Chapter Sixteen
Vic
Vic sat on the back porch of Grams’ house long after the sun had gone down. The bottle of whiskey in his hand was still sealed. He’d bought it without giving it too much thought, but tonight he couldn’t bring himself to open it. Not after the last time.
His thumb hovered over the contact on his phone screen.
Dad.
The number hadn’t changed in fifteen years. Vic had never deleted it. He didn’t know why.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he hit Call.
It rang once. Twice.
Then the familiar voice filled his ear.
“Hey, you’ve reached Rosie. I’m probably out chasing the next big thing. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you...maybe.”
The beep sounded.
Vic’s throat closed.
He hadn’t expected the voicemail to still be active. Hadn’t expected to hear that cocky, slightly raspy voice again. It hit him like a fist to the sternum.
He sat there for a long moment, phone pressed to his ear, eyes burning.
Then the words started pouring out.
“Hey, old man...it’s me. Vic.”
He laughed, but it cracked in the middle.
“I don’t even know why I’m calling. You’re gone. I know you’re gone. But your voicemail is still here like you’re just running late again. Like any second you might pick up and tell me about some gig that’s gonna change everything.”
Vic leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the dark yard.
“I met someone. Her name’s Bonnie. She’s...
Fuck, Dad. She’s everything. Plays guitar like she’s trying to set the world on fire.
Fierce as hell. Won’t let anyone close. Reminds me of you in the best and worst ways.
I told her I love her, and guess what she did?
She kicked me out. Can’t say I blame her.
I’m a mess. But I think...I think she feels it too.
She’s just scared. Like you were. Like I’ve been. ”
He kept talking. The words came easier the longer he spoke.
He told his father about OY. About Benny going down onstage and how he’d stepped in without thinking.
About the way the band felt like home in a way Klatmatch Ends and Silverline Drift never had.
About protecting Benny’s gear with Mitty while the Rebels rolled in like cavalry.
About how good it felt to finally be part of something that mattered.
He talked about Grams. How frail she was getting. How much he worried about her. How he was trying to be the man she’d raised him to be instead of the one Rosie had been. “No offense intended. No, fuck that. Offense intended, old man.”
He talked about Conner showing up at the funeral and then walking away without a word. About how much that still hurt.
He talked about the itch. The one that had followed him from band to band. The one that had finally gone quiet when he played with Occupy Yourself.
An hour passed. Maybe more. The voicemail had long since cut him off, but Vic kept talking anyway, voice raw and cracking in places.
“I miss you, you bastard,” he whispered at the end. “Even though you made everything harder. Even though you broke a lot of shit. I still miss you. I hope you’re somewhere with a stage and a crowd that never stops cheering. And I hope...I hope you’re proud. Wherever you are.”
Vic looked at the dark screen. The phone had shut off half a conversation ago.
Then he sat there in the dark and cried like he hadn’t since he was a kid.
***
Bonnie
Bonnie pushed open the door to Meg’s favorite little bar in Nashville and spotted her immediately at a back table. Meg raised a hand, already halfway through a margarita.
“You look like shit,” she said cheerfully as Bonnie slid into the booth.
“Thanks. I feel like it.”
Meg flagged down the waitress. “Two shots of tequila. And keep them coming.”
Bonnie raised an eyebrow. “You trying to get me drunk?”
“Truth serum,” Meg said with a small smile. “You only call me when you’re spiraling. So talk.”
The tequila arrived. They clinked glasses and downed the first round.
Bonnie felt the burn all the way down. It loosened something in her chest.
“I met someone,” she said quietly.
Meg’s eyebrows shot up. “The drummer? Vic?”
“Yeah.” Bonnie traced the rim of her glass. “He’s...different. He sees me. All of me. The music, the walls, the mess. And he still looks at me like I’m worth sticking around for.”
Meg was quiet for a moment, studying her. Then she signaled for another round.
“I loved his dad, you know,” Meg said suddenly.
Bonnie blinked. “What?”
“Not like that. Well...kind of like that.” Meg gave a self-deprecating laugh.
