Synister: The Push Series - Book 1 (13 page)

Synister
- How Many Times Can One’s Life End?

The concert was off the hook insane. The crowd was amazing, and although we still had ten shows left before the run was over, there was an odd sense of finality to the night. It was something I couldn’t shake, even when the lights had come up and our equipment was being loaded onto the tractor-trailers headed to the next town. Normally, I hung around backstage to shake hands and kiss babies as they say, but tonight I wasn't feeling that shit. Reaching the dressing room, I exchanged my white V-neck T-shirt for a Slipknot tee, pushed my fingers through my hair, placed a baseball hat on my head, and headed for the Suburban and Big T. Slipping out the back door was easy. Everyone was either in the meet-and-greet room or exiting through the main doors. Keeping my head down, I pushed past all the roadies working double time to get the equipment loaded. When I laid my hands on the metal, the creak of the doors giving way on their rusty hinges was the only indication of my locale. Placing my tired feet on the concert steps, I took the first two and then stopped. Hands at my sides, I looked up into the cloudless sky and took a deep breath. As I leaned against the hand railing, the back of my shirt was instantly cooled by the remnants of a rain shower.

My heart began to race. Time was running out for me.

Time to live my dream.

To be...me. To exist in the life that I prayed for all those nights while I hid from Vince. Praying that he would find me first and leave my brother alone. All I wanted was to be more than he thought I could be. I wanted to prove him wrong. Scottie and I had worked our asses off. Shit, there were a million new bands, artists, and acts every year, and we were at the top of the heap. All of that was over now. In the end, something out of my control determined my destiny.

I stood there, watching the trucks back up to the building. I noticed as the lights, instruments, and pyro machines were loaded and tucked away. In that moment, I was struck by the memories of our first show. It was just the five of us, a van, and an enclosed trailer. Big T was our driver, roadie, stagehand, and manager. Fuck, we had no idea what we were doing, but we knew we were playing music and getting paid, and that was all we ever wanted. What a crazy ride we were on. No one was aware, except B and me, that the ride for me was over. The car was pulling into the station, and I would not be getting on for the next trip. It would continue for the others. For me, the end was closer than I wanted to admit.

Placing my glasses on my face, I took the remaining six steps to the parking lot. I shoved my hands into my pockets, feeling the night air cut through the thin cotton of my shirt, validation that I was still moving around on this giant marble. Being on stage was a rush of adrenaline. Coming down off that high was like some junkie’s first night in rehab. As the cold took over my body, I began to shiver and was happy to see the SUV only a few steps away. Big T noticed me approaching, and as he pulled the cigarette from his mouth, the amber glow of the cancer stick looked like a firecracker in the night. Dropping the amber flash to the ground, I watched as his black boot stomped once and then twisted on the cig until its light was gone. Was that what I was? A spark, a flicker in the memories of rock and roll—only to be stomped out and forgotten?

“Syn, are you okay? You look spooked.”

“Not feeling all the PR and bullshit tonight, Big T. I need to get these hands on my girl.”

With a silent nod, he understood. Hell, if anyone understood Brooklyn and me, it was Big T. Reaching for the handle, Big T opened the door, and I slipped into the rear of the massive SUV. While sliding across the black bench seat, I placed my palms onto the cool leather. As the door closed, an odd silence engulfed me. Silence could be maddening at times like these. I brushed my hands back and forth, my fingers drawing circles, making loops and designs of nothing. Resting my head on the headrest, I heard the click of the door handle. A thud and three dings alerted me that the keys were in the ignition, and then the beast roared to life.

“Whatcha feeling tonight?”

“Don’t care, man. Your pick this time.” Big T and I played a game for control of the radio. Everyone thought because Push was hard-core rock that all we listened to was metal, and more metal. Well, they were dead wrong. I had an appreciation for all kinds of music. I loved jazz and Motown. And don't get me started on Elvis—love the dude. Totally ahead of his time, legendary, badass. Plus, the bastard could move. I was white as white, and the closest I got to dancing was doing the Carlton. “Big T, can you do me a solid and message Zeke? Tell him I had flowers sent to Bally's, and I need him to deliver them to B. He’s gonna be all pissy, but I know he bailed before I did. Tell him I owe him one.”

“On it, Syn.” He picked up his phone and banged out a text. When the light of the phone went dark, Big T’s voice again cut through the silence of the SUV. “Zeke said you owe him big time for sending him into the hen house.” He laughed and continued, “All right, Syn. I got something for you. You seem mellow, so how about a little soul? Let me know
what you think.” As Big T pulled out of the arena and onto the main strip, the soulful sounds of Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine” were exactly what I needed. I would be in B’s arms soon.

It was a dick move sending Zeke in to deliver the flowers to B, but I knew if she saw me that she would never have spent time saying goodbye to her friends. I didn't want her to end this part of her life. She loved it. Loved the spectacle, being the center of attention, and all the chick stuff that went along with it. I couldn’t say that I minded. Hell, some men were insecure about having their girl on stage, barely dressed and shaking her ass. For me, it was a major turn-on. Every time I saw her in those outfits, instant hard-on. She was beautiful, and she was mine. Goddamn, that felt good to say.

When Big T pulled up in front of Bally’s, I knew the show was over as people were pouring out of the front doors primed and ready to give all their money away at the casinos. What a fucking waste of a habit. You might as well just burn your damn money. Once the SUV came to rest at the curb, I jumped out. I wanted to be the first person B saw. Parked at the end of the alley, I knew B would want to avoid the crowd and would take the back exit from the club. Placing my hands inside my pockets, I was almost immediately knocked forward.
What the fuck!

“Sorry, man. My bad,” my assailant spoke as he put his hands in the air.

