Chapter Twenty-Two
Vic
The control room at Slate’s studio smelled like fresh coffee, warm electronics, and faint traces of weed from the jam session the night before. Red lights glowed on the consoles, and the big window looking into the live room showed the full Occupy Yourself lineup spread out and ready.
They were deep into tracking for the new record, and it wasn’t going smoothly.
“Again,” Benny said, frustration bleeding into his voice. “The bridge is dragging. It feels...safe. Too fucking safe.”
Mitty rubbed his temples. “We’ve tried it three different ways already.”
The session bassist was pacing. And Mercedes sat cross-legged on the couch, watching everyone with sharp, patient eyes.
Vic leaned back on his stool behind the kit in the live room, sticks resting across his knees. He’d been mostly quiet for the last hour, listening. Feeling the tension build.
He stood up and walked over to the talkback mic.
“Run it one more time,” he said calmly. “But this time, don’t overthink it. Benny—trust the emotion. Don’t try to control it. Let it get messy. I’ll meet you there.”
Benny met his eyes through the glass and gave a short nod.
They started again.
The first verse was solid. The pre-chorus built nicely. Then they hit the bridge—and Vic let loose.
His drumming shifted from steady support to something alive and dangerous.
He attacked the toms with powerful, rolling fills, then dropped into a half-time groove that gave the song room to breathe while still pushing it forward.
The sticks became extensions of his body—graceful, precise, full of controlled power.
Grace in motion.
Benny responded instinctively, leaning into a raw, imperfect vocal take that cracked with real feeling. The rest of the band followed Vic’s lead, and suddenly the song opened up. It breathed. It lived.
When the final note faded, the control room was silent.
Slate’s voice came through the talkback, sounding stunned. “Jesus Christ. That’s the take.”
Mercedes smiled wide. “There it is.”
***
Technical issues hit later that afternoon.
They were tracking a complex, layered piece when the click track started glitching. Then one of the mics in the drum room started cutting out intermittently. Frustration levels spiked again.
While the engineer cursed at the computer, Vic stood up, rolled his shoulders, and addressed the room.
“Kill the click,” he said. “We don’t need it for this one. Let’s play it live. I’ll set the tempo. Trust me.”
Benny raised an eyebrow but nodded.
Vic counted them in with four heavy hits on the rim of his snare.
From the first beat, he was locked in—solid, powerful, and completely in command.
His groove became the anchor for the entire song.
When the glitchy mic cut out again, he didn’t flinch.
He simply adjusted on the fly, shifting his playing to compensate for the missing low end until the engineer could fix it.
By the time they finished the take, the technical problems had become irrelevant. The performance was too strong to be derailed.
Slate shook his head in disbelief as they listened back. “You just saved that track, man.”
Vic shrugged, but there was a quiet confidence in his posture now. “We saved it. Together.”
***
Later that evening, after everyone else had gone home, Vic stayed behind with Benny and Mercedes.
Benny was sprawled on the couch, exhausted but smiling. “You just keep impressing me, Vic. Not just on the kit. With everything.”
Vic sat on the edge of the console, spinning a stick between his fingers. “Just trying to do my part.”
“You’re doing more than that,” Mercedes said softly. “You’re becoming the steady hand this band needs. Especially when things get chaotic.”
Vic looked down at the stick in his hand, then back up at them. A small, genuine smile crossed his face.
“I spent a long time bouncing around, looking for somewhere that felt like home,” he said. “I think I finally found it.”
Benny reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Damn right you did.”
As Vic drove back to Bear’s house that night, windows down and the cool evening air rushing in, he felt something solid settle in his chest.
He was no longer just the new drummer filling in.
He was essential.
And for the first time in his life, he believed he belonged exactly where he was—behind the kit, in the pocket, driving the music forwards with power and grace.