Chapter Four
Vic
Vic pulled his battered duffel out of the back of the rideshare’s SUV and slung it over his shoulder.
The late-afternoon sun beat down on the cracked driveway of the small ranch-style house on the outskirts of Nashville.
It looked exactly the same as it had the last time he left—faded blue shutters, the same lopsided porch swing, and the potted ferns Grams refused to admit were dying no matter how brown they got.
The screen door creaked open before he even reached the steps.
“Victor Montrose, as I live and breathe.” Grams stood in the doorway, somehow smaller than he remembered.
Her silver hair was pulled back in a neat bun, but her shoulders seemed weaker, her frame thinner beneath the familiar floral housecoat.
But she still smiled that same bright smile.
This was the face of the woman who had raised him more than his father ever had.
All of that didn’t quite hide the way her hand trembled on the doorframe, though.
He dropped the duffel and wrapped her up carefully, afraid she might break. “Hey, Grams.”
She hugged him back with surprising strength for a moment, then pulled away and cupped his face in both hands, studying him like she used to when he came home from school with a black eye or from a tour with a new tattoo.
Her fingers felt thinner, the skin more like tissue paper.
“You look tired, baby. But better than last time you found your way home. Come on in. I’ve got sweet tea and leftover meatloaf. ”
Inside, the house smelled like lemon polish and decades of love.
Vic followed her down the narrow hallway, noting how slowly she moved, how she favored her right hip and kept one hand on the wall for balance.
The frailty hit him harder than he expected.
This woman had buried two husbands, raised a wild-ass son who never quite grew up, and still had managed to keep Vic from completely derailing through it all.
Seeing her like this made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
They sat at the little Formica table in the kitchen, the same one where Vic had done most of his homework as a kid.
Grams asked gentle questions about the last tour while he gave her the polished version—good crowds, decent pay, nothing worth worrying about.
He didn’t mention walking away from Dom or the time spent sleeping on Sheri’s couch.
Some things a grandmother didn’t need to carry.
That night, he bunked down in his old room, furnished with the same twin bed he’d outgrown by sixteen.
The posters of some of his dad’s old bands were tacked to the wall, faded now.
Vic lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around him—the familiar creaks and sighs that had once meant safety—and felt the weight of everything he’d been running from settle on his chest.
Home.
***
The next week relaxed into a gentle rhythm that felt both comforting and heartbreaking.
Mornings began the same way. Vic woke early, made coffee exactly how Grams liked it—strong with two sugars—and brought her a cup in bed.
She’d pat the edge of the mattress, and they’d sit together while the sun came up, talking about small things.
The neighbor’s new dog. How the tomatoes were growing in the backyard.
Whether Vic thought the local football team had any chance this season.
One morning, she asked about Rosie.
“Have you heard from your dad lately?” she said quietly, staring into her coffee.
Vic swallowed hard. “Nope. Last time we talked, he was chasing something bigger than this life.”
Grams nodded slowly. “He loves you, Victor. In his own messy way. He just doesn’t know how to stay still long enough to show it right.”
Vic helped with the chores he knew she struggled with now.
He mowed the lawn while she sat on the porch swing watching him, a glass of sweet tea in her hands, waving whenever he looked her way.
He fixed the leaky faucet in the bathroom that had been dripping for months.
He drove her to her doctor’s appointments and sat in the waiting room pretending to read old magazines while worry gnawed at him.
She was getting smaller. Slower. The woman who used to chase him around the yard with a wooden spoon when he tracked mud in the house now needed his arm to get up the porch steps.
Every time he noticed another sign—how her hands shook when she poured tea, how she needed to rest after folding one load of laundry—something ached deep in his chest.
One evening, as they sat on the porch after supper, fireflies blinking in the yard, Grams reached over and took his hand.
“You don’t have to stay here forever, baby. I know you’ve got big dreams. Just...don’t forget to come home sometimes. This old house gets quiet without you.”
Vic squeezed her fingers gently. “I’m not going anywhere for a while, Grams. Promise.”
He meant it. For the first time in years, the idea of being back on the road didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like running away, and he was ready to stand still for a bit.
