Chapter Twenty-Four
Vic
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the monitors and the distant echo of Vic’s sticks against the practice kit.
He’d come to Slate’s studio alone after everyone else had left. No lights except the single work lamp over the drums. No click track. Just him, the kit, and everything he’d been carrying for years.
He started slow with some simple paradiddles, then basic rolling triplets that built into a heavy, searching groove. Each strike was deliberate. Controlled.
Grace in motion.
His father’s face flashed behind his eyes, with that lazy, charming grin that always promised more than it delivered. The nights Rosie never came home. The mornings teenaged Vic had woken up alone with no note and an empty fridge. The funeral where Conner walked away without a word.
Abandonment.
Vic’s playing grew heavier, darker, the fills sharper, angrier. The kit shook under the force of it. He poured every ounce of hurt, every broken promise, every time he’d sworn he’d never be like his old man—and every time he’d still chased the same ghosts.
Tears burned in his eyes, but he didn’t stop.
Then the groove shifted.
It opened up. Became something cleaner. Stronger. The anger burned away into something powerful and steady. A beat you could build a life on.
He thought of Bear opening his home.
Of Chase looking at him like he mattered.
Of Benny trusting him to hold the band together.
Of the Rebels accepting him as one of their own.
And Bonnie.
Bonnie.
The sticks flew faster, lighter, full of joy and hope. The rhythm became a celebration. A promise.
He was done running.
With a crash of cymbals, he ended the outpouring of emotion that had his hands shaking and his breath caught inside his chest. It struck him then that he wasn’t alone.
Not against Conner, not for any reason. He might not wear a patch on a vest, or ride a motorcycle, but he knew the things Mason had offered meant he was as much a Rebel as any man under the president’s overview and protection.
Vic grinned wide, tipping his chin up as he still sucked in air, sweat dripping from every pore. I’ve got dozens of brothers now, and they’d help me with anything, no lie.
He pushed off the stool, standing in the quiet of the studio for a moment, thinking. Bonnie had a gig tonight and wouldn’t be getting home until late.
“Maybe it’s time to use the spare key she gave me.”
He could think of worse places to be waiting for his woman than lying in her comfortable bed.
***
Two nights later, at Marie’s, Occupy Yourself took the stage for what felt like the real beginning.
The crowd was loud and hungry. Vic sat behind the kit, heart beating steadily, and looked out into the sea of faces.
Bonnie joined them on the stage for the first time, fingering the frets without strumming, just going through the songs silently, and she was watching Vic with a pride that made his chest tighten.
Benny stepped up to the mic. “This one’s new. We’re calling it ‘Grace In Motion.’”
Vic counted them in.
From the first beat, the song belonged to all of them—but Vic drove it.
His drumming was powerful yet fluid, graceful in its precision, carrying the band through every dynamic shift.
When Benny poured his heart into the chorus, Vic answered with thunder and light at the same time. The whole room moved with them.
During the bridge, Vic stood up behind the kit, still playing, sweat flying, eyes locked on Bonnie.
She was crying.
And singing through her tears.
***
After the encore, when the house lights came up and the crowd was still screaming, Vic moved around the stage and went straight for Bonnie.
She met him halfway.
She grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him hard, right there in front of everyone. When she pulled back, her eyes were shining.
“I’m done running,” she said, voice thick. “I love you, Vic Montrose. I’m fucking terrified, but I love you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Vic’s heart cracked wide open.
He kissed her again, slower this time, pouring everything he felt into it. “Good,” he whispered against her lips. “Because I’m not letting you go.”
***
Later that night, back at Bear’s house, the whole crew gathered—OY, Rebels, Mercedes, Chase, Lucia, Slate’s wife Ruby, everyone who mattered.
They celebrated on the back porch with beer and laughter and music spilling out of the garage.
Vic sat with Bonnie tucked against his side, her hand in his, while Benny told the story of how Vic had protected the gear the day he collapsed.
“The way Mitty talked, Vic was all in on keeping Benita and Danny from taking everything. Amps, guitars, mics. They were going to take it all, but Vic and Mitty stepped up.”
Mason raised a bottle toward Vic. “You’re family now, Montrose. Don’t forget it.”
Vic nodded, throat tight. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
***
Bonnie
Bonnie’s hands were sweating against her thighs as Vic’s truck rumbled down the quiet suburban street.
The neighborhood was modest, each with a neat lawn.
They were older homes with character, the kind of place that felt lived-in rather than polished.
Vic had been quiet for most of the drive from Fort Wayne, but every now and then, he’d reach over and squeeze her thigh, a silent reminder that he was right there with her.
She still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to this.
Meeting Grams.
The matriarch. The woman who had raised Vic when his father couldn’t. The one constant in his chaotic life. Bonnie had faced down hostile promoters, drunk crowds, and musicians who thought her talent came with benefits for them. None of that had ever made her stomach twist the way this did.
What if Grams took one look at her—the rock guitarist with the wild hair, the tattoos, the history of keeping everyone at arm’s length—and decided she wasn’t good enough for her grandson?
Vic must have sensed her nerves. He gave her thigh another gentle squeeze as they pulled into the cracked driveway of a small ranch-style house with faded blue shutters and a lopsided porch swing.
“You’re going to love her,” he said softly. “And she’s going to love you. Trust me.”
Bonnie managed a shaky smile. “Easy for you to say. You’re her favorite.”
He leaned over and kissed her temple. “You’re mine. That counts for a lot.”
They climbed out of the truck. The front door opened before they even reached the porch steps.
Grams stood there, smaller than Bonnie had imagined but radiating quiet strength.
Her silver hair was pulled back in a neat bun.
