Chapter Three #3
Marco snorted. “Sorry? That was badass. Remind me to never piss you off.”
She managed a tired smile. “Just pack up. We’re done for tonight.”
They worked in silence, breaking down the minimal gear they’d brought. When everything was loaded into the van, Leo hesitated at the rear door.
“You sure you don’t want us to stick around? Make sure he doesn’t come back?”
“I’m good,” she said. “Go home. I’ll see you guys Thursday.”
Once they got into their cars and their taillights disappeared, Bonnie climbed into the driver’s seat and just sat there. The parking lot was dark except for one flickering security light. She locked the doors and finally let herself sag against the steering wheel.
“Fuck this industry,” she whispered.
It wasn’t the first time a drummer, or guitarist, or bassist, or even a sound guy had assumed her talent came with an open invitation. She’d lost count of how many times she’d had to shut it down. Some backed off politely. Others, like Kyle, pushed until she pushed back harder.
Her brothers had made sure she could handle herself.
Remy, the oldest, had taught her the wrist lock when she was fourteen after a boy at school got handsy.
Beau had shown her how to use someone’s momentum against them.
Luc had drilled into her the pressure points that worked best on bigger men.
They’d done it because they loved her, but also because they knew the world wasn’t kind to girls who chased dreams in dirty bars and smoky clubs.
Bonnie reached into the glove box and pulled out the small notebook she kept there. She flipped to a fresh page and started writing, the pen moving fast and angry across the paper.
He smiled like a promise, hands like they owned the stage
Thought my fire was an invitation, thought my rage was just a phase
But I learned early on how to stand, how to bite, how to break
Dupont blood runs hot and mean when somebody makes that mistake
She kept going, the words pouring out raw and unfiltered.
You want what’s between my legs instead of what’s in my chest
Think the music’s just a game, think I’m something to undress
I’ll put you on your knees before you ever get the chance
You’ll learn the hard way that pretty boys don’t get to touch this dance
Tears pricked her eyes. She swiped them away impatiently.
She wasn’t sad. She was furious. Furious that she had to be this hard.
Furious that every time she found a player who could almost keep up, they ruined it by thinking the real prize was getting into her bed instead of making something great together.
She wanted a partner. Someone who heard the same songs in their head. Someone who could push her, challenge her, make the music feel bigger than either of them. Someone who looked at her like an equal both onstage and off.
Not someone who saw her as a conquest.
Bonnie closed the notebook and stared out at the empty lot.
The van smelled like old fast food and wood polish.
Her body still hummed with leftover energy from the rehearsal—the good kind mixed with the bad.
She could still feel the phantom weight of Kyle’s hand on her waist and the satisfying thud of her elbow in his gut.
She started the engine and pointed the van toward home, windows down even though the night air was chilly. The radio played low—an old Lucinda Williams song about heartbreak and highways. It fit her mood perfectly.
By the time she pulled into the gravel lot behind her house, some of the anger had burned away, leaving just a dull ache.
She sat there a minute longer, van’s engine ticking as it cooled, and let herself imagine what it would feel like to have a drummer who actually listened.
Who locked in with her instead of trying to get into her pants.
Who understood that the groove wasn’t foreplay—it was the main event.
She didn’t know if a man like that existed.
But God, she hoped he did.
Because she was tired of fighting off assholes.
Tired of carrying the weight of a struggling band alone.
Tired of writing songs about strength when what she really wanted was someone strong enough to stand beside her.
Bonnie grabbed her guitar and notebook, locked the van, and headed into the house. Inside her home, she gently set the guitar in the corner, then stood in the middle of the small living room and screamed—raw and wordless—until her throat hurt.
When she was done, she felt a little lighter.
She picked up the notebook again and added one last grouping of lines at the bottom of the page.
One day I’ll find the one who hears the thunder in my veins
Until then I’ll keep swinging, keep breaking, keep playing through the pain
She closed the book.
Tomorrow, she’d call Meg again. Ask if there were any real drummers out there who cared more about the music than getting laid.
Tonight, she’d take a hot shower, change the sheets, and try to forget the way Kyle had looked at her.
And maybe—just maybe—she’d let herself dream about a beat that felt like coming home instead of another fight she had to win alone.