Synister: The Push Series - Book 1 (2 page)

Thump. Thump. Thump. Crash.

A smile crept across my lips as I heard him curse. For a minute, I found peace in the fact that he had fallen or tripped. Hell, I didn’t care. He had hurt himself or his pride while looking for me. As Scottie and I remained still as the sky after a thunderstorm, I could see the light beginning to fade on the floor of my room. The sooner it got dark, the quicker he would call off the search party for me. It meant I would have to spend the night tucked under my bed, but that was a fate I would gladly accept over the latter. Just as I was resigning myself to the fact that I had outsmarted Vince, I heard the creak of my bedroom door.

“Okay, you little fucker. Now I have you cornered.” Another creak and the click of a lock and I knew I was trapped. I felt Scottie begin to tremble beside me. With his blood red and bulging eyes, I swear, they looked as if they were going to fall out of his eye sockets. I shook my head frantically. If Scottie started crying, and Vince thought he had both of us cornered, the result would be catastrophic. Christ, Scottie was only seven years old. He didn't deserve this. At fifteen, I was the oldest. His protector. I had been smoking since I was twelve, and weed was not far behind. Rolling my head to the left, I saw the bottoms of Vince’s mud-stained jeans and the holes in what once were white socks, but were so dirty and stained, they were now the color of muddy water. He must have made the route back and forth a hundred times before he came to a standstill at the foot of the bed. I shot one last look at Scottie to convince him we would be okay.

Mistake.

I took my concentration off tracking his movements. As I felt his clammy hands clench around my ankles, my stomach was on fire and tossing my dinner at Mach 3. I told myself,
I won’t cry. I won’t cry,
as my back heated against the carpet. Once he had a solid grip on me, he pulled so hard and fast my face smacked off the box spring, busting my nose. I could feel the blood making a slow trickle into my mouth.
I won’t cry. I will not give that to him.
When my head finally emerged, the bedroom light was like the sun. I began to blink. The sudden change from darkness to light was disorienting.

“Ah, there you are. Thought you were safe under there? That I wasn’t smart ’nuff to find ya, huh, boy?”

As Vince crouched down over me, I instantly thought of Scottie. Vince could not find him. I was Scottie’s big brother, and I would protect him. So I provoked him. Opening my mouth and pulling my head off the floor, I spit in his face. As he pulled his arm across his face to wipe the liquid insult away, he looked at me, cocked his head to the side, and smiled. It was like watching a freight train barreling through a tunnel, and as the light got closer and closer, as the vibrations of the impending impact pulsated through my body, I was frozen. I would not back down. He had taken so much from me already—my innocence, my hope that life could offer me anything more than this hellhole. Some moments in your life stayed with you no matter how hard you tried to shake them. I had forgotten so many things, taken so many beatings, but nothing could ever dull the pain of the first time he hurt me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. I smelled him. I heard the words, tempting me to scream and threatening me to be quiet or he would find Scottie, and then I would be forced to watch. I would never allow that to happen. He would have to kill me, and hell knows he came close a couple of times. But through it all, he never took my pride.

As he leaned, I felt the weight of his body pressed into mine. He was heavy. I could smell the smoke and alcohol on his lips. The mixture of oil and sweat on his skin. The repulsive concoction of scents burned my noise. His bloodshot red eyes bore through my own, but I would not look away. He was going to have to work to break me tonight. Over and over in my head I just kept saying,
you are better than him. He is nothing.
As I watched him pull his arm back, I did not flinch. If I had shown any sign of weakness, it would have been the proverbial blood in the water for the shark.
Not this time, asshole.
As his fist collided with my jaw, I never took my eyes off him. I never wavered. I heard Scottie whimper from under the bed, but Vince was so preoccupied with me that he didn’t flinch either. Not many people could say that they had looked the devil in the eyes and lived, but I could. Guess that made me lucky, or fucking stupid.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Synister? What the fuck, man? We’re on. Come on, man. You got this!” The muffled sounds of Scottie from the other side of the door brought me back to the present. Blinking my eyes, I looked ahead at my reflection in the mirror. My face was white as a ghost. I was sweating. The dark circles under my eyes were a mixture of too much booze, not enough sleep, and eyeliner. My once hazel eyes were now red and swollen. My pupils were dilated, building out of a face that hadn’t seen a razor in weeks. Tucked inside the coarse black hairs on my face, I was beginning to see flecks of red in my beard. Running a hand through my raven black hair, I closed my eyes for the briefest moment to regain my composure. As my left arm drifted to the back of my neck, my five foot eleven frame came into focus. Squinting my eyes, I became aware of my sunken stomach and nonexistent muscles anywhere on my body. When was the last time I had a real meal? My bicep was flexed, accentuating my full sleeve tat. Drawing my eyes over my body, I couldn’t help but notice that my ribs jutted out. The all alcohol diet I had been on for more than a month was catching up with me.
Fuck it.
If it was self-destruction I was looking for, I was getting an A+ for effort.

