Chapter Four #2
When Lena came into the tracking room after the session and hugged him tight, whispering, “You made me sound like my best self,” Vic hugged her back and let himself enjoy the moment.
The final session was pure chaos in the best way.
The studio had been transformed again. Synthesizers, laptops, and a full rock kit shared space with looping pedals and modular synths.
The band was a four-piece alt-rock outfit called The Static Saints, with a heavy electronic influence.
Their frontman, a wiry guy named Jude with neon-streaked hair, wanted the drums to feel like a living heartbeat inside a digital storm—organic but glitchy, powerful but unpredictable.
Vic had never played anything quite like this.
He listened to the scratch track twice, absorbing the odd time signatures and layered electronic elements. On the first take, he tried to match the energy—big, slamming fills and heavy backbeats. It was loud. It was energetic.
But he knew instinctively that approach was exactly wrong for the song. He needed to find a closely held pocket where he could lean into contrast.
For the next take, he played tight and precise against the glitchy electronics, then suddenly opened up with massive, swirling tom rolls that cut through the synths like lightning.
He started throwing in unexpected accents like a sharp rimshot here, a half-time feel there, and that made the whole track feel dangerous and alive.
During the breakdown, he dropped to almost nothing except a stuttering kick pattern that mimicked the glitch effects, then exploded back in with a thunderous fill that made Jude punch the air.
When the song ended, the whole band was on their feet.
Jude ripped off his headphones and pointed at Vic. “You’re a fucking wizard. That was insane. You made the electronics feel human and the human parts feel alien. We need you on the record, man. For real.”
The thrill that ran through Vic this time was sharper, almost addictive.
He had taken two completely different worlds—organic drums and digital chaos—and made them speak the same language.
He had adapted so thoroughly that the song felt greater than the sum of its parts.
And he’d earned two album credits while doing the very thing that drove him every day.
He was proud that he could be anything they needed. Country. Pop. Blues. Folk. Electronic. He could disappear inside any style and make it better. That flexibility was a style in and of itself.
He pulled into Grams’ driveway smiling, the glow of creation still warm in his chest.
But as he killed the engine and looked at the familiar house with the fading paint, the smile softened into something quieter.
Maybe one day he’d find a band that wanted all of him—the chameleon and the fire, the support player and the leader, the kid who could disappear and the man who refused to.
For now, though, he’d take the satisfaction of three wildly different sessions and the knowledge that, at least for a little while, he had made the music better.
That was enough.
He grabbed his bag and headed inside, already wondering what tomorrow would ask him to become.
***
The week continued in its gentle rhythm, but the high from the sessions made the contrast of the itch sharper.
It quieted when Vic helped Grams up the steps or noticed her hands trembling as she poured tea, but afterward, in the silence of the night, the restlessness grew.
The itch was back—the need for that live crowd energy, the give-and-take that made his blood sing.
***
Two weeks after he got home, another call came.
This one from a guy named Jax, frontman for a band Vic had crossed paths with a couple of times on the circuit.
“Klatmatch Ends,” Jax said, voice buzzing with excitement. “We just lost our drummer—guy bailed for a band with a bigger tour. Doesn’t change the fact that we’ve got a string of dates lined up, and we need someone who can hit hard and keep up. Meg gave me your number. You interested?”
Vic leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Grams nap in her recliner. The name Klatmatch Ends stirred something in him—ambition mixed with caution. They had a raw, gritty sound and a reputation for putting on chaotic, high-energy shows. Not stable, maybe. But real.
He thought about Sheri’s words. About chasing pretty boys and pretty dreams. About the frailty in Grams’ shoulders and the way his old man burned out chasing the next high.
Then he thought about the power he felt when a crowd moved with him. The grace in motion that only came when he was behind a kit on a stage.
“Yeah,” Vic said, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I’m interested. When do we start?”
***
Bonnie
Bonnie sank into the steaming water with a long, shuddering sigh that came straight from her bones.
The old claw-foot tub in her house was barely big enough for her to stretch out, but tonight it felt like heaven.