“Watch where you’re going dude. Jesus.” What the fuck was wrong with people? I swear to God, they were getting ruder by the day. Just because I had tats didn’t mean you could treat me like a piece of garbage.
Asshole
.

The guy dressed in a black hoodie and ripped jeans turned and headed back in the direction that he came from. What the hell was with that guy? He looked sketchy as hell. Shaking the image of the jerk from my head, I began searching the streets for B. My nerves were shot. Tonight’s show had been difficult without her there. I knew the inevitable was on the horizon. She and I were going to need to have a heart-to-heart discussion on next steps.

I got lost in my mind and the hustle of people moving around me that I didn’t notice the rear window on the SUV going down.

“Synister, you have a call, man!” Big T shouted.

Ducking my head inside the window, I asked, “Who is it?”

“Scottie,” Big T announced. “You wanna hop in and take the call? I can duck out for a smoke. Give you some privacy.”

“Nah, man, put that fucker on speaker.” Jumping back into the SUV, I figured I could chill in here and get this conversation out of the way with Scottie. I was not looking forward to it. I knew he was going to give me shit about tonight and bailing before the aftershow. People came to see and meet Scottie and me, so he was going to be extra pissy due to my disappearing act.

“Scottie, whatcha need?”

“What the hell was up with you tonight? Your shit was definitely not on point, and then the disappearing act afterward. Be straight with me, Synister. I know when something is fucking off with you, and tonight you were definitely stuck inside your mind, dude.” Scottie’s voice was equal parts pissed and concerned.

“Worry about your shit, motherfucker. You were off-key as hell.” My attempt to mask my own concern with a dig at him would most definitely not work. It was a low blow, but I did not have time for this shit tonight. Brooklyn had been keeping me on pins and needles these last two weeks, and my patience was beyond worn thin.

“Whatever, bitch. Don’t throw this at me. Hendrix and I had to pull off the entire meet-and-greet. Zeke never sticks around for that shit. Oscar was sick as hell and bailed the minute the lights went down. Gigi took him to the ER. And you fucking leave. No words. We are a team, man. You don't hang us out to dry. You can either talk to me now, or talk about it later. Don't run from me, man. We’re in this together.”

And with that, the phone went dead.
Dammit
. I was going to have to pay for that with Scottie. He knew me as well as Brooklyn did. More importantly, he knew I was keeping something from him. Scottie was not going to hover, but he would expect me to come clean with him, and soon.

“You want me to get him back on the phone?” Big T questioned.

“Nah, leave it.”

Placing my arms behind my head, I decided I needed a few more minutes in the back of the SUV to calm my temper before I got Brooklyn to myself. As I waited for Brooklyn, I couldn’t shake the conversation with Scottie from my head. I must have zoned out because when I came around, the rear door of the SUV was wide open and Big T was shaking my shoulder as people took off running down the alley. The rush of people was disorienting, and they were all headed to the end of the alley where a crowd had formed. Great. Brooklyn was about to come out that door, and some random junkie had probably overdosed in the alley. As the crowd grew, I watched the door, expecting her to pop out any minute. I must have gotten caught up in the moment because I began walking with the flow of people and then felt strong hands grip my shoulders.

“Syn, we need to get you back to the car. This crowd is too big, man. This could turn into a shit show really fast for you.”

Big T and I turned away from the crowd and headed back to the SUV. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I found B’s name in my favorites and hit
Send
.

One.

Two.

Three.

The rings kept coming. Voicemail, no Brooklyn.
Dammit, where is she
?

Just as Big T and I were making our way to the SUV, an ambulance pulled up. As the lights broke through the darkness, the sounds of the sirens pulsed in my ears. Watching the emergency play out in front of my eyes, I was starkly aware that B had not yet appeared. Surely everyone in the club would have been told of the situation.

I felt the acid in my stomach rise with every step on the concrete. The ambulance’s rear doors opened, and the gurney was removed within an instant. The precision in which the emergency personnel moved was that of a surgeon’s. It brought me back to the moment when Scottie was taken to the hospital for one of his “accidents”. The rush of activity at the hospital. The nurses and doctors attending to him. The memories replayed in my mind and my heart. That trip to the hospital for Scottie was the day I vowed that Vince would never hurt him again. He was so tiny and fragile, and I would never allow anyone to harm him again.

Still no signs of Brooklyn. I started rubbing my hands together. Clue number one that the rock star façade was breaking apart at the seams. I loved the intensity of the crowd at our shows, but to be thrown headfirst into a situation I could not control—no fucking thank you. Had it not been for Brooklyn, I would have had Big T get me the hell away from that pending shit show ASAP. This was a nightmare. Bringing my hand up to the passenger window, I motioned for Big T.

Watching the window go down, I shouted over the sirens, “Has she called your phone? I can’t seem to get her crazy ass on the phone.” My voice was tense and worried as fuck.

“No, man. I got nothing. You want me to see if I can head inside the club? Maybe they’re keeping everyone in until the meat wagon pulls out.”

“Nah, let me call her again.” Turning the phone over in my hand, I pressed the buttons, and with every ring I kept hoping to hear her voice. Nothing. I shook my head from side to side, reminding myself that I could not control every situation. Like a punch to the throat, the images and words of Vince started ricocheting in my head. When I got Brooklyn’s voicemail again, immediately my brain went from concerned to angry. If she was dodging my calls to bullshit with those girls…
What the fuck
. I was dying out here not knowing she was okay. That was it. I was going to call her over and over again until she picked up her phone. I didn’t care if she was mad about it, or if I interrupted some important conversation about fucking shoes or hair. She was going to answer me. Moving the phone within my hands that were now as clammy as a virgin’s on prom night, I pressed her number again, pulled the phone to my ear, and waited.