Chapter Eighteen
Vic
Vic couldn’t get Bonnie out of his head.
She haunted him in the quiet moments—during long rehearsals when a certain groove would remind him of the way she moved onstage, hips swaying, guitar slung low, fire in her eyes.
Late at night, when he lay in Bear’s guest room staring at the ceiling, the distant rumble of bikes outside the window doing nothing to drown out the memory of her laugh, low and rough after they’d worn each other out.
Even in the middle of a set, when the crowd was screaming and the lights were hot and OY was locked in tight, all he could think about was how much better it would feel if she were in the audience watching him—that fierce, proud look she got when the music was right.
He kept replaying that last night in her apartment like a song he couldn’t stop listening to, even though it hurt.
The way she’d looked at him when he said he loved her—eyes wide, vulnerable for half a second before the panic set in.
The way her walls had slammed shut so fast he could almost hear the crash.
The quiet click of the door behind him when she asked him to leave.
Every day he told himself to let it go. Every night he failed.
But even in the ache of missing her, Vic couldn’t ignore how much his life had changed in just one year.
A year ago, he’d been drifting—couch to couch, band to band, chasing the next gig like his father had chased every high.
He’d been sleeping on Sheri’s couch, licking wounds, wondering if he’d ever find a place where he actually belonged.
Klatmatch Ends had imploded. Silverline Drift had been safe but empty.
The music had still been there, but it had felt like survival instead of salvation.
Now?
He had OY, finally a band that felt like home.
Benny was solid again, the new material had real teeth, and the crowds were growing every week.
He had Bear’s guest room that had slowly started to feel less like temporary housing and more like a place he could put down roots.
He had the club—rough, loyal, complicated as hell, but real.
Men who had his back even when he’d overstepped.
Chase, who looked at him like a big brother instead of just another musician passing through.
He had purpose.
Even without Bonnie—and God, that still hurt like a bruise he kept pressing—his life was so much better than it had been twelve months ago.
He wasn’t running anymore. He wasn’t just filling in.
He was part of something. The “grace in motion” he’d always chased on the drums was starting to take shape off the stage too—in the way he showed up for rehearsals, for Chase, for the club, for himself.
He still wanted her. The ache of her silence was a constant companion.
But for the first time in his life, Vic could look at where he stood and feel proud of the man looking back at him in the mirror. He wasn’t his father’s ghost anymore. He wasn’t drifting.
He was building.
And maybe—just maybe—that was enough to keep him steady until Bonnie figured out whether she could let herself want the same thing.
***
He was sitting on the back porch of Bear’s house, absently spinning a drumstick between his fingers, when his phone rang.
Meg.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Meg.”
“Montrose.” Her voice was warm, the familiar mix of business and affection that always made him feel seen. “I’ve got a solid three-month block of session work starting in two weeks. High-profile stuff. Good money, steady hours, and a chance to work with some real players. You interested?”
Vic smiled a little, watching the drumstick turn end over end. The offer was tempting on paper—the kind of reliable paycheck he would’ve jumped at a year ago without thinking twice.
But things were different now.
“Nah, I’m good,” he said, voice solid and sure. “Appreciate the call, but I’m staying put. OY’s where I belong.”
Meg was quiet for a beat, then let out a soft, pleased laugh. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
Vic leaned back in the chair, the late-afternoon sun warm on his face.
“It feels right here, Meg. The band’s solid.
Benny’s in a good place. The new material is strong, and the crowds are starting to show up for us instead of just the headliner.
I’ve got something real with these guys. I don’t want to walk away from it.”
He could almost hear her smiling through the phone.
“I’ve always known you were looking for something that felt like home,” she said gently. “Not just another gig, not just another paycheck. You’ve been chasing that feeling since you were a kid banging on coffee cans in your grandma’s kitchen. Sounds like you’ve finally found it in Fort Wayne.”
Vic nodded even though she couldn’t see him. “Yeah. I have.”
Meg’s tone stayed soft, almost maternal. “Any romantic involvements?”
