Chapter Eight
Vic
The fluorescent lights in the ER hallway buzzed like dying insects.
Vic sat hunched forwards on a hard plastic chair, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the scuffed toes of his boots.
The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee clung to everything, mixing with the faint metallic tang of blood that still lingered in his nose even though he hadn’t been the one bleeding.
Grams sat beside him, her frail, age-spotted hand resting on his shoulder. Her thumb pressed firmly into the tight muscle there, working it with the same quiet determination she’d used to knead bread dough or rub his back when he was a feverish kid.
Behind his closed eyes, Vic kept seeing the same image on repeat of his father’s face in the trauma room.
Slack. Gray. Mouth slightly open like he’d been about to crack one last joke.
The monitors had gone flat and merciless, the doctors moving with that terrible, practiced efficiency that meant there was nothing left to fight for.
“He wasn’t supposed to be there,” Vic whispered.
The words felt stupid the moment they left his mouth, but he couldn’t stop them.
“He was supposed to be in Memphis doing that session work. That’s what he told me two days ago.
Said he’d finally caught a break, that this one might actually pay real money.
He wasn’t supposed to be in some dive bar in fucking Murfreesboro getting into it with bouncers. ”
Grams’ thumb kept its steady rhythm against his shoulder. She didn’t try to shush him or tell him it would be okay. She never had. That was one of the things he loved most about her.
“I know, son,” she said eventually, her voice low and steady despite the exhaustion carved into every line of her face. “He never was where he was supposed to be.”
Vic let out a harsh breath that was almost a laugh but hurt too much to be one. “Yeah. Story of his life.”
He could still hear Rosie’s voice in his head from that last phone call—loud, cocky, and completely full of that rock-star charm that never quite died no matter how many times life knocked it down.
“Gonna be big this time, kid. You wait and see. Your old man’s finally gonna make you proud.”
Vic had rolled his eyes at the time. He’d heard it all before. But some small, stupid part of him had still hoped.
Now that hope was lying on a gurney behind a closed door down the hall, covered by a thin white sheet.
The doctor had let them in for a few minutes.
Vic had stood there staring at his father’s still face, the gray skin, the way his hands—hands that had once shredded guitar solos—lay limp at his sides.
He looked smaller than Vic remembered. Just a man who had chased the high until it finally caught him.
“I keep thinking about the last time I really talked to him,” Vic muttered.
“He called me last month asking for money for gas so he could make it to that gig. I told him no. Said he needed to grow the fuck up and stop treating me like his personal ATM.” His voice cracked.
“That’s the last real conversation we had. Me telling him to grow up.”
Grams squeezed his shoulder harder. “Victor James Montrose Sr. never did learn that lesson. Not from me, not from your mother, and sure as hell not from you. That wasn’t your burden to carry, baby.”
Vic finally lifted his head and looked at her.
She looked so small under the harsh hospital lights—smaller than she had even a few months ago.
But her eyes were clear and fierce, the same eyes that had stared down bill collectors and truant officers and a son who couldn’t stay sober for more than six weeks at a time.
“I just wanted him to be better,” Vic said, the words scraping raw out of his throat. “Not for me. For himself. Just once.”
Grams pulled him sideways into a hug, and he went willingly, pressing his face into her shoulder like he was twelve years old again. She smelled like lavender soap and home.
“I know you did,” she whispered against his hair. “We all did. But some people...they burn too bright and too fast, and there’s nothing in the world that can slow them down. Your daddy was one of those.”
Vic closed his eyes tight, breathing in the familiar scent of her.
For the first time since she’d called him to the hospital four hours ago, the crushing weight in his chest eased just enough for him to draw a full breath.
His father was gone.
And no matter how many times Vic replayed that last conversation in his head, he couldn’t change it.
He could only decide what he was going to do with the life he still had.
***
The funeral was as cheap as funerals get.
No flowers except for the single sad bouquet Grams had bought herself and a massive arrangement from Meg and the studio.
