Synister: The Push Series - Book 1 (3 page)

After meeting up with the rest of the band and Scottie, I began to again feel the blood forcing through my veins. My heart was pumping in my chest so hard I could hear its cadence between my ears. Scottie reached out and put his arm around me and nodded. A silent gesture to make sure everything was in check. I wasn’t upset Scottie was questioning my sanity—hell, everyone had their entire lives and careers resting on this tipping point. I would not be the one to bring us down. So, like always, I pushed my shit to the back, buried it deep in the recesses of my mind, and cried inside like a winner. Very few people knew the demons I carried on my back. I was determined to keep the circle as small as possible. Scottie’s embrace was innocent, but in a way he was questioning my state of mind, making sure I was ready to go. Even though he was my baby brother, he was solid. Apparently, all that therapy shit he went through helped. I didn’t need that bullshit. I had zero time and patience for some tight assed prick of a shrink telling me to “embrace my past and let it go.”
Fuck that.

As the music stopped and the crowd began to chant our name, the energy was off the charts. Hendrix, lead guitarist for Push and Captain Zen, started bouncing up and down like a pogo stick.
What a crazy motherfucker he is.
Hendrix St. James was the most positive dude I had ever met, and he had energy for days. I had no idea how he was not eternally tired because he bounced constantly, never sat down for more than a minute. He was the energizer bunny of dudes.

Hendrix was also the first gay man I had ever met. I don’t mean gay in the overly flamboyant way, but open about his preferences and what made him tick. He was both confident and cocky, but genuine in a way that most people never pulled off. His personality lit up the room, and he was not afraid to let his freak flag fly. He was like a glow bracelet on steroids, always happy, never in a funk, and, dammit, that dude knew how to party. He was the polar opposite of my brooding ass and one of my best friends. I didn’t know how, but we just worked from day one. I met him as I was getting some new ink. Hawke, my resident tattoo guru, was finishing up my tat when this huge dude, aka Hendrix, flopped down in the chair beside me and removed his shirt. Now, I am not one to shrink in the presence of another man, but this guy was fucking ripped. I was sure his biceps had biceps. We started talking about tats and music… Well, the rest is history. It’s crazy how people come into your life, at the exact moment you needed them and just clicked. We were brothers by choice, not by blood, but there was no difference as far as I saw it.

Turning around on my heels, I noticed Scottie and Zeke exchanging fist bumps, a tradition they started to get each other jacked up. Zeke Trettin was, well, a weird dude in a cool way. He had been my friend since elementary school when he saved my ass from getting beat the fuck up after I ran my mouth to the wrong crowd. Zeke was a man of few words, and even after all these years, there was still so much that I didn’t know about him. He just never talked about shit unless it was necessary. I guess to him the backstory and details were unnecessary. I knew one thing, that motherfucker had my back no matter what. To me, that was all that mattered.

The new guy, Oscar Mathus, looked scared shitless. Had I not just tossed all my cookies, I, too, might have been inclined to feel sick. Closing my eyes and tipping my head back, I saw her face, and everything started to come together. Brooklyn was my focus, my sun in a life of utter darkness. I started banging and smacking my drumsticks off any surface I could find. At one point, it became the back of Hendrix’s head, to which he called me a “motherfucker,”
smiled, and turned back in the direction of the stage.

When I heard the promoter say our name, the crowd went supersonic loud. Push suddenly became eight hundred syllables long. Everyone was vivid and earth-shattering loud.

We had made it.

No one, not even my past could take this away from us. As the word
Push
ricocheted within the arena, it was like being shot out of a cannon, and I loved every minute of it. Scottie was so amped he was jumping up and down, and when he looked at me, the world stopped. Everything went silent. I watched the other band members head through the curtains, and then it was just Scottie and I. Alone. I was so close to losing it I could feel the lump in my throat tightening. I couldn't breathe. I watched Scottie walk toward me, and instinctively, I pulled my arms to my chest to protect myself. I knew he was not going to hurt me, but when you had the demons in your head that I did, you were always on guard.