“We had a weekend. Years ago. Probably before you were born. He was playing a gig in town, and I was young and stupid and thought I could fix him. It was one weekend, but it stuck with me. He had that same fire you do. Same refusal to settle. I think that’s why I’ve always looked out for Vic.
He reminds me of the best parts of Rosie.
And the parts that scared the hell out of me. ”
Bonnie stared at her, the tequila making everything feel a little softer around the edges.
“My thing with Vic...it’s not the same,” she said slowly. “It’s longer. Deeper. He told me he loves me.”
Meg’s expression softened. “And how do you feel?”
Bonnie looked down at her hands. The truth she’d been avoiding rose up like it had been waiting for the right moment.
“I think I’m in love with him too,” she whispered. “And it terrifies me.”
Meg reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Good. Means it’s real.”
Bonnie let out a shaky laugh that was half sob. For the first time, she’d let herself admit it out loud.
She was in love with Vic Montrose.
And she had no idea what the hell to do about it.
***
The second week was worse.
Every rehearsal felt like fighting upstream. Her drummer was trying, but he wasn’t Vic. He didn’t anticipate her changes. He didn’t push her when she needed pushing. He didn’t make the music feel alive.
During one particularly brutal practice, she stopped mid-song and threw her pick across the room.
“Fuck this,” she muttered.
Leo raised an eyebrow. “You gonna call that guy or what?”
“Mind your own business,” she snapped.
But the truth was eating her alive.
She missed him.
Not just the sex—though God, she missed that too—but the way he played with her. The way their rhythms locked together like they were speaking the same secret language. The way he made her better without even trying.
She missed the stupid conversations at 3 a.m. The way he’d laugh at her dark humor. The way he’d look at her after they finished, like he was seeing all the messy, jagged parts of her and still wanted to stay.
She needed him.
And that terrified her more than anything ever had.
***
By day twelve, her band was starting to fall apart.
The music that had once felt like fire was now ashes in her mouth. She was short-tempered, restless, and drinking more than she should after gigs. Her guitarist finally cornered her after a particularly bad rehearsal.
“Bonnie, you need to fix this,” he said bluntly. “Whatever’s going on with you and that drummer...call him. Or don’t. But stop pretending everything’s fine. We sound like shit.”
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him to fuck off.
Instead, she went home, sat on her couch with her phone in her hand, and cried for the first time in years.
She needed Vic Montrose.
She needed the way he made her feel alive. The way he challenged her. The way he made the music feel like home.
And she was slowly coming to grips with how much she absolutely needed him.
Bonnie stared at his contact until the screen went dark.
She still wasn’t ready to call.
But she admitted to herself that she wanted to.
That was something.
***
Vic
Vic wasn’t looking for a heart-to-heart.
He’d gone to the Rebel Wayfarers’ clubhouse looking for Chase—something about helping tune a bike engine, a distraction from the ache in his chest. But Chase wasn’t around.
Mason was.
The big man sat at the main room nursing a beer, and when he saw Vic, he simply nodded toward the stool beside him.
“Rough day?” Mason asked.
Vic sat. He hadn’t planned on talking, but something about the older man’s quiet presence made the words come anyway.
He told Mason about the voicemail. About pouring his heart out to a dead man for over an hour.
About Bonnie. About how he’d laid his heart on the line and she’d shut the door in his face.
About how much he loved her anyway. About how scared he was that he was turning into his father—chasing something that would only burn him in the end.
Mason listened without interrupting, just nodding occasionally, his attentiveness was solid and steady.
When Vic finally ran out of words, Mason clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“Love ain’t easy, son. Especially when you’ve seen what bad love looks like. But from what I’ve seen, that girl’s got fight in her. And you do too. Sometimes the best thing you can do is stand still and let her come to you when she’s ready.”
Vic let out a long breath.
On the next inhale, the knot in his chest loosened just a little.
“Thanks, Mason.”
The older man just nodded. “Anytime. Door’s always open.”
Vic left the clubhouse feeling lighter.
He still hurt.
But after talking to Mason, he didn’t feel quite so alone with it.