Maysie looked startled. They all did.

“If it isn’t the providential son,” Mitch sneered.

Garrett snorted. “It’s prodigal son, dumbass.”

Mitch puffed up his chest. “Whatever. What are you doing here, Cole?” he asked, setting his bass in the stand.

“I was driving by and heard some f**king amazing music. I wanted to check it out. Had no idea it was a bunch of raging douchebags,” I joked, trying for humor to lessen the tension.

It didn’t really work.

No one smiled. Not even a little.

Tough room.

I stood up and walked over to my mic stand that had been pushed into the corner. I kicked it with my shoe. No one said anything. They weren’t going to make this easy for me.

“Seriously, man. What are you doing here? We all got the impression we wouldn’t see you until Tuesday.”

Tuesday. D-Day. Aka, the day we lost everything to the label.

Unless we could check our baggage at the door. But looking at the closed off faces of my friends, I wasn’t sure that was possible.

“Yeah, well I figured we had shit to talk about before then.”

Garrett nodded, the only friendly face in a less than friendly group.

“Uh, we’ll leave you guys to talk. Come on, Sophie,” Maysie said hurrying up the stairs. The Sophie girl gave Mitch a quick peck on the lips and followed Maysie.

That left me alone in a room with people who weren’t exactly happy to see me.

Jordan came out from behind his drum set to stand in front of me, his arms crossed over his chest. At least he wasn’t trying to punch me. I considered that progress.

“So. Talk.”

I wanted to tell Jordan where to shove his f**king attitude. That I wasn’t the only one with the problem. But I figured I could get to that later. Right now was for saying my piece.

“I shouldn’t have played the song. I’m sorry, all right. But there are more issues at hand then me playing a damn song we didn’t all agree on,” I reasoned, proud of how calm I was.

“I think that’s obvious, Cole,” Garrett piped up, putting his guitar back in the case. And then I was standing before my three bandmates. Me versus them. The way it had felt for months now.

“Why do I get the feeling that I’m gonna be jumped by the three of you?” I asked lightly.

Jordan and Mitch didn’t say anything but Garrett smirked.

“Why? Are we intimidating you?” Garrett asked.

“Hardly,” I snorted.

“So what issues do you see going on here?” Jordan questioned.

“You’re jealous. Plain and simple,” I stated. Mitch’s face turned red and Jordan clenched his fists, most likely imagining he was planting them in my face.

Garrett groaned. “Why did you have to go there? Things were starting off so well too?” he complained.

“I was getting the attention. The label wanted me to do the press. The interviewers wanted to talk to me. Primal Terror asked me on stage. I get it. I would have been pissed too if one of you was stealing the spotlight. Because that’s what I was doing. I was taking all the glory for myself and saying to f**k with all of you.”

I looked at each of them steadily. “And Jose thinks I can do better on my own. He wants me to get out of my contract with Pirate and sign with Deep Hill Records as a solo artist,” I informed them. Jordan’s eyes got wide and Mitch’s mouth fell open. Garrett’s face was a neutral and impassive as ever, though I could see the tension around his mouth.

“Deep Hill wants to sign you as a solo artist? And Jose told you to do it? I thought he was the band’s manager? Not Cole Brandt’s manager,” Jordan fumed.

“Yeah, well, I think Mr. Suarez has his own f**king agenda.”

“Apparently,” Mitch muttered.

“I’ve been a dick. But you guys have been dicks too,” I countered.

“Excuse the f**k me?” Jordan demanded.

“Are you going to stand there and tell me my ego was the only one that needed checking? That the fact that you weren’t the center of the f**king universe wasn’t a huge problem? I know that you’re used to being the big man on campus, Piper, but this time you weren’t. And that bugged the shit out of you.”

I purposefully used my old nickname for Jordan. I did it to push his buttons. I did it to test his limits. I wanted to see what he would do.

Jordan and I glared at each other for a long time, neither of us saying anything. The room was silent. I could hear the dripping from the leaking pipe in the corner.

I didn’t know whether he was going to hit me or not. I could tell he was thinking about it.

And then Garrett opened up his guitar case again and plugged his battered Yamaha into the amp. He strummed it a few times, playing the opening chords of Five Knuckles Deep, one of the first songs we had written together.

Mitch followed suit, picking up his bass, and plugging it into the other Marshall amp in the corner. His rhythm mixed with Garrett’s riffs.

Jordan and I stood there a while longer. There was a slight tick in his jaw. I was poised ready for an attack.

And then he was walking back towards his drum kit. He sat down and picked up his sticks, tapping out a steady beat in time to the music.

Garrett looked at me expectantly. “Well, I’m sure as hell not singing. Grab the mic and plug it in,” he said.

I stood there for a minute, not sure what to do. Did I want this?

I grabbed the mic stand and stood in my normal spot, front and center.