Chapter Thirteen
Vic
Benny walked into rehearsal after three months like he’d never been gone.
Vic was adjusting the height of his throne when the door to Bear’s garage studio opened. Benny stepped in—clearer eyes, steadier posture, and a determined set to his shoulders that hadn’t been there the night he went down.
The whole room went still for half a second.
Then Benny flashed that crooked rock-star grin. “Miss me?”
Mitty let out a relieved laugh and pulled him into a back-slapping hug while Vic grinned like an idiot. Even Chase, Mason’s son, who’d been quietly observing from the corner, looked genuinely happy.
Vic stood up and offered his hand. “Good to see you vertical, man.”
Benny took it with a firm grip, eyes assessing. “Heard you stepped up while I was out. Thanks for that.”
“No thanks needed,” Vic said. “Just glad you’re back.”
***
The first rehearsal felt like magic.
Benny was present. Focused. His voice had that raw, emotional edge again, but it was controlled now instead of fraying at the seams. The new songs they ran through crackled with energy.
Vic locked in behind the kit like he’d been playing with them for years, feeding Benny the solid foundation he needed to push.
During a slower ballad, Benny closed his eyes and sang like the words were being pulled straight out of his chest. When he opened them again, he looked right at Vic and gave a small, grateful nod.
It felt right.
By the end of the four-hour session, everyone was buzzing. Mitty was already talking about how great the next gig was going to be.
“Looking good, Benny,” Vic said as they packed up.
Benny wiped sweat from his brow and exhaled. “Feels good. Real good. Thanks for holding shit down, Vic. I mean it.”
***
For five days, everything stayed golden.
They rehearsed hard. They still needed a steady bassist, but a couple of session players were swapping in and out for now.
They played a warm-up gig at a small club in town and absolutely killed it.
Benny was sharp onstage, engaging the crowd, never once looking like he was about to fall apart.
Vic’s drumming meshed perfectly with the band’s evolving sound, giving them a heavier, more driving bottom end that made the new material hit harder.
Even Bonnie had texted him once—a short, teasing message after hearing he was officially in OY:
*Heard you found a real band. Don’t fuck it up, Montrose.*
Vic had smiled at his phone like an idiot. She still had his number.
She kept my number.
He sent back, *The music is wild. How are you?*
There was no answer, but it felt like things were finally clicking.
***
The fractures started small.
During a late-night rehearsal on day six, Benny’s voice cracked on a high note he’d been nailing all week. He brushed it off with a joke, but Vic caught the flash of frustration in his eyes.
The next afternoon, Benny showed up twenty minutes late, eyes a little too bright, movements a fraction too jittery. He blamed it on not sleeping well.
By the third day, the cracks were impossible to ignore.
He kept restarting songs, picking apart small mistakes that didn’t matter. His temper flared when Mitty missed a cue. During one particularly rough run-through, Benny threw his guitar pick across the room and stormed out for a cigarette.
Vic followed him outside.
Benny was pacing, lighting one cigarette off the end of another.
“You good?” Vic asked quietly.
Benny let out a bitter laugh. “I was. For a minute there, I really fucking was.” He dragged hard on the cigarette. “Then the noise in my head got loud again. The old shit...it doesn’t just go away, you know?”
Vic leaned against the wall beside him, saying nothing. He understood more than Benny probably realized.
Benny looked over at him, eyes haunted. “I thought coming back strong would make it easier. But now I’m scared I’m gonna let everyone down again.”
Vic chose his words carefully. “You’re not alone in this anymore. We’ve got your back. All of us.”
Benny stared at the ground for a long moment, then gave a tired nod.
But Vic could already see the storm gathering behind his eyes.
The honeymoon was over.
Benny was back—but the fight wasn’t finished.
***
Bonnie
Eleven days.
Bonnie lasted eleven fucking days.
She stared at her phone for the hundredth time, thumb hovering over Vic’s name. She’d already texted him once, fighting to ignore his response. Her pride screamed at her to put it down. Her body and something dangerously close to her heart told her pride to fuck off.
She hit Call before she could talk herself out of it.
It rang twice.
“Montrose,” he answered, voice low and warm like he’d been waiting.
Bonnie closed her eyes. “It’s Bonnie.”