Laying his hands on my shoulders, he leaned and placed his forehead on mine. When he closed his eyes, I watched a single tear leave the corner of his eye, and for a minute, I was jealous. Jealous of his ability to feel, to give in to the moment and live. I felt nothing. I was amped because we had made it, but I wasn't about to profess my love. That was too real. That was not me.

“We did it, dude. You fucking did it.” I knew he was screaming because the noise was off the charts, but it sounded like a whisper.

I just shook my head. As much as I knew he was looking at me to validate his feelings to show him that I felt the same, I just couldn’t. It seemed so simple—the words I needed to say. I just didn’t know what they were. Plus, I didn’t want to let him down by saying the wrong thing.

“Synister, I owe you my life. All of this, brother...all of this is for you.” With a slap to the shoulder, he turned toward the stage and was gone. When I heard his voice over the mic, it was time to get on with it. As I moved toward the stage, my feet felt like they were tied with bricks. Something was holding me back. Fuck this. I took a deep breath, punched my hand to my chest, and let out a scream to wake the dead. I was Synister Fucking Smith. Time to show the world what I was made of.

Synister
- We Had Fucking Made It, So Why Do I Feel Like Shit?

Everything about the show had gone off without a hitch, and when the final lights went down and everyone started exiting the arena, I stood off stage and took in the aftereffects of the show. There were water bottles and various bras strewn across the stage. Scottie’s mic stand was now lying on the stage, and there were guitar picks and the remnants of mid-show shot glasses perched on Oscar’s keyboard. Still holding my drumsticks, I was on a high that no drug I had ever gotten my hands on had provided me. While I watched the last of the attendees filter through the doors, the post-show clean up had begun.

With my arms folded, I felt a tap on my right shoulder and almost jumped out of my skin. Hearing laughter behind me, I planned to give Brooklyn what she deserved for scaring the shit out of me. With my back still toward her, and my face fixated on what little remained of the Push show, I was relaxed and sated.

“You know, Brooklyn, I’m going to spank your ass for sneaking up on me. If you run from me, it will only be worse.” Turning around, I saw Brooklyn’s face plastered with a wicked grin, and standing beside her was Royce.
Fucking perfect. I just threatened to spank his wife’s ass. Genius, Syn.
“Oh, hey, Rice. I didn’t know you were at the show tonight.”

He reached out his perfect I-have-never-seen-a-hard-day’s-work-in-my-life hand to me, and I could see that he was still playing the
spanking
comment over and over in his head. “It’s Royce. Brooklyn and I were just headed to Cabo, and she refused to board the jet until she saw your show tonight. It was...interesting.”

Placing my drumsticks together in my left hand, I wiped my sweaty hand on my jeans and proceeded to partake in shaking the hand of Royce Stanton aka Brooklyn’s husband of the last four months. Longest months of my life, but she seemed happy, so I bit back my distaste for the smug bastard, slapped a silly smile on my face, and continued with the charade.

“Royce, fucking great to see ya. You guys coming to the meet-and-greet?”



“Yeah, definitely. I would never—”

“Babe, are you forgetting the jet is on standby?” Royce cut off Brooklyn. “So sorry, Syn. Maybe next time.”

Brooklyn let out a huff, and I watched her body deflate and her shoulders slump forward.
What a fucking prick.
As she walked toward me, I encased her in a huge hug and whispered to her, “No worries, baby girl. You need to get going and have fun on the beach. Don’t worry about me. We’re solid. You know you’re my girl.” She pulled back and shot me a half-assed grin. Royce took her hand in his, and they were gone. As the images of Brooklyn and Royce disappeared into the black, a familiar mug appeared. Scottie.

“What’s up, dick? You pulling out of the meet-and-greet? They are about to let people in, dude. And where the fuck is Brooklyn going?” Scottie Chevelle, my baby brother and lead singer of Push, was standing in front of me looking every bit the rock star. Goddamn, I was so proud of him.

