Seductive Chaos Page 6

  And I was still trying to prove him wrong.

  And maybe this time, I would.

  So after I left school I had rented a crappy studio apartment and had gotten a shit job at the local poultry plant. And Garrett and Mitch had started a band.

  Garrett had met Jordan, who was going to Rinard College and was working at Barton’s. Jordan played drums and soon their laughable pastime became a legitimate thing. They had asked another friend of ours from high school, Fred Rhodes, to sing for them.

  They sucked. Mitch could barely play bass and while Garrett and Jordan had talent, Fred sounded like a tortured cat when he sang into a mic. They were booed off every stage that would have them.

  Until I came along.

  I’m not saying that to be a jackass. It’s just the honest to god truth.

  Because I could sing. I always could. When I was little, my mom would dress me up for church where I had to suffer through hours of god shit just so I could belt out the hymns. The old ladies loved me.

  As I grew older, my musical ability wasn’t something I broadcasted around. I was a jock, plain and simple. I didn’t have the time or inclination to jam or whatever the hell you call it.

  But when Garrett had finally wised up and kicked Freddo out of the band, he approached me. We had gone out one night and gotten plastered. Mitch spent most of the evening worshipping the porcelain god. And I, in a moment of weakness, agreed to front their sad, pathetic band. Who knew that it would one day be the best decision I had ever made.

  We were called the Headless Chickens at first. In homage to my dismal day job. I had a morbid sense of humor.

  But the name didn’t quite roll off the tongue and it looked crappy on T-Shirts. We weren’t feeling particularly optimistic about our future as a band when the name Generation Rejects had been born. Because that’s what we had felt we were.

  A bunch of rejects.

  Things had been pretty bleak in the early days.

  Jordan and I had clashed almost immediately. I hated the college kids who came into Barton’s. Townies and Rinard students fought on a regular basis. And Jordan was just another obnoxious frat guy with his pretty boy looks and talent that came entirely too easily.

  I hated him. Like really hated him. The chicks loved him and I hated him even more. I had always been the big fish in the little pond until Jordan fucking Levitt came into the picture. And the feelings were definitely mutual.

  Yeah, so I had gotten to second base with this bitch he had been dating for a few months at the time. She was some sorority chick named Olivia who had an attitude. She had always looked down her nose at the rest of us.

  But it had been easy enough to get my hand up her shirt and my tongue down her throat. That hadn’t gone over too well with Levitt. And maybe I felt crappy afterwards. And maybe I didn’t really fight back when he punched me in the face and broke my nose.

  And just maybe I had taken things a step too far. But that didn’t mean that Jordan wasn’t a dick. Because he was. But over the years my animosity had cooled some and Jordan and I now almost tolerated each other.

  We’d never be friends the way I was with the other guys, but he wasn’t all that bad.

  And the dude could really play. And even if I didn’t like him all the time, I had mad respect for his talent and his contribution to the band.

  Because Generation Rejects and the guys in it were my life. They were my family. And when push came to shove, despite our differences, despite any history of bad blood, I knew those fuckers had my back.

  And I didn’t have anyone else in my life I could say that about.

  Certainly not my family.

  Just my band.

  But maybe there was someone else.

  Even if she wasn’t currently returning my calls.

  I walked out to the small kitchen on the bus and turned on the coffee maker. It was ridiculously early. Way earlier than I was normally awake for. Usually I didn’t bother putting my feet on the ground until the afternoon.

  But my silent phone had kept me awake.

  And then there was the day ahead of us. It was going to be a big one.

  We had our first radio interview at a midsized station in St. Louis, where we would be playing tonight. Then later we had some principal photography that the label had set up for our upcoming album release.

  Current Static was set to go live in a couple of weeks. Now that our tour with Primal Terror was doing so well, Pirate Records told us that they were planning on pumping more and more money into our release.

  We were all pretty excited about it. But for me this was my chance to prove that I wasn’t a waste of space. That I could do something with my life without going into the military or going to college.

  That I hadn’t made a huge mistake by walking out of my parents’ house all those years ago. That I was going to make it with or without their support.

  It was kind of pathetic that here I was, a twenty-four year old man and still hung up on his mommy and daddy issues. It was so cliché.

  “Pour me a cup, will ya?” I looked over my shoulder to find Jose Suarez, our new manager, sitting down at the table and pulling out his laptop.

  “Sure, man. Cream or sugar?” I asked.

  “Black,” he said shortly.

  Of course. That didn’t surprise me. Jose Suarez wasn’t the type to mess up perfectly good coffee with bullshit.

  We had been on the road for a little over four months, sleeping out of Garrett’s van or in crappy Motel 6s when Jose approached us after a show.

  We had been playing steady gigs with the help of Dougie, Mitch’s club promoter cousin.

  At first, the whole thing had been embarrassing. Hardly anyone showed up and we were playing to crowds of twenty to thirty people. We were living off fifty bucks a show and were close to calling it a day and heading home.