A pause. Then she could hear the smile in his voice. “Hey, Bunny.”
Her heart clenched hearing the sweet name he’d gifted her. She didn’t bother with small talk. “You busy tonight?”
“Not anymore.”
***
He showed up at her door forty minutes later.
The second it closed behind him, they were on each other—no greetings, no awkward catch-up. Just mouths and hands and weeks of pent-up frustration. Vic lifted her like she weighed nothing, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bedroom.
It was even better than the first night.
Wild. Rough. Hungry.
Bonnie rode him hard, nails digging into his chest, while Vic gripped her hips and drove up into her with powerful strokes that made her see stars.
They flipped positions twice, neither willing to let the other have full control for long.
When she came the first time, she bit his shoulder to muffle her cry.
The second time, he flipped her onto her stomach and took her from behind until she was shaking and cursing his name.
Afterward, they lay tangled and sweaty, breathing hard.
Bonnie expected him to leave.
Instead, Vic rolled onto his side, propped his head on his hand, and looked at her with those steady gray eyes.
“So,” he said, voice rough, “you gonna tell me why you kicked me out like I had the plague?”
Bonnie laughed despite herself. “Because you’re dangerous.”
“Dangerous,” he repeated, amused.
“Yeah. You make me want things I don’t do.”
Vic traced a finger down her spine. “Like what?”
“Like letting someone stay the night,” she admitted quietly. “Like thinking about them when they’re gone.”
His expression softened. He didn’t push. He just leaned in and kissed her—slow and deep this time.
They talked for hours after that. Crazy conversations that jumped from the best/worst gigs they’d ever played, to childhood stories, to what they were both terrified of.
Vic told her about his dad. Bonnie told him about her mother’s constant disapproval.
Neither of them flinched from the dark parts.
Then they had sex again. Slower this time. Each touch and movement threaded through with new and delicate tender affection.
***
The pattern started that night and continued for the next two weeks.
Bonnie would text him after a gig or he’d call her after rehearsal. One of them would come to the other’s place. The sex was always intense.
The first full evening after the initial night was pure fire.
Vic showed up at her door with a six-pack and a crooked grin.
They didn’t even make it to the bedroom.
Bonnie pushed him against the wall in the hallway, dropping to her knees before he could speak.
The way he groaned her name when she took him in her mouth made her feel powerful.
When he finally pulled her up and took her against the wall, hard and deep, she came so intensely she saw stars.
Later, entwined on her couch, they talked about everything and nothing. Vic told her about standing up for Benny’s gear the day he arrived. Bonnie confessed how terrified she was of needing anyone. They laughed about stupid band stories and argued about the best drummers in rock history.
The sex that night was frantic and filthy—on the kitchen counter, then in her bed, then again in the shower at 3 a.m. Each time they pushed each other harder, daring the other to keep up.
***
A few nights later, the tone shifted.
They drove over to Bear’s garage studio, hitting the space after Vic was pretty sure everyone else had left.
Vic brought his acoustic. They sat cross-legged on the floor, trading riffs and half-formed lyrics until four in the morning.
The chemistry was so strong that when Slate, Benny’s brother, heard the rough mixes later, he just shook his head and said, “Well, damn.”
When they finally made it back to Bonnie’s house, the sex was slower.
More intense. Less about release and more about connection.
Vic held her gaze the entire time, like he was trying to memorize every reaction.
Bonnie found herself whispering things she’d never said to anyone—how scared she was of how good this felt.
Afterward, lying with her head on his chest, she traced the tattoos on his arm and felt her walls cracking just a little more.
***
The third full evening was the most dangerous.
Bonnie texted him at midnight after a particularly rough gig. He was there in twenty minutes. The sex was wild again—against the wall, on the floor, her riding him so hard the bed frame slammed against the wall. They laughed and cursed and challenged each other until they were both wrecked.
But when they lay together afterward, Bonnie felt the panic rising.
She was falling.
Hard.
And that terrified her more than anything ever had.
Vic sensed it. He didn’t push, but he held her a little tighter, stroking her back in slow circles.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
Bonnie didn’t answer. She just pressed her face into his chest and tried to ignore the way her heart was racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the sex.