Chapter Nine
Vic
The band was called Silverline Drift—a solid mid-tier rock outfit with strong original songs and a tight, well-rehearsed live show that had earned them a loyal following on the club circuit.
They welcomed Vic warmly the moment he showed up for the first rehearsal, clearly relieved and grateful to have a pro who could step in cold with almost no notice.
Their regular drummer had fractured his wrist in three places after a clumsy stage dive, and the tour was already booked and paid for.
No one had time for auditions or long rehearsals.
Vic learned their entire set in two marathon six-hour sessions, absorbing the arrangements, the dynamics, and the subtle cues between the members like he’d been playing with them for months.
Then they hit the road.
By the end of the first week, Vic felt more like himself than he had in months.
The crowds weren’t massive, but they were enthusiastic and appreciative—the kind of rooms where people came to listen as much as they came to drink.
The groove was comfortable, reliable, and satisfying in a way that let him settle in without constantly having to prove himself.
The other guys were true professionals: They showed up on time, knew their parts inside and out, and played hard every night without the chaos that had poisoned so many of his previous bands.
Lucas, the frontman and rhythm guitarist, had a steady, no-nonsense leadership style that kept everyone focused.
Their bassist, a quiet guy named Paul, locked in with Vic so seamlessly that it felt like they’d been playing together for years.
The lead guitarist, a tall, lanky kid named Ryan, brought sharp, melodic solos that gave Vic room to breathe and push the pocket when needed.
No drama. No egos clashing. No one showing up wasted or forgetting lyrics mid-set.
Just music.
It was exactly what Vic needed.
He threw himself into every show with a kind of quiet desperation, letting the steady, practiced environment soothe the raw edges left by Klatmatch Ends, by Harper, and by his father’s funeral.
Each night onstage felt like a small reset with the familiar weight of the sticks in his hands, the vibration of the kick drum through his chest, and the way a well-timed fill could lift the entire room.
For the first time in a long while, the music didn’t feel like survival. It felt like healing.
Even the long drives between cities felt peaceful. Vic would sit in the back of the bus with his headphones on, watching the highway roll by, letting the exhaustion from that night’s show settle into his bones. No one pressured him to talk about his past or his future. They just let him be.
It was simple. It was steady.
And for a man who had spent years bouncing from one chaotic situation to the next, simple and steady felt like a lifeline.
By the end of that first week, as they loaded out after a particularly strong show in Indianapolis, Vic caught himself smiling, a real one, for the first time in what felt like ages.
This was what he needed.
At least for now.
***
They were loading in at a midsize club in Indianapolis when Vic spotted them.
Riley Kane was leaning against the bar, nursing a beer and looking every bit the rock guitarist with his messy blond topknot and sharp, restless eyes. Trey Bishop stood next to him, bigger and bearded, laughing at something Riley had said. Jax was nowhere in sight.
Vic froze for half a second, the familiar prickle of old tension crawling up his spine. Then he kept walking toward the stage like nothing was unusual, hardware case heavy in his hand. He wasn’t going to hide. Not anymore.
Riley noticed him first. A slow, surprised grin spread across the guitarist’s face.
“Well, shit. Look what the cat dragged in.”
Vic set down his case and walked over, offering his hand. Riley shook it firmly, grip strong and genuine. Trey followed, pulling him into a quick, back-slapping hug that smelled like beer and familiarity.
“No Nova?” Vic asked, glancing around the room.
Riley shook his head, expression turning rueful. “She bailed right after you did. Said she was tired of boys playing at being rock stars. Can’t really blame her.”
Trey chuckled, low and easy. “Band imploded pretty spectacularly after that. Jax is off chasing some solo deal that’ll never happen. We’re just...figuring shit out.”
There was no heat in their voices. No blame. No lingering resentment or sideways looks. They were just three guys who had thrown themselves into something that ultimately didn’t work. Vic felt a strange kind of relief settle in his chest.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “It happens.”
Riley studied him for a moment, then smirked. “You look good, man. Clear-eyed. How are you doing?”
“Taking it day by day,” Vic answered honestly. “You?”
“Same.” Riley lifted his beer in a mock toast. “We’re playing here next week, actually. Come out if you’re still in town. We’ll put you on the guest list.”
“Appreciate it.”
They talked for a few more minutes, the kind of easy, surface-level catching up that left no wounds behind.
A couple of tour stories, a shared laugh about a disastrous gig they’d played in Knoxville, nothing too deep.