No fancy casket—just a plain pine box that looked like it came from a discount warehouse.
There’d be no reception afterward. No music except for the tinny recording of “Free Bird” someone had played on their phone during the graveside service.
Rosie had drunk away the life insurance years ago. What little money was left went to the hospital bill and the cheapest plot the cemetery would sell.
Vic stood in a borrowed black button-down that was too tight across the shoulders, staring at the cheap coffin as it was lowered into the ground.
Grams stood beside him, small and steady, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm.
A handful of old musicians and barflies had shown up—ghosts from his father’s past who looked almost as worn out as Rosie had at the end.
Meg stood on the other side of Grams, sorrow clear on her face.
And then there was Conner.
Vic felt him before he saw him—that familiar prickle on the back of his neck, the same one he’d felt as a kid whenever his older half brother walked into a room. He turned his head slowly and there he was, standing on the far side of the grave like he was ready to bolt at any second.
Conner looked...different. Older. Harder. Tall like their father, but broader through the chest and shoulders. Dark hair cut military-short, a clean-shaven jaw, and eyes the same stormy gray as Rosie’s. He wore a plain dark jacket over jeans and boots that had seen real work, not stage lights.
Vic thought he was probably around eleven the last time he remembered really trying to impress his brother.
It was a hot Saturday afternoon, the kind where the air felt thick enough to chew.
Conner was older, already taller, and even then carrying that sharp edge that made Vic both admire and fear him.
They were in the backyard, Vic behind his battered drum kit, the one he’d saved six months of lawn-mowing money to buy, while Conner stood a few feet away with their dad’s old guitar slung over his shoulder.
“Play it again,” Conner said, voice impatient. “But don’t rush the bridge this time. You always rush it like a little kid.”
Vic’s hands were sweating on the sticks.
He wanted so badly to get it right. Conner had been pulling away more and more lately.
He’d been spending time with older kids, talking about how he was going to get out of this house the second he turned eighteen.
Vic still believed if he could just be good enough—at drums, at music, at something—his brother might stay.
Might see him as more than the annoying little tagalong.
He started the beat again, trying to keep it steady, trying to lock in with the riff Conner was half-heartedly playing. But his nerves got the better of him. He pushed the tempo just a little too hard on the chorus.
Conner stopped playing abruptly.
“Jesus, Vic. You suck at this.” The words were cruel, delivered with a sneer that cut deeper than any insult from the kids at school. “You know Dad only brings you to gigs because he feels sorry for you. You’re never gonna be good enough to keep up with real musicians.”
Vic’s sticks froze midair. His throat burned. All he’d wanted was for Conner to be proud of him. To look at him the way he used to when they were younger—like they were on the same team against the chaos of Rosie’s life.
“I can get better,” Vic said quietly, voice small. “I’ll practice more. I promise.”
Conner just snorted and slung the guitar off his shoulder. “Whatever. I’m done wasting my time.”
He walked back toward the house without saying another word, leaving Vic sitting alone behind the kit, the hot sun beating down on his neck and tears he refused to let fall stinging his eyes.
Just be better, he’d told himself that day, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. If you’re good enough, maybe he’ll stay.
***
The second memory hit harder.
Vic was twelve when Conner and his mom disappeared.
One morning, they were there—Conner eating cereal at the kitchen table, his mom yelling at Rosie about another bounced check. The next morning, the house was quiet in a way that felt wrong. Vic had gone looking for them, only to find Conner’s room stripped bare. Closet empty. No note. No goodbye.
He’d stood in the doorway for what felt like hours, staring at the bare mattress and the faint outline on the wall where Conner’s favorite poster had hung.
When Vic asked, Rosie had shrugged it off, eyes bloodshot from another bender. “His mom finally had enough. Can’t say I blame her.”