“Brooklyn had to go. She and Royce needed to catch a plane to somewhere fancy. God, man, that guy is such a... I don’t know. He is just a total...” I couldn’t even form a word that was strong enough to express how I felt about Royce.

“Dude, he is definitely not like us, but she seems happy, Syn, so you need to focus on that, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now, Synister Smith, there is an entire room of hot-as-hell girls wearing barely anything who are more than willing to make you forget about everything. Let’s say we get this after-party started.”

I reached forward and slap him on the shoulder. “Fucking right. Let’s rock this shit.”

The meet-and-greet/after-party/ending-up-at-some-bar-till-two-a.m. was definitely insane. About halfway through the I-have-no-idea-what-round-of-beers, I noticed this one chick kept staring at me. She couldn't have been taller than five-two, but the killer fuck-me pumps she was wearing made her legs look like they went on for days. The fishnets and schoolgirl skirt and black tank top only added to the effect the outfit was having on me.

Getting up from the barstool I had been occupying, I made my way to find Tony. Tony, or Big T, was my bodyguard. The guy was a fucking brick statue. He was six foot five of ink and iron. He was the only person I ever met to give Hendrix a run for his money in the gym. Tony was Mr. Clean meets the Terminator. Big T looked every bit the hard ass bodyguard I needed him to be, but the dude was a softy when it came to the guys and me. He was the closest thing to a father I ever had. Big T had been with Push since our shit hole club days, and I feared the day he was not watching my back. Scanning the room, I noticed him standing by the door, most likely having just come back inside from a smoke break. Perfect.

“Big T, I need a fav, dude.”

“Oh, shit. This can only mean one thing. Where is she, and what does she look like?”

“Big T, Really? Come on. What if I was all innocent like I need a candy bar and a hug? What the fuck ever, man. I see how it is.” Putting up my dukes, I started jumping around in front of Big T like I was in the ring with Ali.

“Synister, you know I could knock your smug ass out without even trying, right?”

“True. All right, here’s the deal. See that blonde over there with the tight as hell body, fishnets, and FMPs that are just dying to be wrapped around this luscious bod of mine?” With a look of
you are ridiculous
,
Big T leaned around my body and scanned the room. I could tell when he spotted her because his lips curled up at the edges.

“You mean the one that Scottie is moving in on like a hawk?”

I threw my head around, pissed.
Damn him.
When I noticed Scottie was still talking with Hendrix and the bartender, I turned back around to Big T who was now doubled over in a fit of laughter.

“Not funny, dude. Totally not fucking funny.”

“Oh, really? Because from where I’m standing, it’s fucking hilarious.”

“Tony, be serious. I need you to get that girl to my room, and now.”

“You got it, boss.”

Tony patted me on the shoulder and made his way through the crowd toward my target. She looked exactly like my type of poison. Slipping out the entrance unnoticed, I made my way to my hotel room. Apparently, she was as eager as I was because I barely had the lights dimmed, my shirt off, and my jams rocking before I heard a tap at the door. When I pulled open the door, my distraction for the night had arrived, and fuck, she looked like fun.

“Hey, you wanna come in for a drink?”

She didn't respond, but when she ran her hand down my bare chest, stopping at the top of my jeans to dip her finger between the denim and my skin, I knew I had read her right.

I had only one rule when it came to girls: Keep ’em coming. Both literally and figuratively, of course. This particular concoction of female standing in front of me was about as opposite of Brooklyn that I could find, which made her even that much more attractive.

Reaching for her hand, I walked her over to the bar when she spoke. Her voice was a combination of sweet and innocent with a layer of
stop wasting my time
on top.

“Synister, right? That is your name? You don't have to pretend we’re friends. Like this is something that is going to lend itself to more than just the time and space that we occupy tonight and for however long you can last. I know exactly why you asked for me to come up here.”