She’d dumped in half a box of the cheap lavender Epsom salts she kept for nights like this, and the scent wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
Hot water lapped at her collarbones. Her muscles unclenched one by one, the ache in her shoulders and the burn in her forearms finally easing.
She closed her eyes and let the back of her head rest against the cool porcelain edge.
Goddamn.
Tonight had been...different.
She could still feel the ghost of the groove thrumming under her skin. The way the music had locked in so perfectly it felt like breathing. No fighting. No dragging. Just pure, effortless momentum.
The stand-in drummer—Dewayne something, she couldn’t remember his last name—had come in cold to cover for her newest regular guy who’d come down with food poisoning.
Dewayne had worked with the headliner group for years, and his professional experience showed.
From the first sound check hit, he’d understood exactly what she needed.
He hadn’t rushed. Hadn’t tried to show off.
He’d just listened, found the pocket, and then gently, powerfully, pushed it wider until the whole band rose to meet him.
The crowd had felt how special the moment was. Hell, she had felt it in every cell.
For once, they’d played like the songs had always been meant to sound this good.
Her voice had opened up in ways it hadn’t in months.
Her guitar solos had breathed. Even Leo and Marco had stepped up, feeding off the energy coming from behind the kit.
The setlist that usually felt like a slog had flown by in a blaze of sweat and lights and roaring approval.
Bonnie trailed her fingers through the water, watching the ripples. A small, tired smile tugged at her lips.
That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.
She let the memory wash over her again. Dewayne locking eyes with her during the bridge of “Devil’s Backbone,” giving her the tiniest nod right before she launched into the solo.
The way he’d answered her with a rolling fill that had made the whole room surge forward.
The thunderous crash on the final chorus of their closer that had the crowd screaming for an encore they almost never did.
For once, she hadn’t left the stage feeling like she’d carried the whole night on her back. She’d felt...part of something bigger. Supported. Matched.
It was dangerous, how good it felt.
Because now she knew what was possible.
And that knowing made the memory of every other night that much worse.
Bonnie sank lower until the water touched her chin. Steam curled around her face. She reached for the glass of red wine she’d poured and took a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through her chest.
Her mind drifted back over the last two years.
The string of drummers who couldn’t keep time.
The ones who could keep time but had no feel.
The ones who had feel but spent more energy trying to get into her pants than locking in with the songs.
Kyle’s smug face flashed behind her eyes and she grimaced, pushing the memory away.
She thought about the gig three months ago in Louisville, when her regular drummer at the time had been so hungover he’d dropped a beat in the middle of their strongest original.
The crowd had noticed. She’d noticed. She’d finished the song on pure willpower and rage, smiling through it while her stomach twisted with embarrassment.
Or the night a couple of years ago in Evansville when the then pre-Leo bassist had decided mid-set that he was going to “spice things up” and completely changed the arrangement on “Rusted Chains” without telling anyone.
She’d had to fake her way through it while silently promising herself she’d fire him the second they got offstage. After disembowelment, preferably.
Bonnie grinned, but then the feeling faded. It had been night after night of almost-good. Of close-but-not-quite. Of carrying the weight and pretending it didn’t crush her.
She set the wineglass down on the tub ledge and submerged her arms, letting the heat soak into her sore wrists. Her fingers were still tingling from gripping the guitar so hard.
She whispered a few lines that had been circling in her head since she left the venue.
“One night of real fire, and the rest feel like smoke
He played like he heard me, like the music ain’t a joke
Now everything before tastes like watered-down hope”
She hummed the melody under her breath, low and rough. The words weren’t finished, but they felt true. That was the worst part—knowing what the music could be when someone actually met her where she was. It made settling feel like betrayal.
Her phone buzzed on the bath mat. She dried one hand and picked it up to find a text from Leo.
*Great show tonight. That fill-in guy was killer. We booking him again?*
Bonnie stared at the message for a long moment. Her thumb hovered. She typed, deleted, typed again.
*He was. But he’s with the headliner full-time. We keep grinding.*