Chapter Nineteen
Vic
The garage studio at Bear’s house had never sounded so alive.
Vic sat behind the kit, sweat dripping down his temples, sticks moving in a relentless, driving groove as Benny leaned into the mic for the final chorus of their newest song.
The energy in the room was electric—different from the tentative hope of Benny’s first return. This was solid. Confident. Real.
Benny’s voice soared, raw but controlled, hitting every note with power and intention. Their session bassist locked in like he was born to it. Mitty’s guitar sang with new fire. Even Chase, sitting in on rhythm for parts of the session, was grinning from ear to ear.
When the last chord rang out, the room fell silent for half a second before everyone exploded.
“Fuck yes!” Benny shouted, throwing his hands up. He turned to Vic, eyes bright. “That pocket you laid down on the bridge? Killer, man. Absolutely killer.”
Vic twirled a stick and grinned back. “You gave me something worth chasing.”
***
Mercedes had been the catalyst.
She’d started showing up to rehearsals a week earlier—small, fierce, with her ever-changing hair colors and that uncanny ability to see straight through people’s bullshit. At first, Vic thought she was just Benny’s friend. He quickly learned she was so much more.
She had an ear for lyrics that made Benny’s words sharper.
She called out lazy phrasing in arrangements.
Most importantly, she had a way of steadying Benny when the old demons started whispering.
One quiet word from her in the corner could pull him back from the edge before anyone else even noticed he was slipping.
With Mercedes in the room, the band felt complete in a way it hadn’t before.
They were in the middle of their first serious recording session at Slate’s brand-new home studio when Vic really stepped up.
The track was ambitious—a six-minute epic that shifted from heavy, stomping verses into a soaring, emotional chorus. They’d been struggling with that exact transition for two hours. Everyone was getting frustrated.
Vic set his sticks down during a break and walked over to the group.
“Listen,” he said, voice calm but sure. “The problem isn’t the tempo. It’s the feel. We’re playing it too safe. Benny—on that last build, instead of holding back, lean into it. Let it get a little ugly. I’ll meet you there with the drums. Trust me.”
Benny studied him for a second, then nodded. “Let’s try it.”
They ran it again.
This time, Vic pushed. He attacked the kit with controlled power, throwing in a massive fill right before the chorus that cracked the song wide open. Benny answered with a raw, passionate vocal delivery that gave everyone chills. When they finished, the control room was dead silent.
Slate’s voice came over the talkback, sounding stunned. “Holy shit, boys. That’s the one.”
Mercedes, sitting cross-legged on the couch beside the mixing board, gave Vic a slow, approving smile and a single nod.
***
Slate was leaning against the doorway of the control room and appeared to be watching as the band packed up after that strong take. Vic looked at him and then pointedly nodded towards Mercedes and lifted a single eyebrow.
“Figured I should make this official,” Slate said, nodding at the woman perched on the couch with her notebook. “Vic, this is Mercedes Gruffudd. She’s Benny’s sobriety companion.”
Mercedes looked up, expression calm and professional, though her eyes held a spark of humor. “Paid, full-time, and very good at my job,” she added dryly.
Slate continued, addressing the whole room.
“After everything that went down, the label and the club agreed that Benny needed structured support on the road and in the studio. Mercedes came highly recommended. She’s not just here to keep him clean—she’s got a serious ear for music and zero tolerance for bullshit.
When she speaks up about a lyric or an arrangement, it’s worth listening to. ”
He looked directly at Vic. “She’s been around for a while now. Helped pull Benny back from the brink more than once. If she’s in the room, it’s because she’s earned the right to be. Treat her like one of the band—because as far as I’m concerned, she is.”
Mercedes gave Vic a measured nod. “I don’t interfere with the music unless it affects Benny’s recovery. But when it does...I speak up. Fair warning.”
Vic studied her for a beat, then offered a respectful chin lift. “Good to know the full story. I’ve already seen how you steady him. Appreciate you being here.”
Benny, still behind the mic, let out a short laugh. “She’s saved my ass more times than I can count. Don’t let the ‘companion’ title fool you—she’ll call you on your shit faster than Mason does.”
The band exchanged glances. The introduction settled something in the room—clarity about Mercedes’ role, combined with Slate’s endorsement, made her presence feel solid and intentional rather than mysterious.
They had a professional anchor in the room now.
And it felt exactly right.
***
Later that night, after everyone else had left, Vic and Benny stayed behind, seated on the studio couch, Vic nursing a beer and Benny a sparkling water. The control room lights were dimmed low, and the faint smell of fresh coffee still lingered from the long session.
“You’ve been carrying a lot lately,” Benny said quietly. “Stepping up when I went down. Holding the gear together. Now this... You’re not just the new drummer anymore, Vic. You’re part of the spine of this band.”
Vic shrugged, but the words landed deep. “Just doing what needs doing.”
Benny shook his head. “It’s more than that. I see how you are with Chase too. How you’ve been helping keep me steady without making it obvious.” He met Vic’s eyes. “Thank you. For real.”
Vic clinked his bottle against Benny’s. “We’re in this together now. All of us.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a minute, the kind that only comes after a long, productive day. Benny took a slow pull from his water, then glanced over.
“Hey...you ever play Marie’s before?”
Vic shook his head. “Never had the chance. Heard it’s a special spot, though.”
Benny nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“It’s more than special. Marie’s is...home base.
Been around forever. The Rebels have had a stake in it for years.
It’s where I played my first real gig with a real crowd.
Where I fell on my ass more times than I can count trying to figure out who the hell I was supposed to be onstage. ”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, turning the beer bottle in his hands.
“That place kept me alive when everything else was falling apart. When I was using, when I was lost, when the label was breathing down my neck—Marie’s was the one room that always felt honest. No bullshit.
No industry vampires. Just people who show up because they want to be there.
The Rebels protect it. The locals protect it.
And every time we play there, it reminds us why we do this. ”
Benny looked over at Vic, his expression serious but warm.
“So when we headline Marie’s in a couple of weeks...
it’s not just another gig. It’s a statement.
We’re saying we’re back, we’re solid, and we haven’t forgotten where we came from.
I want you up there with us when it happens.
Not as the fill-in guy. As our drummer. Because that room deserves to see what you bring to this band. ”
Vic felt something settle in his chest—pride, responsibility, and a deep sense of belonging all at once.
“I’ll be there,” he said quietly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Benny grinned and tapped his bottle against Vic’s again. “Good. Because we’re gonna burn that place down in the best way.”
The bond between them had deepened. What started as professional respect had turned into real brotherhood.
OY was back.
Better than ever.
And as Vic drove back to Bear’s house that night, windows down and music low, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
Hope.
The kind that came from knowing you were exactly where you were supposed to be—surrounded by people worth fighting for, making music that mattered.
Bonnie still haunted his thoughts.
But for the first time since she’d pushed him away, Vic believed he could keep moving forward.
The band was rolling.
And he was right in the middle of it, sticks in hand, heart wide open.