He let out a slow breath. “Still working on that. The woman I want, well, she’s worth the wait.”
“Good.” There was quiet pride in Meg’s voice now. “A woman worth her salt is always worth working for, Vic. Always. But you’ve already made the right call on the band. That’s the important part.”
She paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “By the way...I saw your brother last week.”
Vic sat up a little straighter. “Conner?”
“Yeah. He was in town doing some security consulting work. Looked good. Clean. We grabbed coffee. He asked about you.”
Vic’s chest tightened, but it wasn’t the old ache anymore. Just surprise. “He did?”
“He did. I told him you were doing well. Really well.” Meg’s voice warmed again. “Think about that session gig if you ever change your mind, but I have a feeling you won’t. You’ve earned your place there in Fort Wayne. Don’t second-guess it.”
She hung up, leaving Vic sitting in the quiet with the drumstick still spinning slowly between his fingers.
He thought about Bonnie. About the way she made him feel alive even when she was keeping her distance. About how terrifying and worth it she was.
He thought about OY—the band that had become home faster than he’d expected. About Chase, who looked up to him. About Bear, who’d opened his house without question. About the club that was slowly making room for him.
Vic stood up, walked into the garage, and sat down behind the practice kit.
He brought the sticks down hard.
The music poured out of him—powerful, steady, and sure.
He wasn’t running.
Not this time.
***
Meg
Meg sat alone in the small office off her main studio, the bottle of tequila still on the desk from Bonnie’s visit a few nights earlier. The glass in her hand was half empty, the clear liquid catching the low lamplight. She hadn’t bothered turning on the overheads. The dimness suited her mood.
She’d just hung up with Vic.
He’d sounded...solid. Sure of himself in a way she hadn’t heard in years. When she’d offered him the three-month session block—good money, high-profile artists, the kind of steady work most drummers would kill for—he hadn’t even hesitated.
“Nah, I’m good,” he’d said, calm and decisive. “OY’s where I belong.”
Meg had smiled into the phone, genuine pride warming her chest. She’d pushed him gently, reminding him of the thing he’d always been searching for, and Vic had met her there. No running. No second-guessing. Just a man who had finally found his place and was willing to fight for it.
Good for you, kid, she’d thought.
Then there was Bonnie.
The younger woman had shown up on her doorstep last week looking like she’d been carrying the weight of the world. A few shots of tequila later, Bonnie had admitted what Meg had already suspected. She was in love with Vic Montrose. Scared shitless, but in love.
Meg had seen the panic in Bonnie’s eyes—the same panic she’d once felt herself.
She took another slow sip of tequila, letting the burn settle.
Rosie.
Even after all these years, the name still brought a quiet ache.
One wild weekend decades ago, when Rosie Montrose had blown through Nashville like a summer storm.
Meg had been young, ambitious, and stupid enough to think she could hold on to a man like that.
They’d burned bright and fast—laughter, music, tangled sheets, and conversations that felt like they could change the world.
Then he was gone. Back on the road. Back to the chaos.
She’d never told anyone how much that weekend had meant to her. How she’d carried a quiet torch for him long after he’d forgotten her name. How she’d watched from afar as he self-destructed, wishing she’d had the courage—or the power—to pull him back from the edge.
Now here she was, playing mentor to the son he’d left behind and the fierce young woman who reminded her so much of the best parts of Rosie himself.
Meg set the glass down and rubbed her eyes.
She was glad for them. Truly. Vic had found something real with Occupy Yourself. Bonnie was finally letting herself feel something deep and terrifying. They had a chance—a real one—if they didn’t let fear ruin it.
But sitting there in the quiet studio, the ghosts of what-ifs lingered.
If only I’d had another chance with you, Rosie, she thought, the ache soft but persistent. Maybe I could’ve shown you what steady looked like. Maybe we both could’ve been different.
Meg let out a long breath and raised her glass in a silent toast to the man who’d left too many broken hearts and unfinished songs behind.
Then she smiled, small and bittersweet.
At least his son was getting it right.