Chapter Twenty-Seven
Vic
The garage studio smelled like motor oil, old leather, and warm electronics.
Late-afternoon light slanted through the high windows as Vic sat behind the practice kit, sticks loose in his hands.
Bear was on his bass, fingers moving with that easy power he brought to everything, while Chase stood off to the side with his guitar, eyes half-closed in concentration.
They weren’t trying to write anything tonight. Just playing.
It started simple—a loose, rolling groove Vic laid down on the kit.
Bear answered with a fat, warm bass line that locked in perfectly.
Then Chase layered in a sparkling lead that danced over the top, bending notes in ways that made Vic grin.
They chased that sweet spot where their techniques built off each other organically—Vic pushing the pocket just a little, Bear answering with a deeper thump, Chase riding the wave and then surprising them both with a soaring run that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds.
“Damn,” Vic laughed after one particularly tight passage. “That felt good.”
Chase’s grin was bright and unguarded, the kind he only wore when he was lost in the music. Bear just nodded, that quiet pride in his eyes that made Vic feel like he belonged here.
They played for nearly an hour, the music flowing easy and alive. At one point, Vic caught Chase watching him during a particularly syncopated fill, and something clicked into place. This kid wasn’t just talented—he fit.
Vic let the last cymbal ring out and set his sticks down.
“So, when are you gonna join OY officially?” he asked, casual but genuine. “You’re already here more than half the time anyway.”
The room went strangely quiet.
Chase’s fingers stilled on the strings. He looked down at his guitar, shoulders tightening just slightly. “I...haven’t been asked. Not really.”
Vic blinked. “What?”
Chase shrugged, trying for nonchalance but not quite landing it. “I just keep showing up, hoping you guys will need me as much as I need you. Didn’t want to push...” His chin dipped. “Didn’t want to push only to get shut down.”
The words hit Vic square in the chest. He knew that feeling too well—the fear of wanting something so badly that you convince yourself you shouldn’t ask for it.
“Chase,” he said softly. “We do need you. Hell, we’ve needed you for weeks.”
Chase looked up, eyes a little wide, a little hopeful.
Vic clapped him on the shoulder. “Let me talk to Benny. We’ll make it official.”
***
Later that evening, Vic found Benny in the kitchen at Bear’s house, nursing a cup of coffee as he waited on Lucia.
“Hey,” Vic said, leaning against the counter. “Got a minute?”
Benny nodded. “What’s up?”
“It’s about Chase.” Vic didn’t dance around it. “Kid’s been killing it in the garage sessions. He’s got the talent, the heart, and the chemistry. But he thinks he hasn’t been asked. Not officially. He’s just been showing up, hoping we need him.”
Benny set his mug down slowly, expression shifting from surprise to something softer. “Shit. I’ve been waiting for him to say he wanted it. Didn’t want to pressure the kid if he wasn’t ready.”
“He’s ready,” Vic said firmly. “And we need him.”
Benny was already pushing back from the table, a grin spreading across his face. “Then I’m going to go fix that right now.” He cupped one hand around his mouth and shouted, “Lucia, I’ll be back in a few, yeah?”
Her response came faintly. “Okay.”
Benny clapped Vic on the shoulder as he passed. “Good looking out, brother.”
Vic stayed in the kitchen, listening to Benny’s boots head out the door toward the garage. A slow, satisfied grin stretched his own face.
He felt like he’d helped push something good forward. Not just for Chase, but for all of them.
The band was growing.
And it felt exactly right.
***
Chase
Chase sat on the old couch in the garage with his guitar across his lap, fingers moving slowly through a new version of the new riff Benny had shown him last week. It was starting to feel like it belonged to him now. Not borrowed, not copied, but his.
This had become his favorite place.
Whenever the house felt too full of something he didn’t know how to name, he grabbed his guitar and came here. Benny never asked questions; he just handed him a fresh set of strings or nodded toward the amp, and they played until the ache in Chase’s chest eased.
He wasn’t ready to go home yet.
Home was Mason’s house now. It had been for a while. But lately it felt different. Brighter. Warmer. Full of laughter that wasn’t forced and the smell of whatever Willa was cooking that night.
Willa.
Chase liked her. He really did.
She was brilliant—could tear through code almost as fast as Myron when she got focused.
She shredded on a skateboard like it was nothing, flipping tricks in the driveway that made Chase stop and watch in quiet awe.
She cooked like she actually enjoyed feeding people, and the way she looked at Mason?
God, it was so obvious she loved him. Not in the careful, polite way he’d seen women try before.
Real love. The kind that made his dad smile bigger and laugh easier than Chase had ever seen.
So why did it feel like a punch to the gut every time he walked in and saw them together?
Chase closed his eyes and dug into the riff again, letting the notes bleed out louder than necessary. The music didn’t ask questions. It didn’t expect him to be happy about his dad finally finding someone. It just let him feel whatever he needed to feel.
She’s good for him, he thought, fingers moving faster. She makes him laugh. She makes the house feel like a home instead of just a safe place to land. I should be glad.
He was glad.
Mostly.
But part of him—the part that had spent years wondering why his mom had left him on Mason’s doorstep like unwanted luggage—still twisted up tight whenever he saw them.
It made him feel twelve years old again.
Like he was watching something he wasn’t supposed to see.
Like he was still the outsider looking in.
The side door creaked open. Benny stepped in, acoustic slung over his shoulder, and gave Chase a knowing look.
“Again?” Benny asked, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
Chase shrugged, trying to play it cool. “If you’ve got time.”
“I’ve got time.”
They played for over an hour. Benny didn’t push; he just followed wherever Chase took the music, answering with warm chords and steady rhythm.
For a while, everything else disappeared.
