I started to sweat.

The words terminate your contract and go beyond Generation Rejects buzzed in my ears. My stomach flipped over and I dropped the phone on the cold tile as I leaned over the toilet and retched.

Jose didn’t stay on the line after that. And I didn’t bother to call him back. I couldn’t handle his great ideas for my future right now.

I was so f**king confused.

When I thought it was safe to leave my bathroom, I headed out to my living room and sat down on my couch. I turned on the television and was annoyed to see only static.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered, getting up and going over to mess with the cable behind the TV.

After a few minutes and with no success, I called the cable company. It seemed that my cable had been shut off. Seemed I had forgotten to pay the bill while I was on the road.

Oops.

I threw the remote control on the couch and went into my kitchen. Opening the refrigerator had been a mistake. Something had obviously crawled in there and died. And my stomach went into immediate revolt.

I slammed the door of the fridge closed and debated the intelligence of grabbing my keys and making a run for it.

Because right now, my life was shit.

And I had been doing so well.

I needed to talk to the guys. But I was feeling obstinate. And ornery. And a lot scorned bitch.

I thought back to the first time we played all together at Barton’s. We had been awesome. We had just clicked. There was something that happened between the four of us when we played together.

It was hard to describe and even harder to understand until you experienced it.

Music is what had kept me sane. After my parents kicked me out and I started floundering, it gave me a f**king purpose. It gave me something to get invested in.

And I found in it something to be proud of. I was made to be a lead singer. I lived for being up on that stage and making people want me.

So maybe I had started letting it get to my head a bit. But you tell me one person who could do what I did every single night, who could have the women throwing themselves at them, having people tell them how amazing they were, and not start to feel like maybe they were right. That you are pretty awesome.

And what was wrong with feeling good about yourself?

I had spent most of my life feeling pretty shitty about who I was. I had never been good enough. Even when I broke the school’s scoring record my junior year. Even when I was offered a scholarship. None of it mattered.

Most of the time growing up I had been pretty sure my dad had hated me. I couldn’t remember a single time he had given me a compliment or had said “Good job, Cole.”

That didn’t mean I expected sympathy. I didn’t wallow in my daddy issues and use it as an excuse to do whatever the hell I wanted.

Though it didn’t take a PH.D. to dig down to the root of my psychological issues.

For someone who had never received any positive attention from the one person I had wanted it from, being inundated with it every night, in the form of the crowd, or chicks wanting in my pants, or record labels telling me I was a star in the making, it was pretty damn addictive.

So I had taken the praise and the attention and I had run with it. It had come to define me.

But that didn’t mean I was a bad guy.

Right?

Then why was I sitting here. . . alone?

I was alone.

And that pissed me off. I had worked too damn hard and for too damn long to be in the same dingy apartment I had been living in since I was nineteen. I had thought when the Rejects had started to get some attention, it was my ticket out. My chance to prove everyone wrong.

So why was I still here worse off than I was when I left?

Something needed to change. And I was beginning to think I knew exactly what that thing was.

As if on cue, my phone rang again and if it was Jose again, I’d answer and tell him to make his calls.

Because if I couldn’t get to where I wanted to be doing things the old way, then it was time to try something new. Garrett, Jordan, and Mitch wouldn’t hold me back from anything, ever again.

So I grabbed my phone, full of self-righteous fury.

But it wasn’t Jose.

It was Garrett.

“Hello?” I said, answering it before giving myself time to think about exactly what I was going to say.

“Hey, man,” Garrett said, sounding as neutrally bland as he ever did. There was a long moment of silence where neither of us said a word.

I wasn’t entirely sure what he expected me to say. Or what I expected him to say. But currently neither of us was saying anything at all.

I cleared my throat. My earlier anger still simmered in my blood.

“What can I do for you?” I finally asked.

“Well, what do you think, Cole? We’re back in Bakersville. We haven’t heard from you. I figured you’d want to get together so we can hash shit out,” Garrett retorted.

“You mean so you can sit around and tell me what an arrogant prick I am,” I corrected.

“Look, dude, that’s not it at all. We all have shit we need to address. So why don’t you get off your sorry ass and get over here. The sooner the better.”

I bristled instantly. Why did I need to jump through hoops because Garrett and the others had deemed it time to talk? I didn’t appreciate the demand in his tone. I thought back to my conversation with Jose and the opportunities that were already presenting themselves.

I didn’t need this bullshit. I didn’t need three ass**les to tell me what they thought I should change.

Fuck them!