The ink on my neck and chest seemed to jump off my body as I felt my head begin to spin. Leaning forward, I gripped my drumsticks in one hand and the sink in the other. The sticks were my lifeline; the other provided balance. Three more blinks. I still couldn’t shake the fucker from my head.
Not tonight.
Tonight was the first show where we were not opening for another act. We were the headliners. I had kept the doubt at bay for weeks, but in the hours leading up to this moment, I felt him creeping into my mind. As each minute ticked by, his footsteps, the smell of his breath, and the feel of his hands on my skin boiled to the surface until I was unable to push them away. Countless years and miles separated us, but I couldn't help but feel the hair on my neck standing on end as if the fucker was right behind me.

Pitching myself forward, I proceeded to toss breakfast, lunch, and God knows what else into the white ceramic sink. Before I could even upright myself, I felt a hand on my back. Immediately, I turned around, arm cocked back, ready to strike.

“Hey, hey! Shhh. It’s me. It’s okay.”

I lowered my hand and heard the drumsticks clink off the floor. Oh, thank fuck.

I had no idea when Scottie had enough time to go get Brooklyn, but I was never happier to see her face. She wrapped her arms around me, and I melted into her. As her warm face rested on my sweat-covered chest, she was like the sun. Bright, energetic, loud as hell, and impossible to ignore. And I loved it all. She was here, thank you to someone, somewhere for getting her to me. As I let out a sigh, I felt her finger brush over my back. She wasn't saying anything, but everything all the same. Do you know what it is like to need someone so much when they are away you can’t breathe? But you never tell them because if they knew you needed them that much it would make the pain when they left hurt that much more. That was how I felt about Brooklyn. She was beautiful, but not in the model way of looks and no depth.

Brooklyn was truly beautiful on the inside and out. She was five foot eight of pure sass and badass. Her chestnut hair was sporting new chunks of bleach blonde in the front.
Jesus, she really could pull off anything.
Most people would have looked trashy standing there in frayed jean shorts that barely covered their ass, black combat boots, a cropped Push tank, and makeup to make a Vegas showgirl jealous, but Brooklyn made it look right—the perfect mixture of cutting edge and sophistication. Did I mention that she had the most amazing smile? I swear, she made me melt and want to lick every inch of her flesh when she flashed those pearly whites. And, Jesus, don’t get me started on her skin. It was always the warmest shade of honey no matter the season. She would kick my ass if she knew how many times I had fantasized about her warm skin naked next to mine. I was white boy paste twelve months of the year, so her skin looked like it would warm me to the core. So, yeah, I wanted to touch it all the time. She was a firecracker with the curves of a rockabilly pinup, the likes of Marilyn Monroe with a dash of Kat Von D for good measure.

Brooklyn was
not
shy about her figure, but she didn’t flaunt it. She had class, but the girl knew how to work that ass. Putting it simply...
She just got to me
, you know? Maybe it was the way she looked at me with eyes so clear like a blue marble with the faintest swirls of gray. Like she could hear my deepest secrets and would ease them in the simplest way. I had imagined, on more than one occasion, what those eyes would look like in moments of ecstasy. Would they darken with desire? Or brighten in lust? Brooklyn made me feel safe in a world of uncertainty. She was my home. The place I went to when everything went to shit. And with me, that happened a lot.