She was wearing a floral housecoat and had eyes that missed nothing.
She looked frail in the way older women sometimes did, with thin wrists and a careful posture, but there was steel in her spine.
“Victor,” she said, voice warm with affection. Then her gaze shifted to Bonnie, curious and appraising. “And you must be Bonnie.”
Bonnie’s mouth went dry. She stepped forward, offering her hand. “Yes, ma’am. It’s really nice to meet you.”
Grams took her hand in both of hers, grip surprisingly firm. “None of that ‘ma’am’ business. Call me Grams. Everyone does.” She studied Bonnie’s face for a long moment, then smiled. “Well, aren’t you a pretty one. Come on in, both of you. I’ve got sweet tea and lemon cookies.”
The house smelled like furniture polish and decades of love.
Bonnie followed Vic inside, taking in the details—framed photos on every wall, a worn but comfortable couch, the faint scent of something baking in the kitchen.
It felt like a real home. The kind Vic had told her about in quiet moments late at night.
Grams led them to the living room and insisted they sit. Bonnie perched on the edge of the couch, back straight, trying not to fidget. Vic dropped down beside her, close enough that their thighs pressed together, offering silent support.
“So,” Grams said, settling into her recliner with a cup of tea. “Vic tells me you’re a musician. Guitar, right? And you’re working with his band now.”
Bonnie nodded. “Yes. Occupy Yourself. And I’m still playing with my own band, Blazeborn. It’s been a bit of a whirlwind, but a good one.”
Grams’ eyes twinkled. “And how’s my boy treating you? He can be a stubborn mule when he sets his mind to something.”
Vic groaned. “Grams...”
Bonnie felt a surprised laugh bubble up. “He’s been wonderful, actually. Patient. Steady. Plus, he makes the music better just by being there.”
Grams studied her for another long moment, then nodded once, satisfied. “Good. That’s what I like to hear.”
The conversation flowed easier after that.
Grams asked about the band, about Bonnie’s own music, about life on the road.
Bonnie found herself relaxing, sharing stories about late-night gigs and the chaos of trying to coordinate schedules between her band and OY.
Grams listened with the kind of quiet attention that made you feel truly seen.
At one point, Grams stood and moved to a shelf lined with framed photos. She pulled one down and handed it to Bonnie.
“That’s my Rosie,” she said softly. “Vic’s father.”
Bonnie took the photo carefully. It was an old one—Rosie in his prime, guitar slung low, cocky grin on his face, dark hair wild. He looked so much like Vic that it stole her breath for a second. The same stormy gray eyes. The same intensity.
She understood, suddenly and completely, why Meg had fallen for him all those years ago. There was something magnetic about him, even in a still photograph. The kind of charisma that could pull you in and make you believe the wildest promises.
Just like Vic had pulled her in.
“He was a handful,” Grams said, voice fond but edged with old sorrow. “Charming as the devil and twice as stubborn. Broke a lot of hearts, including his own more often than not.”
Bonnie glanced at Vic, who was watching her with soft eyes. She felt a rush of warmth, a deep gratitude that this man, who carried so much of his father’s fire, had chosen a different path.
“I can see where Vic gets it from,” Bonnie said quietly. “The talent. The heart. But he’s...steadier. More grounded.”
Grams smiled, a real one that reached her eyes. “He is. And I think you’re part of the reason why.”
Bonnie’s cheeks warmed. She set the photo down carefully.
The conversation drifted then, relaxed and meandering, until Grams asked about the club and how things were going in Fort Wayne. Vic hesitated for half a second before answering.
“Mostly good,” he said. “But...I told you how Conner showed up again. Causing more trouble. Threatening people.”
Grams’ expression tightened. “That boy. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.
He came here again too, asking all kinds of questions about whether you were still in Fort Wayne.
I shut the door in his face and didn’t tell him anything, but that boy is persistent, and not in a good way. Always has been.”
Bonnie felt a chill. “He was stalking Vic in Fort Wayne. We still don’t know why.”
Grams shook her head. “Unfinished business, I expect. He was confident that Rosie had this cache of funds squirreled away.” She laughed bitterly.
“Couldn’t be further from reality. Rosie never kept a dollar any longer than he had to, and Conner knows that as well as I do.
It’s just that Conner never has let go of things easily.
Neither do you, Vic, but yours is in a healthier way.
You boys had different mothers, different lives, but you both got that stubborn streak from your daddy.
” She reached over and patted Vic’s knee.
“You stay safe, you hear me? Both of you. And if that boy shows up again, you let the club handle it. They know what they’re doing. ”
Vic nodded. “We will. I promise.”
The conversation lightened after that. Grams brought out more cookies and told stories about Vic as a little boy.
About how he’d bang on pots and pans in the kitchen for hours, how he’d once tried to build a drum kit out of cardboard boxes.
Bonnie laughed until her sides hurt, the warmth of the house wrapping around her like a hug.
By the time they stood to leave, Bonnie felt something settle deep in her chest. Approval. Acceptance. Grams had welcomed her without reservation, and the relief of it made her eyes sting.
Grams pulled her into a surprisingly strong hug at the door. “You take care of my boy,” she whispered. “And let him take care of you. You both deserve it.”
Bonnie hugged her back, voice thick. “I will. Thank you, Grams.”
As they walked back to the truck, Vic slipped his arm around her waist.
“See?” he murmured. “Told you she’d love you.”
Bonnie leaned into him, the nervousness finally gone. “She’s amazing. You’re lucky to have her.”
“We both are,” Vic said softly.
They climbed into the truck, and Bonnie glanced back at the little house with the blue shutters one last time. For a change, the idea of family didn’t feel like something she had to run from.
It felt like something she could run toward.