Synister: The Push Series - Book 1 Page 3

  Wow...okay. That was…perfection. When I heard my phone go off, I leaned down to grab it out of my pants that were still around my ankles.

  Big T: Am I taking this one home?

  Me: Yes

  Big T: Roger

  Standing from the couch, I pulled up my pants and headed to the shower. Tomorrow was another city. Today everything was confirmed. I was prepared to let the accomplishment of watching every fucking dream you had come true. The only thing missing from this celebration was Brooklyn. Pushing the images of her aside, as hard as I tried, I still managed to feel her arms around me.

  Get a fucking grip, dude.

  Pulling my phone from my jeans, I tossed it onto the bathroom counter and turned on the water. Dropping what little remained of my clothing, I couldn't help but notice the faint red lipstick marks on my flesh. I snapped my fingers in the air. Damn, I should have gotten that one’s number. Just then my phone vibrated. I swiped my finger across the screen.

  Brooklyn: You made it, babe. I’m hiding in the bathroom of the jet. I couldn't let the night end without congratulating you. You did it, Syn... You are everyone’s rock star now...but you will always be mine.
  Now I knew that I had made it. Brooklyn’s approval was all I needed in that moment. It was all I ever needed.

  Synister - Five Years, Four Months, and a Million Seconds Later

  I knew when I sent the message I would be in the middle of a shit storm the minute Brooklyn walked through the door. It was a punishment I was willing to take. She did not respond to my text. She didn’t need to. I knew she was on her way. No matter how much shit I was in for demanding she do something, I could not handle this news myself. God, I wished she knew how much I needed her. It wasn't to say that I hadn't been given my chance to win her over when her marriage to Royce fell apart. I just had no idea where to start. I didn’t want to be the rebound guy. That never worked. I didn’t want her to think I was taking advantage of her. Fuck no. I needed her to know, if it ever came to being honest with her, that I was sincere and genuine. I would not offer her canned bullshit that any dude could pick up in a shitty card. I would only give Brooklyn my true self; I would expose all my scars to her and show her that my love ran deeper for her than the music in my veins.

  What ended up being a week-long bender in Vegas was not enough to make a relationship. That time with her had a safe place in my heart. One that I thought about on particularly shitty nights like tonight. I got to hold her in my arms, comfort her when she needed me the most. I got to repay the favor of being there for her when she most needed it as she had so many times for me. But it was not enough to sustain when reality set back in and I had to hit the road again. So Brooklyn and I were still not us, a regret I take full responsibility for. I knew I could have taken her as mine, claimed her body and heart once and for all, but not like that. Not in a time when she needed me to be strong, to lift her up. The timing wasn't right, or at least that was what I continued to tell myself. But that was three years ago, and she never really talked about it.

  Truthfully, what was there to say? It wasn’t like I put myself out there for her to decide what she wanted. No, sir. I kept that shit locked away tight, even from Brooklyn, the one person who stood the greatest chance of winning my heart. My love she already had. So, I guessed we had moved on. Sort of. Well, she appeared to have moved on. I, on the other hand, was stuck on pause, waiting for her to find me right where she left me.

  Sitting on the cold bathroom tile of whatever hotel I was in, I could feel the sweat dripping down my back. I was happy that I even knew we were in Chicago. Push was in the middle of a sixty-stop tour, and one place was bleeding into the next. My fingers were cold, and my forehead was burning up. I tried to convince myself that I was getting sick. Maybe the flu. Lies. Hopes. All bullshit. Anything to distract me from dealing with the truth. Pulling my knees up to my chest, I rested my head back against the wall and tried to just breathe. If you would have told me that this was what letting go of all my hopes and dreams looked like, there was no way I would have believed you. Actually, I would have told you first that Synister Smith didn’t get told what his outcomes were. He created them. Second, if I had to admit it, this outcome, this spiraling out of control was my worst nightmare. I was a scared little boy when all of the attitude fell away, and I hated it. Hated feeling like someone else was at the wheel. Hated knowing that I was not controlling every outcome. In the pit of my stomach, I knew I would end up surrounded by my failures. Sitting alone, surrounded by people who only wanted my fame and not me, like a junkie dying alone in an alley. This was my hell. When had I become this person? People would assume I was another washed-up rock star with too much access and not enough moral fiber to keep it together.

