Free Seductive Chaos (Bad Rep #3) by A. Meredith Walters Page A

be floundering around in a mid-level band until you become a joke.”
    I was starting to get pissed.
    “What the fuck 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 fucking 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 fuck off. That I didn’t need their approval; that I had done this all on my own.
    That I could own the universe.
    “You okay, dude?” Garrett waved his hand in front of my face and I realized I had been standing, unmoving, staring into space.
    Looking at the guy I considered my brother I felt like shit for even contemplating leaving him and the other guys behind.
    I wouldn’t be anywhere if it weren’t for Garrett Bellows and our band.
    “Yeah, sorry. Didn’t sleep much,” I said with a wry smile.
    Garrett clasped his hand on my shoulder. “You need to get laid. It’s been what? Two weeks? Three? You’ll get gangrene if you don’t use it, man,” he joked and I tried to laugh. It didn’t really work.
    Garrett frowned and peered into my face. I really wasn’t in the mood for his look into your soul and talk about your problems stuff.
    “You sure you’re all right?”
    I pushed passed him and angrily threw the