Then he gave a single, decisive nod.
“Keep doing what you’re doing, Montrose. You’re earning your place here.”
Vic felt something loosen in his chest—the first real crack in the tension that had been building since the night with Bonnie and the initial disfavor from the club.
He still hurt. Bonnie’s silence still cut deep.
But for the first time in weeks, he felt like he was building something real again—not just with the band, but here, with these men. With Chase.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep him standing until Bonnie was ready to let him back in.