Chapter Six #2
“Perfect. Three days, possibly four if the last session runs long. Mix of country, indie, and one pop thing that’s going to pay well. You still okay bouncing between styles?”
Vic let out a short, tired laugh. “That’s about the only thing I’m good at these days.”
Meg paused, her tone softening just a fraction. “You sound like you need the work.”
“I do,” he admitted. “I’ve been home less than two weeks, and the walls are already closing in. Grams is happy I’m here, but I need to move. Need to play.”
“Understood. I’ll send the schedule and studio details. Get some rest before you come in. You sound like hell.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Feel like it too. Thanks, Meg. Seriously.”
“Anytime, kid. You’re one of the best I’ve got. Don’t make me worry about you.”
She hung up.
Vic sat there for a long moment, phone still in his hand, staring at the half-finished crossword in Grams’ lap. The quiet felt a little less suffocating now. There was structure on the horizon. Purpose. A place where he could pour everything ugly and restless into the music and walk out lighter.
He stood quietly, careful not to wake her, and headed to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee. The familiar routine grounded him. By the time the pot finished brewing, he already felt clearer.
A few days at Blackbird. A few days of being useful. A few days of not sitting here wondering if he was becoming exactly what he’d always sworn he wouldn’t—another man chasing ghosts in an empty house.
Vic poured himself a cup, took a slow sip, and let the warmth settle in his chest.
He wasn’t running away.
He was just pausing, just refilling the tank.
***
The studio work felt like slipping back into an old, comfortable rhythm.
Eight- to ten-hour days behind a beautiful kit in a world-class room at Blackbird, laying down tracks for three different artists.
No drama. No egos screaming at each other.
Just music—pure, focused, and honest in a way that roused something deep inside him.
He moved easily between styles now, shaping his playing like clay to fit whatever the song demanded.
One moment he was laying down tight, punchy grooves for a slick pop-rock demo; the next he was giving a gritty country track that loose, swinging feel that made the bass player give him a welcoming nod.
It was satisfying work. Lucrative too. But on the fourth straight day, Vic found himself craving fresh air and a moment away from the constant hum of headphones and talkback.
During a short break that afternoon, he wandered out to the small courtyard behind the studio. The late-spring sun felt good on his skin after hours under artificial lights. He leaned against the warm brick wall, tilting his face upward, and let out a long breath.
A woman was already out there, sitting on the low brick wall with a take-out coffee cup and a notebook balanced on her knee. She looked up when he stepped outside.
Mid- to late twenties, curly auburn hair pulled into a messy bun with a few rebellious strands escaping, freckles scattered across her nose, and sharp, amused green eyes that seemed to take him in all at once.
Not the usual studio groupie type. She wore faded jeans, an old band T-shirt that had seen better days, and scuffed boots that looked like they’d actually been worn on real stages.
“Drummer, right?” she asked, tilting her head with a small smirk. “I heard you through the walls. You hit hard.”
Vic chuckled and leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his arms. “Guilty. Vic Montrose.”
“Harper Ellis. I’m doing backing vocals on the pop-country thing in Studio B.” She grinned, a quick, genuine flash of teeth. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to collect autographs or underwear.”
That made him laugh outright, loud and surprised. It had been a long time since a woman had made him laugh before she made him hard. The vibration felt good in his chest, loosening something that had been wound tight for weeks.
They talked for twenty minutes, easy and light, with no expectations hanging in the air between them.
Harper was sharp and quick-witted, the kind of person who could make you laugh without even trying, and refreshingly uninterested in the whole rock-star fantasy most women at the studios seemed to chase.
She leaned back against the brick wall, grinning as she teased him. “Sounded like you were trying to murder that kit in the nicest possible way earlier. Poor drums didn’t stand a chance.”
Vic laughed again, the sound genuine and surprised.
“Guilty. They were asking for it.” He tilted his head, giving her a playful once-over.
“And you? I caught part of your session. That pop-country track sounded a little too polished. Like it could use some dirt under its fingernails and a lot less glitter.”
Harper’s eyes sparkled with amusement. She clutched her chest in mock offense. “Ouch. Straight for the jugular. I’ll have you know that glitter is very expensive.”
They bantered back and forth like old friends, trading jabs about overproduced radio songs versus raw garage energy, about the best and worst studio habits they’d seen.
The conversation flowed effortlessly, no pressure, no pretense.
For the first time in weeks, Vic felt himself relaxing into the moment, drawn in by her easy laugh and the way her green eyes lit up when she teased him.
Harper told him she’d been bouncing between Nashville and Kentucky for years, chasing songs and trying to keep her sanity.
Vic found himself sharing more than he usually did—little pieces about growing up with Rosie, about the studio high he was riding, about how good it felt to make other people’s music better without losing himself in the process.
When she glanced at her phone and said she had to get back inside, she paused, biting her lip like she was debating something.
“You doing anything after wrap tonight?” she asked, voice casual but with a spark of real interest in her eyes.
Vic smiled, slow and warm. “Not a thing.”
Harper’s grin widened. “Good. There’s a little dive a couple of blocks from here that makes the best greasy burgers in town. My treat. Consider it payment for making my session sound halfway decent today.”
He tilted his head. “I did?”
She shook her head. “Not yet, but you will.”
Vic laughed again. “Lead the way.”
As they walked out of the courtyard together, he felt something light and dangerous bloom in his chest. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even the start of something serious.
But it sure felt like something that might be fun.