  Four hours. Four hours was all I needed to wait until my salvation arrived.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Synister, baby, what are you doing in there? We are getting so bored out here. Samantha brought some blow, and we want to party. Come on, baby, please...” I couldn't tell you the names of the three ladies who followed me to my penthouse. Was it three of them? I had no clue.

  Goddamn, the after-party was a complete blur. I was signing autographs and some chick asking me to sign her tits. Seriously, I thought that shit went out with the hair bands. The hotel had set up the after-after-party in the lounge. Zeke had bailed like always. Scottie sat at the bar between two barely legal blondes, doing shots of what I was sure was tequila. At one point, blonde number two mounted the bar, took off her top, and the body shots began. I tried to stay out of the hustle, but when blonde number two’s boyfriend, husband, who the fuck knows, got pissed, I became involved. Shit got broken. Cops showed up. Party over. Big T came to my rescue before the cops were done taking names, and I was out the door and in the staff elevator on the way to the penthouse. Operation Synister Extraction was a success. The last several hours were a blur, but the only thing clear to me was I needed B here with me, and now.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  “Synister, baby, don’t you wanna party?” Her voice was like nails on a chalkboard. Please go away was all that kept running through my mind. I knew bringing them up here was a bad idea. But, I hadn’t really invited them. I just didn’t tell them no when they followed me. As the female voice ended, I heard the thumps of heels on the floor, and I let out a sigh of relief. They were walking away. Thank God.

  Pulling my cell phone out of my pocket, I scrolled to Favorites and pressed the button for my bodyguard. After banging out the message, I dropped the phone beside me on the floor.

  Big T: Make them go away.

  Tonight’s show had been amazing. Chicago’s Lincoln Hall proved to be the perfect mid-tour break locale. When Scottie told me he had booked the place my initial reaction was why? It looked too stuffy for a Push show. Who are we going to draw? Suits and bitches. Two minutes into the first song, when you scream fuck for the first time, that place is going to clear out. Clearly, I was wrong. The crowd killed it, and I was reminded at least a million times during the after-party why I was not in charge of the venue, and why I should stick to what I knew best—beating the skins both on a musical and female level.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Goddammit, if it is that whiny ass female again, I am going flip my shit.

  “What!”

  “It’s just me, boss. The ladies are gone. The redhead was a feisty one, so I sent her to Hendrix’s room.” I could hear muffled laughs from the other side of the door as his footsteps walked away. Oh, that was perfect. I owed that bastard back for his little stunt in Denver when he put glue on my drum stool. First time I stood up, mid-song mind you, I nearly ripped my pants and half of my ass off. This was the perfect payback for his bitch ass.

  “Thanks, man. You rock!” I shouted, not knowing if he could hear me.

  I could just imagine Hendrix when that redhead showed up at his door looking to party. He would know exactly who sent her because only I would have the stones to send a chick to his hotel room. Oh, the disappointment on her face when she realized that Hendrix St. James batted for the other team—no, rephrase that. He owned the other team. As an evil smirk spread across my face, I couldn’t help but feel my mood lift for a moment. Folding my arms across my chest, I was still completely dressed, coat and all. What a rock star I was sitting on the floor of a bathroom, in a penthouse suite, still fully dressed at two in the morning after one of our best shows. Wow. Living the glamorous life. Not!

  I shifted from my left to my right side and realized my ass was cold and my back was aching with the pain of sitting in one place too long. Placing my boots flat onto the floor, I pushed with all my might as my legs, back, and ego seemed bruised. Standing up off the floor, I walked out into the penthouse, took off my coat, and tossed it over the arm of a chair. I needed food. Shouting into the massive suite that would be my home for the next forty-eight hours, I needed to find Tony.

