Chapter Twenty-One
Vic
Marie’s was packed wall-to-wall, the kind of hometown crowd that felt like family and chaos all at once. The lights were low, the air thick with beer and anticipation, and Occupy Yourself was on fire.
Vic sat behind the kit, heart hammering harder than it had in weeks.
They were headlining the show, and the late-night energy in the room was electric.
Benny was in rare form—voice strong, presence commanding, fully embracing the experience.
The new material they’d been workshopping hit the audience like a freight train.
Every song felt bigger, heavier, more alive.
Bonnie wasn’t playing with them, the double-edged knife that had turned into, but he knew she’d show at some point.
But Vic’s eyes kept scanning the crowd.
He spotted her halfway through the fourth song.
Bonnie stood near the back, partially hidden in the shadows, a beer in her hand and her eyes locked on him. Not the stage. Not Benny. Him. The moment their gazes met across the smoky room, something raw and undeniable passed between them.
She was there for him.
Vic’s next fill came out harder than it should have, cracking through the room like thunder. Bonnie’s lips curved into a small, dangerous smile. She lifted her beer in a silent toast, and Vic answered by driving the beat even deeper, feeding the fire that had been simmering between them for weeks.
The rest of the set blurred into pure adrenaline. Vic played like a man possessed—powerful, precise, pouring every ounce of frustration, longing, and unresolved need into every strike. Benny caught the shift and rode it, pushing his vocals to match. The crowd lost their minds.
***
Vic barely waited for the house lights to come up.
He set his sticks in the holder strapped to the post of his throne, jumped off the riser, and cut straight through to the backstage hallway, knowing she’d follow. He didn’t have to wait long.
Bonnie slipped through the door behind him like a shadow. The second it clicked shut, she was in his arms.
Their mouths crashed together in a desperate, bruising kiss.
No words. No hesitation. Just weeks of pent-up hunger exploding between them.
Vic backed her against the wall, hands sliding under her shirt, gripping her waist hard enough to leave marks.
Bonnie moaned into his mouth, fingers digging into his sweat-damp hair, yanking him closer.
“Missed this,” she gasped between kisses. “Missed you.”
Vic growled low in his throat, shoving her harder against the wall. “Then stop fucking running.”
He didn’t give her time to respond. He spun her around, pressing her front to the cool concrete, mouth on her neck as he yanked her jeans down just enough. Bonnie pushed back against him, urgent and demanding, her breath coming in sharp, needy pants.
“Need you,” she whispered.
“I got you, bunny. I got you.”
The sex was raw, fast, and filthy.
Vic took her right there in the dim hallway, deep and relentless, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip.
Bonnie met every thrust with equal fire, whispering filthy encouragement between broken moans.
It was urgent. Almost angry. Like they were both trying to punish the other for the time apart while devouring each other at the same time.
“Fuck, Vic—” she choked out as she came hard, body shaking against him.
He followed right behind her, burying his face in her neck, groaning her name like a prayer.
They stayed locked together for a long moment, breathing ragged, hearts pounding in sync.
Then footsteps.
Vic reacted instantly. He pulled out, tucked himself in while he quickly fixed her jeans, and stepped back just as Mitty rounded the corner.
Mitty froze, eyes wide, taking in Vic’s disheveled state and the woman half-hidden behind him.
“Uh...everything okay back here?” he asked, clearly trying not to grin.
Vic wiped sweat from his brow and stepped forward, deliberately blocking Bonnie from view. “Yeah, man. Just needed some air after that set. I’ll be out in a minute to help load.”
Mitty’s gaze flicked past him for half a second, but he played along. “Gotcha. I’ll tell the others you’re...cooling down.”
As soon as Mitty disappeared, Bonnie let out a shaky laugh against Vic’s shoulder.
“You just protected my identity like I’m some kind of secret,” she murmured, voice still husky.
Vic turned, cupping her face with both hands. His eyes were intense, full of everything he’d been holding back.
“Because you are,” he said quietly. “You’re my secret. Until you decide you don’t want to be anymore.”