***
A week later, his phone rang.
“Vic Montrose.” Meghan Delorio’s voice was crisp and businesslike, the same tone she’d used since she first spotted him playing a dive bar at fifteen.
He’d been backing one of Rosie’s bands, learning what his dad called “crowd control” with the drums, because he could elevate a threat or subdue an angry fan just by changing his drumming.
“I heard you were back in town. I’ve got three sessions this week that need a solid drummer. You available?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, Meg. I’m in.”
***
The first session at Blackbird Studios was with a five-piece indie folk-rock band fronted by a woman named Rowan Vale.
She was in her thirties, with wild curls and a voice that could shift from fragile whisper to raw howl in a single breath.
They were here to record just one track, and the producer told him they wanted the drums to feel like late-night porch sessions that slowly caught fire—intimate at first, then more untamed as the song went on.
Vic settled behind the kit and listened to the scratch track.
Then they played it at half speed, and he thought he could tell where they were going.
The song had a gentle, almost hesitant acoustic foundation with banjo and mandolin weaving through it.
He started subtly on the first take with soft brushes on the snare, light touches on the ride cymbal, keeping everything understated so the vocals could breathe.
It was safe. Polite. Wrong.
On the second take, he changed everything.
He switched to sticks, brought in a gentle but insistent pulse on the kick, and added delicate rim clicks that sounded like rain on a tin roof.
Then, right as Rowan’s voice climbed into the pre-chorus, he opened up—a swelling roll across the toms that built like gathering storm clouds.
When the chorus hit, he let the full kit breathe with her, powerful but never overpowering, giving her space to soar while anchoring the whole thing.
When Rowan finished singing, she turned to the control room with an incredulous laugh and wide eyes.
“Who the hell is this kid? He just made my song feel alive.”
The producer gave Vic a thumbs-up through the glass. “That’s the take. We’re keeping him. I’ll get a contract to Meg for the track.”
Vic felt the familiar rush—that electric satisfaction of finding the exact missing piece. He wasn’t just keeping time. He was shaping emotion, giving the song a heartbeat it didn’t know it needed. It was powerful.
And it was a lie, because the drumming didn’t hold even a beat of his own creative fire.
Still, when Rowan hugged him after the session and whispered, “Thank you—that felt like magic,” Vic smiled wide and meant it.
The second session couldn’t have been more different.
This time, the studio was dimly lit with purple and amber accent lights.
The artist was a rising neo-soul singer named Lena Solace.
She was in her early twenties, had a voice like velvet, and an incredible sense of dynamics.
She wanted the drums to feel like silk and smoke, a luxurious, sensual experience, never in a hurry.
Vic had never played much in this world. He listened carefully as Lena ran through the verses, her voice gliding over intricate, layered tracks. The groove needed to be loose but locked, sexy without being flashy.
First take, he played it safe again—staying in the standard pocket, flicking in a few tasteful ghost notes. It was fine. Professionally cautious. It wasn’t real, because he didn’t even believe in his performance.
Lena shook her head after the take. “Too stiff. I need it to feel like...breathing. Like skin on skin.”
Vic closed his eyes on the second take and let instinct take over.
He loosened his grip on the sticks until they felt like extensions of his pulse.
He laid way back on the two, almost lazy, then slipped in delicate hi-hat flourishes and soft press rolls that whispered instead of shouted.
During the bridge, he dropped everything to almost nothing except a heartbeat kick and faint cymbal washes, letting Lena’s voice float naked over the groove.
When the final chorus swelled, he brought the full kit in underneath her like a slow-building wave.
Lena’s eyes were closed when the last note faded. She stayed silent for several long seconds.
Then she opened her eyes, looked straight at Vic through the glass, and mouthed, “Yes.”
Her manager and producer actually stood up and clapped. The manager toggled the feedback mike and said, “That’s the one. Kid, you just made that song feel expensive.”
Vic felt the thrill again, deeper this time. He had taken something already beautiful and made it sensual, alive, and very human. He had adapted so completely that he almost didn’t recognize his own playing.