Synister: The Push Series - Book 1 (10 page)

“I hopped a flight across the country to make sure you were okay. I’ll be damned if I’m going anywhere.” I placed one hand on the right side of the doorframe and the other on my hip. I knew tonight would be one of the longest of my life. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I dialed her cell. I could hear it ringing off in the distance. There was no way in hell she was going to answer. My only goal was to wear her down.

“Jesus. Now you’re calling my phone. Stop it!” There was a loud thud behind the door; she was getting agitated. Perfect. No matter how hard she tried, there would come a point that she opened the door, because if there was one thing she loved, it was confrontation. The beautiful girl with a smile to warm my heart would argue for the sake of arguing. As much as she wanted to tune me out, eventually, I would win. I just needed to play my cards and have patience. Well, if she wasn't gonna talk, then texting would make her want to rip her eyes out. This game of cat-and-mouse was my way to get to her.

Once inside the room—if I ever fucking got in—that would be a completely different story. I could continue with this charade because I had not seen her face. When that happened, my snarky heart would instantly turn to mush. Seeing her face would validate that she was in pain.

Brooklyn, I’m here to help. Now let the Syn man in, and we can make this all better. (kiss, kiss)

I couldn't help but be proud of myself for that one. I was damn well going to pay for it, but any chance I had to get one over on her I was going to take. Especially when she was being completely irrational. When I heard the ding, I knew my latest shot across the bow had been delivered. I could hear mumbling. Placing my ear as close to the door as possible, I was like a ninja watching for signs. I was startled when she pounded her fist on the door and placed my hand over my chest because I needed a minute—some deep breathing and to visualize the ocean to calm myself down.

“What? You think I can’t see your head pressed to the door? They have peepholes, asshat. You wanting to die tonight? You keep this shit up, and it’s going to be your funeral. What makes you think I need your help?” Her words varied in intensity as she was obviously pacing back and forth in the space behind the door.

“Brooklyn Page Reigns, so help me God, if you do not open this door… You are so damn stubborn. I had to pull some major strings to get the night off, and
this
is what you want to do? Fucking fight with me from the other side of a door like a coward.”

There was a brief silence. I knew she was plotting her response. Let’s have it, Brooklyn.

“Synister Travon Smith, since we are using full names now, I’m sorry to have requested the presence of your majesty. All mighty rock star and lighter of lassies’ panties on fire. Wait, did I forget his highness and master? In case you are wondering, I’m bowing to you at this very moment.”

With my open hand, I slapped the door. My palm heated a million degrees from the impact on the metal door, but that was not what surprised me. It was the tap on my shoulder. As I swiveled my head and presented my most this-better-be-important-because-I-am-in-no-mood
glare, the short, balding man with a name tag folded his arms and prepared for battle. “Excuse me, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to keep your voice down. Several of our guests have called the front desk complaining,” he explained. I could sense the tension and nervousness in his tone. I was sure he got one look at me and thought,
Great, I have to deal with a biker asshole who is having a fight with his old lady.
I decided to cut him some slack. I knew the hotel manager was just doing his job.

Taking in a deep breath, I regained what composure I had left. Brooklyn knew how to take me to the edge of sanity. In my nicest, boy-next-door voice, I explained, “I am sorry, but my wife is drunk and has locked me out of the room. If you could let me in, I promise there will not be another peep from us.” I almost choked on the words coming out of my mouth. Jesus, what was this?
Leave it to Beaver
? Ward Cleaver I was not. What I wanted to tell him was my best friend had been holed up in that room for three days on an estrogen pity-fest, and if he did not let me in, I was going to scale the side of the building like something out of a Marvel comic book, burst through the window, and knock some sense into her.

“Absolutely, sir. I just need to see some ID.”

Okay, that was it. Sanity stick had snapped. Obliterated into a million pieces. Bring it. Nice guy done...pain in the ass Synister was in full effect.

“I don’t have an ID because my wallet is in the room. I went down to get something out of the car, and she locked the door. If you could let me in, that would be great.” T minus five seconds—if I was not in that room, the manager was getting a fist full of hate.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Ma'am, this is the hotel manager. Could you please open the door? We have a man here who says he is your husband.”

