Chapter Ten #2
Leo wandered over, still loose and unbothered. “You good, boss?”
“No.” She didn’t sugarcoat it. Never had. “You were dragging the tempo on ‘Devil’s Backbone’ again. And that solo in the bridge? Jesus, Leo, it sounded like you were reading sheet music for the first time.”
He shrugged, not even offended. That was the problem. No one got mad anymore. No one burned for it. “Crowd seemed fine.”
“The crowd was half drunk and polite. That’s not fine. That’s a funeral.”
She yanked the van door open and climbed in, not bothering to wait for a response. Leo just tossed his cigarette and headed for his own car.
Typical. Everyone else could clock out. She never could.
Bonnie sat behind the wheel for a long minute, staring at the cracked dashboard.
The interior smelled like stale beer and the vanilla air freshener she kept replacing because it never quite covered the rest. She was thirty-one years old, driving the same van she’d bought at twenty-four, playing the same circuit of dives and roadhouses where she’d been grinding for years.
And she was tired.
Not the good kind of tired that came from pouring everything out onstage and having it given back tenfold.
This was the bone-deep exhaustion of always being the one who cared more.
The one who was responsible for abso-fucking-lutely everything and still had to drag everyone else across the finish line.
She pulled out her phone and stared at the screen. Three missed calls from her mother. Two voicemails she already knew would be the same old song: When are you going to settle down? When are you going to find a nice man and stop this music nonsense? When are you going to listen to your mother?
Bonnie deleted them without opening them.
Instead, she opened her contacts and scrolled until she found the name she almost never called unless she was desperate.
Meg.
The call connected on the second ring.
“Bonnie Rae,” Meg answered, voice warm but sharp. “To what do I owe the pleasure at one in the morning?”
“I just got offstage at The Hot Hearth,” Bonnie said, leaning her head back against the seat. “It sucked, Meg. Not end-of-the-world sucked, but a layer below mediocre. And I can’t keep doing even mediocre.”
Meg was quiet for a beat. Bonnie could picture her in whatever hotel room or studio lounge she was currently occupying—hair up, reading glasses on, always three steps ahead of everyone else.
“You’ve been saying that for about two years now,” Meg finally replied. “What’s different tonight?”
Bonnie let out a bitter laugh. “Nothing. That’s the problem.
My drummer’s reliable, but he’s not great.
Leo’s checked out half the time. The songs are good, but they could be better.
I’m good, but I’m starting to feel like I’m the only one who still believes we can be more than a solid opening act. ”
She closed her eyes. “I need something to change, Meg. Or someone. I don’t know anymore.”
Meg hummed thoughtfully. “You know I can’t just wave a magic wand and hand you a new band. But I’ve got my ear to the ground. There are some solid players moving around right now. Drummers especially.”
Bonnie’s stomach did a little flip at the word. She told herself it was just professional interest.
“Anyone worth a damn?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“A couple. There’s a guy who just wrapped a fill-in run with Silverline Drift.
Vic Montrose. He’s been doing session work in Nashville, played with Klatmatch Ends for a hot minute before they fell apart.
” Meg’s voice carried a note of respect.
“He’s the real deal behind the kit. Power and feel.
Graceful even when he’s hitting hard. I’ve used him on a quite a few tracks.
He’s steady. Loyal. Doesn’t do the rock-star asshole thing. ”
Bonnie filed the name away—Vic Montrose—even as she told herself not to get excited. She’d heard plenty of “real deal” promises before.
“Sounds too good to be true,” she muttered.
“He’s had some rough patches,” Meg admitted. “Dad was a mess. They lost him recently. But the kid shows up, and he plays like the music matters. Every time. That’s rarer than you’d think.”
Bonnie swallowed. Something in Meg’s tone made her wonder if the woman was matchmaking as much as recruiting, but she let it slide.
“I’ll think about it,” she said instead. “Thanks, Meg. For listening.”
“Anytime, kid. And Bonnie?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t settle. You’re too good for that. But don’t burn everything down either. Sometimes the right person—or the right band—shows up when you stop trying to carry the whole damn world alone.”
Bonnie ended the call and dropped the phone into her lap.
She sat there in the dark van for a long time, replaying the gig in her head.
The moments where the groove had almost clicked.
The places where it hadn’t. The way her body still thrummed with unused energy, like it knew there was something bigger out there waiting.
She thought about Vic Montrose. A name. Just a name.
But it stuck.
***
Inside her house she kicked off her boots, left her guitar case by the door, and headed straight for the shower. The hot water pounded against her shoulders as she stood under the spray, eyes closed, trying to wash away the frustration.
It didn’t work.
Steam filled the largish bathroom. She braced her hands on the tile and let the water beat down on the back of her neck. The memory of the gig kept looping—every missed cue, every polite clap, every time she’d had to push harder just to keep the energy from dying.
She whispered a few new lines that had been circling since she left the stage.
“Another night of almost, another crowd that’s half asleep
They clap because they should, not because the music cuts them deep
I’m screaming into microphones that don’t know how to hear
Waiting on a thunder that still hasn’t appeared”
Bonnie turned off the water and stepped out to stand dripping in the tiny bathroom, staring at her reflection in the fogged mirror. Wet hair plastered to her shoulders, eyes too bright, jaw set in that stubborn line she knew too well.
She wrapped a towel around herself and padded into the bedroom.
Her notebook was on the nightstand. She picked it up, flipped to a fresh page, and kept writing, the pen moving fast across the paper as she struggled to keep up with her own mind.
These snippets of songs kept her soul fed, and sometimes they wound up being a gem.
There’s a time and place for everything
Space for the creative roots to sing
A window into the soul, a chance to play a part
Only thing required is the grit to try and start
Fighting so many silent battles to win a song
Knowing that success doesn’t hang around for long
Gotta feed the beast to stay on top
And have the will to never stop
***
Vic
Vic was helping Bear tune up an old cruiser in the garage when his phone rang.
“Vic, it’s Meg,” the woman said, as if he didn’t have her in his phone. She sounded a little harried. “You got plans tonight?”
“Nothing that can’t move. What’s up?”
“Bonnie Dupont’s regular drummer for her band Blazeborn came down with the flu. She’s got a gig at The Frame Shop tonight and really doesn’t want to cancel. You free to sit in?”
Vic wiped grease off his hands. “Bonnie...the one who plays with that blues-rock outfit?”
“Yeah. She’s good. Real good. You in?”
“I’m in.”