Bonnie’s expression flickered—desire, fear, and something softer all warring across her face. She kissed him again, slower this time, but still laced with that unresolved ache.
Neither of them said what needed to be said.
But in the back hallway of Marie’s with the distant roar of the crowd still echoing, it was enough.
***
Bonnie
Bonnie was halfway through her second cup of coffee the next morning when her phone rang. Unknown number. She almost let it go to voicemail, but something made her answer.
“Bonnie Dupont.”
“Bonnie, it’s Mason.” The RWMC national president’s voice was calm and low, the same tone he used when he was about to hand someone a lifeline. “Got a minute?”
She straightened. “Yeah. Of course.”
“I heard you killed the tryout the other day. Proud of you, kid. Slate said you and Benny sounded like you’d been playing together your whole lives.”
Bonnie felt a flicker of warmth. “Thanks. It felt good.”
“Good. Because I’ve got something else for you to think about.
” Mason paused, the way he always seemed to do when he was about to drop something big.
“My sister Bethany runs Iron Indian Records—the label I started a couple of years back. She’s been handling management and touring for our signed acts.
We just wrapped the comeback tour for one of our flagship bands, and the schedule’s opening up.
I think you and your band would fit right in with what we’re building over there.
Steady support slots, co-headline opportunities, real money instead of scraping by on bar guarantees.
No more chasing every dive gig just to keep the van running. ”
Bonnie’s pulse kicked up. “Mason...I don’t know what to say. That sounds incredible, but—”
“But you’ve got OY now too,” he finished for her, understanding in his voice.
“I get it. That’s why I’m calling personally.
Bethany’s already looked at your calendar.
She thinks we can make both work. Iron Indian can help coordinate the dates so you’re not killing yourself trying to be in two places at once.
You’d still have creative control over your band, but you’d have the label’s weight behind the logistics.
Think about it. Talk to your guys. If it feels right, Bethany will reach out directly. ”
He gave her a moment to absorb it, then added, “You’ve earned this, Bonnie. You and Vic both. Time to stop carrying everything alone.”
The line went quiet after he hung up.
Bonnie stared at her phone, heart hammering.
Iron Indian Records.
A real label. Real support.
And the first real chance she’d ever had to stop choosing between the music she loved and the life she was trying to build.
***
Bethany
Bethany Mason-Taylor stood at the window of her downtown Nashville office, watching the morning traffic crawl along Broadway. The city was already awake and hungry, the same way it had been every single day of her life.
From her first memories—hiding under the kitchen table while her father screamed at their mother—everything had always felt like skating a mere stone’s throw ahead of disaster.
One wrong step, one missed payment, one more night where the shouting turned to broken glass, and the whole fragile thing would shatter.
She’d learned early on how to keep moving. How to smile through the fear. How to build walls so thick no one could see the scared little girl still hiding behind them.
Even now, with the label thriving and her brother Mason’s MC empire at her back, that old survival instinct never fully quieted. It was just quieter.
She turned away from the window and looked at the calendar on her desk. The comeback tour for the band her brother had signed was wrapping in three weeks. Everything was on track—ticket sales strong, merch moving, the band behaving for once. It should be a breeze.
For the first time in her thirty-eight years, Bethany was allowing herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the disaster she’d spent her whole life outrunning had finally given up the chase.
She sat down and opened the file Mason had sent over last night.
Bonnie Dupont.
The guitarist’s résumé was impressive—raw talent, fierce independence, a band that had clawed its way up the same way Bethany had. And now she was tangled up with Vic Montrose and Occupy Yourself. Mason wanted her on the label. Wanted the coordination to work for everyone.
Bethany studied the photo attached to the file—Bonnie onstage, sweat-slicked and fierce, guitar slung low like a weapon.
She understood that look. The one that said I will burn the world down before I let it burn me.
Bethany leaned back in her chair, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips.
Maybe this one wouldn’t be just another band to manage.
Maybe this one would finally feel like something she could build without waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She picked up her phone and dialed the number Mason had given her.
Time to see if Bonnie Dupont was ready for the kind of stability Bethany had spent her whole life fighting to create.