Jose was doing that staring thing again. He shut his laptop, crossed his arms over top of it, and leaned forward.

“I think you’ve come to realize in the last few months that I don’t bullshit people. Am I right, Cole?” he asked.

“Well, yeah,” I agreed. Because it was the truth. Jose chewed up bullshit and spit it out.

“Then listen to me when I tell you that while Generation Rejects is a good band and your music is catchy, you are the one who will be selling records. It’s your image as the bad boy rocker that will have chicks clamoring to your shows. And their boyfriends will tag along because aside from being a pretty face you can f**king sing.”

Jose pointed at me. “You are the face of Generation Rejects. Not Garrett. Not Mitch. Not even Jordan, though he has his own appeal. But he’s not at the front f**king the crowd every night. He’s not the one bleeding his soul as he sings. That’s you, Cole. And that’s what will send you to the top.”

Not you guys.

Just you.

I instantly picked up on that subtle difference.

I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to squeal like a little bitch. This was the validation I had always wanted. Sure, I played the part of egomaniac, but I still liked to know that I was f**king awesome.

And even though Jose was saying some pretty fantastic stuff, it seemed as though he was about to drop a hammer on my unsuspecting head.

“Which is why you should think about going out on your own. You’d kill it as a solo act. The record companies would be all over you.” And there it was, the big ole hammer. Jose dropped his words nonchalantly and then opened up his laptop again like he hadn’t just blown my world up.

“What did you just say?” I asked, my mouth dropping open.

Jose shrugged, not bothering to look at me. “Don’t play dumbass with me, Cole. Because you aren’t stupid. You had to have thought about it.”

“Actually, no I haven’t,” I said angrily and truthfully. I never in a million years ever contemplated a musical future without my bandmates. But even still, the suggestion was traitorously appealing.

“Then you are an idiot. Because you’re great as a frontman, but you’d be even greater with only your name up on the marquee. You don’t need to share the limelight with anyone. You should let me help you be great, Cole. Otherwise you’ll be floundering around in a mid-level band until you become a joke.”

I was starting to get pissed.

“What the f**k are you doing as our manager if you think the Rejects are just a ‘mid-level band?” I air quoted him. Yeah, I had just f**king used air quotes.

Jose’s eyes flashed and for a second I felt intimidated. And that didn’t happen often. No one intimidated me. . .ever. But Jose wasn’t just anyone.

“Look, the band is good. Garrett and Jordan write decent songs. But I’ve been in this game long enough to know where the real money lies. And while Generation Rejects will achieve some success, you Cole, have the potential to go all the way. And you can take it or leave it. But if you want to talk about your options, I’d be happy to do that.”

I opened my mouth to say something. What it was, I wasn’t entirely sure. A part of me wanted to tell him where to shove it. That I came as a package deal. That there wasn’t a way in hell I’d ever leave Generation Rejects.

But his words stoked my ego in just the right way. Come on, who doesn’t like being told how great they are? Who wouldn’t be slightly swayed by the prospect of fame and fortune? Who wouldn’t, even slightly, be tempted to shit all over their friends for the chance to show the world how incredible they could be?

And if you say that you wouldn’t do it, that you wouldn’t even think about it, then you are completely delusional. And a big, fat liar.

Because it was tempting.

Way too tempting.

I didn’t know whether to be disgusted or proud of myself.

Before anything else could be said, I started to hear people stirring around at the back of the bus. A few of the guys from Primal Terror came out and started rooting through the fridge. Jose’s attention was now completely focused on his computer and it was like he hadn’t just suggested, moment ago, to leave my friends and go on this journey by myself.

Bastard.

“Mornin’,” Geoff Finley, the lead singer for Primal Terror said, sitting down beside me. I only nodded; still trying to digest the lump of fat Jose tossed my way.

“Just think about it,” Jose said suddenly before getting to his feet, his laptop tucked under his arm, heading to the front of the bus, presumably to talk to the driver.

“You want one?” Nads Mason, Primal Terror’s bassist asked, indicating a box of donuts. I shook my head, feeling slightly nauseous.

I got up and headed back to my bunk.

Jose thought I should leave Generation Rejects and be a solo artist. He thought Generation Rejects was a mid-level band. But me, well he thought I could be a star.

I was flattered.

I wanted it. So badly. I wanted to reach out and grab fame by its scrawny, fickle neck and make it my bitch. I wanted to set the world on fire and smoke the ashes.

I wanted the money. I wanted the recognition. I wanted the mansion and cars.

I wanted it all.

I wanted to look at my dad’s sanctimonious face and give him the goddamned middle finger. I wanted to look at my judgmental mother and tell her to f**k off. That I didn’t need their approval; that I had done this all on my own.