Chapter Three
Vic
Vic woke with a start, head jerking up from the pillow.
He looked around and centered himself in what he could see and smell.
Sheri’s place didn’t have a guest room, so he’d been crashing on her couch for the past week.
He could see the tasteful wallpaper she’d told a story about the first night he’d been here.
The scent of coffee wafted through the air, and he flopped over to his back, stretching out his back and legs.
I need to figure out my next steps.
“Vic,” Sheri called from the kitchen, “breakfast is nearly ready.”
He rolled his eyes in affectionate amusement. He’d told her every day that she didn’t need to feed him too. Giving him a place to lick his wounds in peace mattered more than she seemed to know.
“Okay. Smells good, Sheri. I’ll be right there.
” He hit the head first, taking care not to shake those last drops anywhere but in the toilet bowl.
A quick washup, and he ran a wet hand through his hair, slicking it back and away from his face.
The man in the mirror looked better rested than he had in a while, and less gaunt.
“Staying with Sheri is good for the complexion.” His reflection grinned back at him. “Let’s go inhale another couple thousand calories.”
He padded into the kitchen in socks and yesterday’s jeans, the hem of his T-shirt brushing the waistband.
Sheri stood at the stove flipping eggs, her dark hair pulled up in a messy knot, wearing an oversized band tee that had seen better days.
She glanced over her shoulder and gave him that easy, no-pressure smile that had been his lifeline for the past seven days.
“Morning, rock star. Coffee’s fresh. Eggs are over easy with the bacon extra crispy, just how you like it.”
Vic dropped onto one of the barstools at the counter and accepted the mug she slid his way. “You really don’t have to keep doing this, Sheri.”
“I know.” She plated the food with practiced efficiency and set a heaping dish in front of him before taking the stool beside him. “But I like doing it. And you still look like you haven’t had a decent meal in months. Eat.”
“You aren’t trying to fatten me up for some nefarious reason, are you?”
“Would I tell you if I was?” She laughed. “No, Vic, you just...you can’t run a percussion engine without some good fuel.”
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the low hum of the refrigerator. Vic’s mind, though, wouldn’t stay quiet. It kept circling back to the same rut it had been stuck in since he walked away from Dom and the van outside that venue.
He’d spent years chasing the next gig, the next crowd, the next rush of power that came when hundreds of people moved to the beat he laid down.
And every time the high faded, he ended up in some version of this right here—couch-surfing with a fan who’d turned out to be a genuine friend, or in some random hotel room with a woman whose name he’d forget by the second morning.
Casual connections. Easy exits. No strings, no expectations, and there was no one to disappoint when the next tour pulled him away.
It had always been enough.
That’s a lie. It stopped being enough months ago; the feeling just finally caught me in the right headspace to listen.
He speared a piece of bacon and chewed slowly, watching Sheri out of the corner of his eye.
She sincerely wasn’t looking for anything from him.
No autograph on her skin, no backstage pass, no whispered promises he couldn’t keep.
Just for him to eat a decent breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and take advantage of her providing a safe place to land.
It felt...nice. Normal. The kind of normal he’d never really had growing up with Rosie.
Sheri caught him daydreaming and arched an eyebrow. “You’ve got that thousand-yard stare going again. Spill it, Vic. What’s eating you this morning?”
He set his fork down and rubbed a hand over his face. “Just thinking about how I keep doing the same damn thing. Jumping from band to band, girl to girl, gig to gig. Every time I tell myself it’s gonna be different, but it never is.”
Sheri snorted softly, poking at her eggs. “You mean like how you fell for Dom’s whole ‘we’re gonna be huge’ speech and ended up hauling gear for a band named Domatella’s Abyss? Pretty boy with a guitar and a dream, right?”
Vic let out a short laugh. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”
She pointed her fork at him. “You’ve got a type, Montrose.
Tall, tattooed, charming as hell, and completely incapable of sticking around.
I’ve watched you do it for quite a few years now.
You show up, you kill it onstage, you collect a few phone numbers, and then you’re gone again.
It’s like you’re allergic to anything that might actually last.”