Sadly, though, I had never told her any of this. We were friends. More like brother and sister. I confided in her, and she did the same. Brooklyn was only two years away from completing her master’s degree in some shit I had no idea—something with old bones. No clue. I was not that arrogant to put my selfish desire before her. I listened when she talked. It was just that she was so far out of my league I spent most days, and nights, just trying to keep up. I was the rock star best friend with more addictions than you could shake a stick at. Well, hell, if that didn’t scream perfection, I didn't know what did.

As she whispered into my skin, her words were soft with an edge of dominance, “I told Scottie to have the opener do another song. Buys you about ten.”

Resting my head on her shoulder, I felt my entire body begin to shudder. I knew if I were capable of tears, this would have been the moment for them. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t capable of that kind of emotional connection. Those abilities were taken from me by the man who still made me doubt everything I was. Everything I had become.

Pulling my head back, I reached up and put my hands on either side of her face. She looked at me for a minute, eyebrows scrunched together. “What?”

When I didn't answer, she smiled the biggest, warmest, make-my-dick-hard-in-an-instant smile that I had ever seen. Removing my hands from her face, I turned and grabbed my black T-shirt off the chair. The only way to not fuck this night up any further was to break the connection with her. While turning on my heels and looking away from her, the light left my eyes, and I was dropped back into the darkness. I wanted to be in the light, but not at her expense. I would stay in the dark, alone. They knew me there. Her light was too beautiful, and I would not be responsible for seeing that leave her eyes.

Taking a look around, I noticed the disaster area, formerly the sink. Sadly, the massive shit show did not stop there. Chairs were flipped; clothes were everywhere.
Fuck.
I turned around to Brooklyn, and she gave me a silent nod. I knew not to worry. The cleaning staff would assume I was just another high-maintenance rock star strung out on booze and blow. Cover story in check.

“Synister, you solid?” Brooklyn’s voice was like a sedative, instantly calming me, focusing me.

“You know it, baby girl. Solid as a rock.” Reaching my hand down, I grabbed my crotch, and she just smiled and blew me a kiss.

We were insane together.

Too bad we weren’t together.

As I stared into her big blue eyes, a part of me wanted to confess to all the things I wanted to do to her. To be with her. I knew she would only see them as bullshit, a reaction to a memory of a life out of control. So, I kept them tucked away, pushing them further into the recesses of my heart to never be fulfilled. I had become so used to disappointment on an emotional level it seemed normal.

But who defined normal, right?

Plus, what would telling her do? Brooklyn was married. Royce was a cool enough guy, and he treated her right, even if he did have the most pretentious, upper class, white kid name I had ever heard in my life. Gag me with a pair of chinos and a Polo
sweater. Who was I to judge a person based on his or her name? My mother named me Synister for Christ’s sake—Syn for short. Can’t you just feel the love in that? I asked her once when she was stoned out of her mind why she picked that name for me. Her exact words were, “Because you ain't never brought me nothing but pain and hate. A sin is a black mark in the eyes of the Lord, and that is what you are, boy.” Well, gotta love Mom. She never met a man she didn't love, if that meant feeding her habit.

Back to reality—what did I have to offer Brooklyn? A life on the road, constant jealously, my fucked-up heart. No, she deserved more than that. I definitely was not more.

“You good? I wouldn’t want your fans to see you with a black eye and know you got your ass kicked by a chick.” With a wink, she punched me on the arm, and, fuck, if it didn't sting. “Now, get out there and show them who you are. Show the world why Synister Smith is the most badass drummer in the motherfucking universe. Go!” She leaned forward to place a chaste kiss on my cheek and turned on her black Doc Martens. I didn’t care to admit I watched every curve of her ass in those ridiculously tight Daisy Dukes as she walked away from me. And just like that, the poles had been reset. Brooklyn knew I didn’t want or need to be pacified. That would only make it worse. I needed a kick in the ass. Who better than a beautiful woman to deliver the blow? I sure as hell was not complaining.

Music had always been my religion. The one thing I turned to that no one, not even that fucker Vince, could take away from me. Feeling the bass line and the roar of the crowd as it pulsed through my veins became my focus. I drowned out all the other noise, the doubt, the fear that plagued my mind, and focused on just killing it on stage. If it weren't for my baby brother, Scottie, and music, I would have ended up a corpse years ago.