I heard the click of the door handle. When I saw her face peek around the door, part of me wanted to wrap my arms around her and never let go. Another part of me wanted to shake her senseless for going at this alone.

Brooklyn was a train wreck. Mascara and eyeliner had left track marks from her eyes to her mouth and across to her ears. Half of her lips were red but smeared like the Joker’s. Her shirt was covered in crumbs, most likely from the Oreo binge eating she always did when she was mad. I was fairly certain the collar of her shirt had doubled for a napkin and a snot rag at some point in the tantrum she was throwing. I put my hand in front of my mouth, concealing the smirk on my lips.

“Ma’am, my name is Mike. I’m the manager of the hotel. I wanted to make sure this man was in fact your husband before I let him into the room. You two have been creating quite a ruckus tonight.” Placing his hands on his hips, Mike was stating his authority and drawing a line in the sand.

I was sure Mike was a good dude. That made what Brooklyn did next a little hard to watch. As funny as it was, Mike had no idea what was about to hit him. B straightened her back and wiped her hand across her nose, and then she gave him
the look
. I was extremely familiar with this look. Mike, the poor bastard, had no clue.

“Mike, is it? This man is not my husband. He’s the drummer for the band Push. Maybe you have heard of them. They are kind of a big deal. He has also been a pain in my ass for years. I am not married to him. I’m not sure what he told you, but I’m completely sober. I am in control of myself. My only problem now is that he”—she waved her finger at me—“wants to decide my life. No thank you. One husband dumped me, and I am not looking for another one. I am not sure what he told you, but we are not married. Oh no, sir. If you want to know the whole truth, we have never even had sex. He prefers his women cheap, easy, with a side of sleaze. So if you two could take your little sausage-fest somewhere else, that would be fucking awesome. Good day, Mike.” She turned on her heels toward me. Squaring her shoulders, she pulled in a deep breath and said her piece, “You, Mr. Know-It-All, leave me the hell alone.” As she slammed the door, Mike turned to me, utterly dejected.

“Mike, I’m really sorry. She is a bit of a stubborn drunk. Please, if you could just let me in there, she needs her meds. Clearly, she’s delusional. Really, the drummer for Push? Come on, man. I am not that guy. Look at me. Do I look like a world famous rock star?” I was making shit up as fast as I could.

“This goes against my protocol, but she does appear to be out of it. Plus, I saw Push when they toured Vegas in 2011, and you look nothing like Synister Smith. Not even close.”

Okay, now I was getting pissed.
Not even close
, to use his words. Whatever, douche. Just as my temper was about to go into orbit, Mike reached for the key fob on his belt loop and scanned the door. Two beeps and I was in. Before I pushed open the door, I grabbed my backpack off the floor by my feet. Before Brooklyn could intercept me, I was inside the room, and the door was locked.
Operation Infiltrate Hostile Territory Mission One complete.

“B, what the fuck is all this? You need…” At that moment, she hurled herself onto the bed and began to sob in a way that you only saw in dramatic movies.
If her appearance was a train wreck, the room was a nuclear disaster. I waded through the clothes on the floor, through what looked like a month’s worth of takeout and Ben and Jerry’s
ice cream containers, assessing the situation as female mental breakdown DEFCON level one billion. The kick in the ass off the rational cliff was when I saw her wedding dress on the king-sized bed just past where she was lying.

“Brooklyn, look at me.” Crouching down on the floor beside her, I began to rub her back. Slow, steady movements. When she got like this, it was like sneaking up on a grizzly bear. My decisions had to be perfectly orchestrated. One quick move and I would poke the bear. That equaled sudden death. Running my hands through her hair, I watched the rise and fall of her chest. She was starting to do the thing chicks called ugly crying. The hysterical, can’t-catch-my-breath, incoherent babbling about life and how no man would ever live up to all their book boyfriends—he was so perfect, blah, blah, blah. Shit was about to get real.

“Come on, baby girl. Syn is here. Let me hold you and then you can cry until it’s better.”