He winced, but she wasn’t wrong. “I’m starting to think I might be.”
Sheri’s expression softened. She reached over and gave his forearm a quick squeeze.
“You’re a good guy, Vic. Talented as hell.
But you’re closing in on twenty-eight years old and still living like you’re a teen.
I’ve watched you do this for better than five years now, and the song never changes.
Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to decide if you want the next pretty face and the next adrenaline rush, or if you want something real.
Something that doesn’t disappear when the bus pulls out. ”
The words landed heavier than he expected. He stared at his half-empty plate, the truth of the statements settling somewhere behind his ribs. He wanted the music—hell, he would always want the music—but the rest of it, the endless cycle of temporary everything, was starting to feel like a cage.
“I’m done chasing ghosts,” he said. “My old man has spent his whole life doing that. Chasing the next party, the next woman, and shouting that the next gig is gonna be the big one. Look where it got him. Playing sessions at a studio once a month to feed his drink and smoke habits.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to end up like that.”
Sheri nodded, understanding flickering across her face. She set her own fork down and leaned her elbows on the table, studying him with the kind of steady gaze that always made him feel seen.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about that pattern of yours,” she said gently.
“It’s not just the bands. It’s the girls too.
You either pick the ones who are safe or the crazy ones.
They’re always pretty, fun, and have zero expectations other than bagging the drummer.
Unless it’s one of the crazy ones. Remember that redhead in Knoxville last year?
The one who swore she was cool with casual? ”
Vic’s stomach twisted. “Yeah. Twilla.”
“You stayed three nights. On the fourth morning, she asked if you’d ever thought about settling down somewhere.
You were packed and on the bus before noon.
Left her crying in the hotel parking lot.
” She pointed a finger at him. “You told me that story, which means it hit hard enough to leave a mark.”
He looked away, shame heating his neck. “I never promised her anything.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Sheri said softly.
“But you also never told her the truth—that you’re scared of anything that might stick.
You give them just enough of you to feel special, then disappear before they can ask for more.
It’s easier that way, right? No one gets close enough to see the mess underneath. ”
Vic didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because she was right, and hearing it out loud made the pattern feel pathetic instead of inevitable.
Sheri reached over and covered his hand with hers.
“You deserve more than couch-surfing and one-night exits, Vic. You deserve someone who sees the guy who stayed up all night helping me pack my ex’s shit last year because I was too scared to do it alone.
Someone who sticks around after the high wears off.
But you’ve gotta stop running long enough to let them. ”
The words sat between them, heavy but kind. Vic felt something crack open in his chest—small, tentative, but real.
“I think I’m done running,” he said quietly.
“At least for a little while. I’ll head home for a bit.
See Grams. Sleep in my old room there. Maybe I can figure out if there’s anything left in Nashville worth sticking around for, or if it’s time to look for something steadier.
Something that doesn’t fall apart every six months. ”
Sheri smiled, small and proud. “Good. That’s a start.”
He didn’t mention the other part—that quiet itch under his skin that had started the moment he’d realized Occupy Yourself was having trouble keeping a solid drummer. He wasn’t ready to say it out loud yet, but the thought was there, hovering.
Why not me?
His phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen and felt a strange twist in his gut. The area code was familiar—Memphis. A number he hadn’t seen in months.
Whatcha Want.
The band that had replaced him without so much as a phone call after their last implosion. The band that had promised him the world and then kicked him to the curb when things got hard.
He let it ring through to voicemail. Not today.
Sheri raised an eyebrow but didn’t dig. “You good?”
“Yeah.” Vic pushed his plate away and stood, stretching. “I’m good. Thanks for everything, Sheri. Seriously. I don’t know how I would’ve gotten through this week without you.”
She waved him off with a grin. “You’d have figured it out. You always do. Just...try not to fall for the next pretty boy with a guitar, okay?”
Vic laughed, the sound lighter than it had felt in weeks. “No promises.”
He headed back to the couch to pick through the clothes in his bag, a shower in his near future. As he worked through his thoughts while under the hot water, this decision felt solid in his chest. Home first. Stability next. And maybe—just maybe—something real after that.