But Vic couldn’t understand it. How could someone just leave like that? How could Conner—the brother who used to let him sit on the edge of his bed and listen to records late at night—cut him out so cleanly, like Vic had never mattered at all?
He’d cried that night in his room, face buried in his pillow so Rosie wouldn’t hear. Not because he was sad exactly, but because it felt like proof. Proof that no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you wanted to be enough for someone, they could still walk away without looking back.
Vic blinked, pulling himself back to the present.
Fifteen years later, those same stormy gray eyes were staring at him across their father’s grave. Conner looked like a man who had built walls so high no one could reach him. The same way Vic had once feared he would become.
Their eyes met for a long, heavy moment.
Conner gave the smallest nod—acknowledgment, nothing more—then turned and spoke softly to someone who’d greeted him.
Vic watched him for a minute, chest tight with old hurt and new understanding.
Some people weren’t made to stay.
But others...others you fought for.
The minister wrapped up the short service with a generic prayer. A couple of the old-timers tossed handfuls of dirt onto the coffin. Grams stepped forwards and dropped a single white rose.
Vic couldn’t make himself move.
When it was over, people started drifting away, but Conner didn’t. He stood there a long moment, staring down at the dirt-covered box, jaw clenched so tight that Vic could see the muscle jumping.
Then Conner lifted his head and looked straight at him.
For a second, Vic thought he might come over. Say something. Anything.
Instead, Conner gave another short, sharp nod—this one feeling final—turned on his heel, and walked away. No words. No hug. No “See you around.”
Just gone.
Again.
Vic watched his brother’s back until he disappeared between the headstones, hands shoved deep in his pockets against the cold.
Grams squeezed his arm gently. “That’s the first time you’ve seen him since he was a boy.”
“Yeah,” Vic said, voice rough. “Different moms. Different lives. He got out as soon as he could. Can’t blame him.”
Grams was quiet for a long moment. “Some roots don’t hold,” she said softly. “Doesn’t mean they weren’t real while they lasted.”
Vic swallowed hard, eyes still on the spot where Conner had vanished.
He thought about all the nights Rosie had promised to get clean. All the times he’d dragged Vic and Conner to some dive bar gig like it was a family vacation. All the mornings after when one or both of them would wake up alone while Rosie slept off another bender.
Conner’s mom had been smart enough to run. She’d probably saved Conner following in Rosie’s footsteps.
Vic had stayed—chasing the music, chasing the high, chasing the ghost of the father who was never really there.
Now that ghost was in the ground, and Vic was still standing here trying to figure out what the hell came next.
He bent down, picked up a handful of cold dirt, and let it fall through his fingers onto his father’s coffin.
“Rest easy, old man,” he whispered, dusting the dirt from his fingers. “I hope you finally found whatever you were looking for.”
Then he turned, tucked Grams’ hand more securely in his arm, and walked her back to the car.
The past was buried.
Now he just had to figure out how to live with what was left.
***
The dirt was still fresh on his father’s grave when Vic went back to work.
There was no dramatic mourning period, no weeks of sitting in the dark. He simply woke up the morning after the funeral, made Grams a quick breakfast, kissed her on the cheek, and drove to Blackbird Studios like it was any other day. Praying Meg would have work for him.
Because music had never failed him.
Not when his mother left. Not when Conner disappeared. Not when Rosie forgot birthdays or Christmases or every single promise he’d made. The drums had always been there—steady, honest, waiting for him to pour everything ugly and broken into them and turn it into something powerful.
Music would save him. It always had.
***
Three weeks later, Meg called.
He answered with a grin. “Did I forget about a session?” Which he knew wasn’t true, because he had gobbled up all the work she’d given him.
“No, but I’ve got a band that needs a drummer for three or four weeks,” she said without preamble. “Their guy had an accident in Atlanta. They’re in the middle of a decent club run, about to head through the Midwest. You interested?”
Vic didn’t even hesitate. “When do I leave?”
“Day after tomorrow. I’ll send you the itinerary.”