  But then, something changed. I still don’t know exactly know what did it. What that magic moment was when we went from being third-rate garage band to up and coming stars.

  Suddenly people were talking about us. And people started showing up to watch us play. What had begun as a pipe dream slowly became a reality.

  And when Dougie hooked us up with a marketing manager with a rising indie rock label, Pirate Records, we jumped at the chance to record a single to sling out to radio stations.

  And then Jose Suarez had entered the picture. He had heard about us and decided to check us out. He had liked what he had seen. He wanted to manage us. He was positive he could take us to the next level. He had been working in the industry for over fifteen years. He had connections. He had experience. He was exactly what Generation Rejects needed.

  Jordan was adamantly against it. He hadn’t wanted to screw over his girlfriend. That had pissed me off. And that had led to one of our worst fights. When all was said in done, we had forty stitches between us and had signed Jose as our manager.

  Maysie had been fine with it after I had gotten tired of Jordan’s shit and gone behind his back to talk to her about it. She had understood that working with Jose was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She hadn’t been as blind and emotional about it as her pussy-whipped boyfriend.

  But I still got the feeling that Jordan resented me for strong-arming the decision. Whatever. The one thing you could never accuse me of is not having the best interests of the band at heart.

  I wanted us to rock the world. I wanted us to be a success. I wasn’t going to let Jordan and his pink, fluffy relationship get in the way of that.

  And once we had signed on with Jose, things took off pretty quickly. Using his connections he got us bigger and better venues. He got our single, Perfect Regret, airplay on a bunch of college radio stations.

  Slowly and surely, we were building a fan base that consisted of more than just the drunks that hung out at Barton’s Bar and Grill on a Saturday night.

  And then he had gotten us the prime gig as the opening act on Primal Terror’s first nationwide tour.

  Now here
we were, six months later, getting ready to release our first album, playing to sold out venues and preparing for our first radio interview.

  Shit couldn’t get any better than that.

  I wanted to fist pump the air like a Rocky. I wanted to click my heels Fred Astaire style.

  Life was good.

  And it would be just about perfect if my stupid phone would just freaking ring.

  “Here ya go,” I said, sliding the mug to Jose and sitting down across from him. He barely looked up but he nodded his thanks.

  I had learned that Jose wasn’t one for niceties or manners. It was one of the things I appreciated about him.

  “The interview has been rescheduled for two so you aren’t so crunched for time. You have to be back for sound check at four,” Jose explained in his cut the BS delivery.

  “Yeah, okay,” I responded.

  Jose looked over the rims of his dark framed glasses and seemed to be studying me. I hated when he did that. It was as though he were trying to steal my soul or something.

  Jose wasn’t your stereotypical manager. He didn’t subscribe to the school of khakis and pressed shirts. Jose Suarez was covered, head to toe, in crazy looking tats. His face was full of piercings. It must be a pain in the ass for him to go through a metal detector.

  He looked more the part of rock star than most of the actual rock stars I had seen.

  He was one badass motherfucker.

  It was rumored he had been a gang banger when he was younger and it was on the streets that he gotten to know some dudes who went on to become some of the biggest musicians out there right now.

  It was through those connections that he built his business and he had established himself as a reputable manager. He had personally catapulted at least two other bands into the stratosphere. Blind Susan and Catch ‘Em Cal were two of the biggest rock acts on the scene. The latter of which had just gone on to win the Grammy for Best New Artist.

  He was rumored to have the magic touch. He understood the industry and knew how to turn shit into gold. And he was committed to doing the same for Generation Rejects.

  The whole thing was still so unbelievable.

  “You nervous?” Jose asked arching what should have been eyebrow if he had any. I had seen him shave them off meticulously every other day. It was fucking weird.

  I scoffed at his question. “Hell no,” I snorted.

  Jose stared at me again.

  “Good. That’s the attitude I like to see,” he said shortly.

  I picked at the black nail polish on my pinkie finger. Vivian had thought it would be cute. And she had been naked with her tits in my face so I had let her paint my nails. Now I could admit it looked ridiculous.

  What can I say; I was weak when it came to Vivian’s boobs.

  And the rest of her.

  “So what sort of questions will there be?” I asked, flicking the black flakes onto the floor.

  Jose shrugged. “The standard stuff I’m sure. How do you write your music? Stuff about your upcoming album. What are some crazy stories from the road? But fair warning, you’re being interviewed by some female DJ who originally only wanted you there. So don’t be surprised if she asks you if you have a girlfriend or some trite shit.”

  That shocked me.

  “She only wanted me there?” I asked incredulously, feeling extremely flattered by that. Not that I would have ever done an interview without the other guys, but my ego needed the little boost. Particularly since the fact that Vivian still hadn’t returned my text was making it all to obvious she was ignoring me.

  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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucking 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 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 curtain back on my bunk, climbing in.

  “I’m fucking fine,” I said harshly, shutting out Garrett and my guilt.

  “Finally,” I said with a relieved chuckle when Vivian answered the phone.