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 assholes to tell me what they thought I should change.
Fuck them!
“Yeah, well, I can’t.”
I could hear Garrett grinding his teeth. It was loud and it was annoying.
“What the fuck are you talking about? We need to talk. I know you’re pissed. We are too. But I think-”
I cut him off, not interested in whatever psychobabble, hippie love shit was about to come spewing out of his mouth.