  “Big T.”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  Damn, that man was always right where I needed him, when I needed him.

  “I need food, dude. You hungry?”

  “Already on it. Ordered a bunch of food when I took the young ladies to the lobby. Should be here in about twenty. That cool?”

  “Rock on.” I tapped my fist to my chest and then raised it in the air to Big T. He was completely righteous. Tony was not only my bodyguard but he was family. He kept my ass straight and out of trouble on most nights, and when I did fuck up, he was the best damage control I could ask for. I loved that man.

  Just then, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Flipping the phone over, I was hopeful that it was Brooklyn and I could find peace, but the face staring back at me was Hendrix’s. I snapped his contact picture while Hendrix was getti
ng a tat on a part of his body I never thought I would see. Let’s just say equipment below the waist was in proportion with the rest of his body. Lucky bastard. Hendrix and I decided to get some ink after a show in Boston, and my boy Hawke hooked me up on late notice. Hendrix’s pain tolerance was running out, and I took the opportunity to memorialize the moment with a photo. Needless to say, the fucker was flipping me off, and I was certain, although he denied it, there was a tear in his eye.

  Hawke was like my brother from another mother. We both had shitty pasts and even more uncertain futures. We met God knows how many years ago when I walked into his tattoo shop in Southie looking to scratch the ink itch I was having.

  Thinking back to that moment made my new reality seem a little farther away. Denial—such a beautiful and powerful tool. After clicking on the screen and opening the text from Hendrix, I threw my head back as the laughter took over.

  Hendrix: Thanks, asshat. Payback is a bigger bitch than the one I just sent packing. Karma Syn…Karma :(>

  Me: Oh, you big baby. She looked like your kinda fun. No?

  Hendrix: You’re a DICK!

  Me: If anyone would know dicks, dude, it would be you.

  Hendrix: Fuck off!

  After slipping my phone into my pocket, I decided to get some air. It was summer in Chicago, and the air was crisp like freshly washed sheets. Big T had food on order, and Brooklyn was somewhere shooting through the night air on her way to me. Soon, very soon, my night would be okay. It had to; there was no other option. As I dropped down into the chair on the balcony, I began thinking of all the ways I could tell her the news. I closed my eyes, allowing all the maybes and the what-ifs to flash through my mind. I was exhausted. Instead of figuring out how to explain this to her, I was a pussy and left the letter sticking out of my jacket, knowing she would see it. I knew it was a coward’s approach, but part of me thought if I didn't say the words out loud then it wouldn’t be real. If it was real, then my life was over, and I wasn’t ready.

  Brooklyn - Oh No, He Didn’t!

  Did you ever have one of those moments in life that you knew would be the turning point, but while it was happening, you were so pissed off and all you could see was red? Yep, that was me. Standing at the front desk of the Grand Plaza, I tried convincing the blonde bimbo that I was who I said I was, and that I did in fact have the permission—to use her words—to see him. Fuck, it was easier to get through airport security with a shoe bomb than past this woman. I began tapping my foot at an alarmingly quick rate, which was the cue that any ounce of restraint I had was gone. Leaning against the desk, and in the friendliest voice I could muster, I explained, “Listen, I understand that you are doing your job. I appreciate rules as much as the next person, but if you will look on your list, you’ll see that Brooklyn Reigns is on there. It would make this so much easier. Please and thank you.”

  When she dipped her head for the millionth time to check, I knew if she looked at me again with a sense of loss and confusion I was going to punch the bitch. That thought and envisioning her head snapping back from the impact put a smile on my face.

  I know, I know those are not the words of a lady. Well, I never said I was a lady. If you looked at my appearance and heard my internal dialogue, they would seem as different as black and white. Standing in a black A-line skirt that hit me mid-calf, sky-high peep-toe pumps, a perfectly pressed and creased light blue shirt, and black vest, I was every bit the lady that I appeared from the outside. But on the inside, well, you’d figure it out. Lucky for her and the hundred plus people in the lobby, she got it right and slid me a room key. All I could think was, Thank you, sweet baby Jesus. But now that I was past security, I had to deal with bigger issues.

