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“Look, Kash,” Justin says, his face stony. “Your songs just aren’t hit material. There’s a reason we haven’t been playing your stuff at shows lately. We’re about to break into the big time and Six String Justice needs chart-toppers, not basic bull crap.”

My hands fist at my sides and I’m one breath away from clocking him. Who the hell does he think he is? “You think my stuff is basic bull crap?”

I look to Ryder, who still won’t meet my eye, and then Johnny, who casually spins the van’s key fob around his finger while he stares off into the distance.

A semi roars by, filling up the growing silence that hangs between us.

“C’mon, Kash. It’s nothing personal. It’s just…” Justin’s eyes go cold.

“Just what?” I manage as a ball of defensive anger coils in my gut.

“What do you bring to the table?”

“Excuse me?” I say, cocking my head because I’m not sure I’m hearing him correctly. My blood pounds in my veins and I’m pretty sure there’s smoke pouring out of my ears.

“We have a bass player. And a drummer,” he says, his voice dry and dismissive. “And I’m the lead singer and lead guitarist.”

“Since when?” It’s like I’ve been sucker punched in the gut.

“Since we signed with the label.” Justin’s so distant. So mercenary. So different from the kid I grew up with who used to TP our principal’s house on Halloween and eat sour gummy worms after band practice until he puked.

“And you’re cool with this? Letting Justin call all the shots?” I ask Johnny and Ryder.

Neither of them look my way. Traitors.

Even though most of our set lists have featured Justin’s songs, I never considered that it was intentional. A lot of the songs I sing have more of a classic country-rock bent, and we’ve been playing stages in areas with a larger Nashville country fan base.

Or at least, that’s what I thought.

But now it’s got me thinking…

Of all the selfies Justin’s posted on our social media lately.

Of all the solo calls he’s taken with our label.

Of how I’ve been along for the ride but haven’t really felt like a part of the band for a while.

It hits me suddenly. “Are you muscling me out?”

At least Ryder has the decency to look ashamed. Justin and Johnny, who’ve always been thick as thieves, are cold as ice.

Justin sighs, like I just told him it’s his turn to take out the trash. “I’d planned to wait until we got back to Nashville to change the lineup,” he says. “But if you aren’t happy, no use in prolonging it, right?”

Looks like the trash is me. Damn.

“You can’t be serious.”

Justin doesn’t blink. “Grab your gear.”

He’s serious.

“C’mon, guys,” I say. “You can’t just leave me here.”

“Could we at least drop him at a bus stop?” Ryder asks.

Justin and Johnny share a look.

“It’s not really on the way,” Johnny says, as if he knows this area by heart.