When Vic excused himself to finish load-in, there were no hard feelings.
No burning bridges. Just another band that hadn’t worked out.
He climbed up on the stage, sat behind the kit, and ran through a quick sound check. The familiar weight of the sticks in his hands grounded him immediately.
Music hadn’t failed him.
Not when Klatmatch Ends fell apart.
Not when Harper blindsided him.
Not when his father died.
And it wouldn’t fail him now.
When it was time to begin their set, Vic closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the low hum of anticipation from the already-rowdy crowd. The groove settled into his bones as the first song began.
He locked in tight with the bassist, pushing the whole band to and through the solo section. When it was his turn, the crowd responded with a roar that vibrated through the floorboards and up into his chest.
After the set, the frontman, Lucas, clapped him on the back, sweat dripping down his face. “You’re making us sound better than we deserve, man.”
Vic just smiled, wiping his forehead with the hem of his shirt. It felt good. The whole show was a level of professional he wanted to get used to, where no one was showing up wasted and derailing the night. The kind of gig where everyone did their job and went home satisfied.
But as he broke down his kit afterward, carefully packing away the cymbals and stands, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered:
This is safe.
But is it enough?
Vic paused, staring at the familiar hardware in his hands. The question lingered, quiet but persistent, as the house lights came up and the venue’s crew began tearing down the stage around him.
***
The last notes of the final encore faded into the rafters of the club in Grand Rapids, and the crowd erupted.
Vic rose from behind the kit, sweat dripping down his back, and gave the Silverline Drift guys a genuine grin.
They’d played a hell of a show tonight—tight, energetic, and full of the kind of easy camaraderie that had made the weeks fly by.
Lucas pulled him into a quick bro-hug at the edge of the stage.
“You saved our asses, man,” Lucas said over the noise. “We’re gonna miss the hell out of you.”
“Same,” Vic replied, meaning it. “You guys are solid. Keep killing it.”
He helped break down the kit one last time, loading cases into the van with the familiar rhythm of road life. When everything was secured, he stood in the parking lot for a moment, hands in his pockets, breathing in the cold night air.
It had been a solid run. Steady money. Good people. Respectable crowds.
But it still wasn’t his band.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket.
Unknown number.
He almost let it go to voicemail, but something made him swipe to answer.
“Yeah?”
“Vic Montrose?” The voice on the other end was tired but hopeful. “This is Danny Schraff. I play bass for Occupy Yourself.”
Vic’s heart gave a hard thump.
“Yeah, man. I know who you are.”
There was a short pause, and then Danny got right to it.
“Look, I’m not gonna bullshit you. We’ve been through a string of drummers lately, and it’s been...
rough. Benny’s solid again, but we need someone who can play the songs without drama.
Meg Delorio gave me your name and said you’re the real deal.
You interested in coming out and trying it with us? ”
Vic closed his eyes, leaning back against the cold metal of the van.
Relief—pure, overwhelming relief—crashed over him like a wave.
This was it.
This was what he’d been waiting for without even realizing how badly he needed it. Not just another gig. Not another temporary fill-in. Occupy Yourself had something real. Something worth fighting for. He’d seen it himself when he watched them play.
“Yeah,” Vic said, not even trying to hide the grin spreading across his face. “I’m interested. When do you need me?”
“Yesterday would be ideal,” Danny said with a tired laugh. “We’re in Fort Wayne right now. Can you get here in the next couple of days?”
“I’m in Grand Rapids. I can be on a bus tonight.”
Danny exhaled audibly. “Thank fuck. I’ll text you the details. We’ll get you set up when you roll in.”
They exchanged a few more words—logistics, nothing heavy—and hung up.
Vic stood there for a long moment, phone still in his hand, staring up at the dark sky.
This is what I need.
He could feel it in his bones. The pull toward something bigger than another club run. Toward a band with heart. Toward people who were trying to build something lasting.
He climbed into the van as the engine fired up, and they headed straight back to the hotel.
Forty minutes later, glad he’d been using the band’s kit, he had his bags packed, said his final quick goodbyes to the Silverline guys, and was standing at the Greyhound station with a one-way ticket to Fort Wayne.
As the bus pulled out of the station and onto the highway, Vic leaned his head against the cool window and let out a long, slow breath.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like something he had to chase.
It felt like something waiting for him.
He closed his eyes, the low rumble of the bus beneath him, and let himself believe—really believe—that maybe, just maybe, he’d finally found the right ride.