She looked up at me. Her nose was beat red, her eyes blood shot and swollen from the tears. When she nodded and then moved toward me, I acted quickly. Her defenses were momentarily down, so I needed to exploit this, and now. I stood next to her as she looked straight into my eyes, and the sadness she was feeling burrowed into my heart like I had been punched in the chest. Jesus, she was in so much pain. I wanted to kill that fucker Royce. How could he do this to my girl?

“B, come here. I’ve got you now.” I sat on the floor, legs out in front of me as she crawled onto my lap. Resting her head on my chest, she cried for hours. Nothing was said. There were no words that were going to make it better. She needed to work through everything in her head. My job was to hold her until she was ready for more.

At some point within the night, I began to sing to her. Random shit. Pieces of songs, sometimes with the words, and other times just humming. Anything to keep her calm. Just before the sun rose, she fell asleep in my arms. I did not dare move her.

Lifting my right side off the floor, high enough to get my phone out of my pocket, I dialed Scottie. When he picked up, I had a very tiny window. I didn’t want to wake her, as she was finally resting.

I whispered into the phone, “Scottie, dude, it’s me. I found her in Vegas. She’s a fucking mess. I’ll message when I can. Gotta go. She is asleep on my lap. If I wake her, she will attack like a wolverine.”

“All right, man. We were all freaking out. I made arrangements for Boston. No worries. Take care of her, brother. Talk to you later,” Scottie said. Hitting
End
, I placed the phone beside my leg and made sure it was on vibrate.

Brushing the hair out of her face, I just stared at her. You know, it was weird when you looked at people all the time, but never truly saw them. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen was in my arms. She had found solace in me. In her weakest moment, I was the one to comfort her. That dickbag Royce had left her. The worst part was, when she told me her marriage was over, I was happy. It seemed selfish to find joy when she was clearly so broken.

He was never right for her. She deserved so much more. Royce was all parties and status. He carried her around like a trophy. And don't get me started on the way his family treated her. The minute I started to feel confident that she was right where she needed to be the doubt crept in. Why did I even allow myself to think, if even for a minute, that I could provide for her? Sure, I had money, cars, houses, all the material shit. There was a sense of security in getting whatever you wanted. But that was not what Brooklyn needed. She needed to be loved. Taken care of. To connect with a man on a level that I didn’t even understand, yet able to put into words. I could love her in a physical way, but was I even capable of feeling that level of connection with another person? And could I risk breaking her heart just to find out what I already knew? That I was destined to be alone. What kind of family would I have to offer her? A mother that I hadn't talked to in years who was most likely strung out in some shithole rat motel back home. A stepfather who was not only a rapist, but a wife beater among other things. And then there were Scottie and I. Fuck, I had a hard enough time being true around him. Throwing Brooklyn into that picture would have meant the only equilibrium I had even known would be broken.

I was starting to get pissed. I began to wonder how it was that I drew the short straw in life. Why did I have so much and nothing at the same time? Brooklyn had loved me through everything, yet I was not willing to cut myself open and expose all my insecurities to be with her. Why? Wasn’t she worth it? Worth the risk to reap the reward of her love? Closing my eyes, I knew that in my mind she loved me for everything I could be. For everything that I wanted to be for her. So when I opened my eyes and took in the reality of this moment, I knew that she would stay perfect in my heart. Tucked away from all the ugly that was me. In there she was safe…well, so was I. Did I even know the words needed to confess how I felt about her?
I love
you
seemed too small of a phrase. I couldn’t just pour my heart out to her. I didn’t know how. Maybe I could write her a song—put everything I wanted to say into the lyrics that came so easy to me.

Taking a deep breath, I looked up to the ceiling and started to count all the panels. One. Two. Three. Four. Five... Who the fuck cares. This was maddening. Silence was the devil’s work. I needed jams. Something to pull my mind out of the black suck hole of the silence in this room. The only noises were the occasional clamber outside the door and the ticking of my watch. Son of a bitch, this was like a sociological experiment. Shaking my head, I needed to focus on the positive. Brooklyn was free. She no longer was confided in the bubble of being a Stanton. Letting my mind wander, I couldn’t help but think how unsatisfied she must have been. That guy was so uptight his dick probably came with care instructions. I felt the laughter begin to build in my chest, so I bit my top lip between my teeth to contain the sound.