The thoughts of Willa in the kitchen, Mason’s quiet happiness, and even the complicated knot in Chase’s chest. There was only the song.
When they finally let the last chord fade, Benny leaned back and studied him.
“You’re finding your sound, kid. Really finding it.”
Chase looked down at his hands. “Still feels like I’m chasing yours most days.”
Benny chuckled. “That’s how it starts. You’ll pass me soon enough.”
They sat in comfortable silence. Eventually Chase spoke, voice quiet.
“I keep coming here because I don’t want to go home yet.”
Benny didn’t look surprised. “Willa?”
Chase nodded. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s great.
Like, actually great. Smart. Funny. She loves him.
I can see it every time she looks at him.
And he looks at her like she hung the damn moon.
” He swallowed hard. “I want that for him. I do. But watching it is hard sometimes. Makes me feel like I’m still the kid who got dropped off with a suitcase and no explanation. ”
Benny was quiet for a long moment.
“Family’s messy,” he said finally. “Doesn’t matter how it comes together. What matters is that it stays together. Mason chose you. Willa’s choosing him. And from what I’ve seen, she’s choosing you too, even if you’re not ready to let her.”
Chase nodded slowly, the words settling somewhere deep.
He stayed a little longer, playing one more loose, hopeful song before packing up.
When he stepped outside, the night air was cool.
His truck waited in the driveway—the classic pickup the club had helped him build.
Matte black with deep red pinstriping, lifted suspension, aggressive tires, and an exhaust that announced his presence from three blocks away.
Bear had done most of the mechanical work.
Hurley helped with the paint and lighting.
It was loud, proud, and unmistakably his.
Chase climbed in, turned the key, and let the deep rumble fill the cab. The sound always grounded him.
He sat there a moment longer, engine growling, then shifted into gear and headed toward Mason’s house.
The lights were on when he pulled up. He could see Willa through the kitchen window, moving around with that easy grace, Mason leaning against the counter watching her like she was the best thing he’d ever seen.
Chase killed the engine and sat in the sudden silence.
She’s good for him, he thought again.
And for the first time, the ache in his chest felt a little smaller.
He grabbed his guitar case and headed inside.
He still wasn’t ready to sit at the table and watch them be happy together for hours.
But he was getting closer.
He thought the music—and the loud, club-built truck waiting outside—would carry him the rest of the way.
***
Bethany
Bethany Mason-Taylor stood off to the side of the converted warehouse studio in Fort Wayne, arms crossed, watching the controlled chaos unfold with a critical but pleased eye.
She had personally arranged this photo shoot—booked the photographer, secured the space, coordinated the wardrobe, and made sure the lighting was exactly right for the kind of gritty-yet-polished images she wanted for the upcoming media blitz.
Now she just needed every member of Occupy Yourself to show up and behave.
To her relief, they did.
Benny arrived first, looking relaxed and focused.
Chase pulled the door open next, and Vic followed shortly after, sticks still in his back pocket like he couldn’t quite leave the music behind.
Leo and Mitty came in together, already joking about who was going to look the most awkward in front of the camera.
Bonnie showed up last, guitar case in hand, flashing Bethany a quick, confident grin that said she was ready for whatever came next.
Everyone was willing. Everyone was in a good mood.
The photographer was a talented local named Julian who understood exactly what Iron Indian Records was going for.
He moved the band through poses with smooth efficiency.
Individual shots. Group shots. Candid moments of them laughing and riffing on one another.
The chemistry was palpable. By the third hour, Bethany was confident they had more than enough strong images for the campaign.
Then the door opened again.
Mason walked in first, followed closely by Slate and Bear. All three men were wearing their cuts, looking large, imposing, and entirely too pleased with themselves.
Bethany pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting a smile.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered.
The Rebels had clearly decided to crash the party.
Mason’s eyes found hers immediately, a rare, wide grin spreading across his usually stoic face. Slate was already teasing Benny about something, and Bear had zeroed in on Vic, clapping the younger man on the back hard enough to make him stumble forward.
The photographer looked momentarily alarmed, then shrugged and kept shooting.
The band rolled with it beautifully, laughing, posing with the bikers, throwing playful punches and exaggerated rock-star faces.
The energy in the room shifted from professional to joyful chaos, and Bethany couldn’t bring herself to be mad about it.
They’d already gotten everything they needed. The serious, focused shots were in the bag. These new ones—the band laughing with the club members who had become part of their extended family—might actually be even better for the story they were trying to tell.
Watching her older brother grin wide and unselfconsciously while Bear put him in a mock headlock was worth any overtime the photographer might charge. Mason so rarely let that side of himself show. Seeing it now, carefree and open, made something warm bloom in Bethany’s chest.
This was why she did this work. Not just the music, not just the business, but moments like this. Real connection. Real family, however unconventional.
The shoot wrapped with everyone in high spirits. As the equipment was being broken down, the side door opened again.
Willa, Ruby, and Eddie came buzzing in like a cheerful whirlwind, laughing and demanding to be included.
“Come on, we want in on this!” Willa called, already shrugging off her jacket. “You can’t have all the fun without us.”
Ruby struck a dramatic pose while Eddie grinned and waved at the photographer. “Make us look dangerous. Or pretty. Or both.”
Bethany laughed outright, waving them forward.
“Julian, you mind a few more shots?”
The photographer, clearly entertained by how the day had unfolded, just grinned and lifted his camera again.
“More the merrier.”
Bethany leaned against the wall, watching the women join the group—Willa sliding naturally under Mason’s arm, Ruby leaning an elbow up on Bonnie’s shoulder, Eddie teasing Mitty about something. The laughter echoed off the high ceilings.
This was going to be a hell of a campaign.
And somehow, she thought with a satisfied smile, it felt like so much more than that.