  As my heels pounded the wood floor, I knew I was making a scene, and if there were two fucks to be given, neither was coming from me. Reaching out my perfectly manicured fingernail to press the elevator button, I watched as the beautiful shades of red collided with the black of the up arrow. When the arrow lit and the doors opened, it was like dropping the green flag at a NASCAR race… Start your engine, boys. I had never been a fan of confined spaces, so when I entered the elevator and saw it was already full, like fire marshal overcapacity, my heart threatened to explode within the cage that was my chest. Giving the best smile I could, I stepped to the left beside a man who looked like he could have doubled for Santa, figuring he would be harmless and my safest cellmate until I could exit this steel death trap. I took a deep breath and tried to calm my nerves. If he thinks he is going to demand I come at his beck and call, he is damn well going to pay. What does he think I am?

  Santa Claus spent the next twenty floors staring at my tits, and even when the car emptied, he never moved more than a foot from my side. Perfect, B. This should be a clue that you sucked at reading people. As if Carter… Wait. If Carter and my ex-husband Royce weren’t enough of an indication that my character compass was broken, I had no idea what was.

  When Santa finally exited on the twenty-fifth floor and the doors closed, I was alone. I stood in the middle of the elevator, stretched my arms out, let my head fall back, and released a big sigh. Space. Thank you, Lord, for some space. As the doors clanged open, breaking my peace bubble, I could feel my temperature begin to rise. This was the first clue that I was about to do something rash. Well, this is what he would get. UGH. No more than twenty feet in front of me was the door I had been summoned to. Here I was at this ridiculous hotel, in this God-forsaken cesspool of a city, in the middle of the night, and all it took were three words and I came running.

  Brooklyn. Chicago. NOW.

  Like every other time, I was there. As I walked down the hall, the smell of stale cigarettes, alcohol, and a sprinkle of sex hit my nose. Had it been anyone else who summoned me I would have blamed the fowl concoction of scents on another guest, but I knew they belonged to Synister. If I were the champion at making bad decisions, he was the master of the universe at fuck ups. At twenty-nine, I had been married and divorced. Synister never went as far as actually getting married, but if the endless line of skanks were any indication of his love life, then I looked like a saint.

  What a pair we were.

  With Synister and me, there was no dramatic life event that threw us together. No jaded lovers story—oh God, no, that was never our deal. We met freshman year in college, philosophy class. I was looking to get an A to keep my GPA up, and Synister wanted to get into the pants of the redhead who sat in front of me. So after three weeks of passing information and running interference for him, when he finally banged the chick and moved on, I thought our relationship was over.

  That would be the first time that I underestimated Synister. Sadly, not the last. He thought I was the smart girl on his bucket list of fucks to cross off, and I enjoyed the chase. Initially, part of me wanted to teach him a lesson. To not look at a woman like a piece of meat. As I got to know him, I realized his behavior was just a wall to hide his demons. Not that my life got lost in his and all that girly crap. Hell no. I had never had a problem being confident. I decided when I was little that people would never have to wonder what I wanted or thought. I would tell them. Point-blank. If they didn’t like it, then it was their cross to bear, not mine. The popular term was bitch, but I liked to see myself as a true speaker. Synister always encouraged me to speak my mind. It was part turn-on and part morbid curiosity to see how others would react. Whatever it was, we were great together.

  By the end of freshman year, we were inseparable. Most people on campus thought we were a couple, and I couldn’t say that we didn't fuel the rumors just for fun. Synister was untouchable, the drummer in a local band. But he wasn't that guy. He was genuine, sincere, with a huge heart. He was also broken and barely keeping it together. I guess you could say I was the one charged with keeping him in one piece. A job I gladly accepted because, well, I loved him. I didn’t know if I had ever said those exact words, but we both silently understood.