In His Sights: A Brothers Synn Novel
Page 1
IN HIS SIGHTS
A BROTHERS SYNN NOVEL
VICTORIA LIGHT
Copyright © 2019 by Victoria Light
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Introduction
1. Chris
2. Sylus
3. Chris
4. Sylus
5. Chris
6. Sylus
7. Chris
8. Sylus
9. Chris
10. Sylus
11. Chris
12. Sylus
13. Chris
14. Sylus
15. Chris
16. Sylus
Epilogue - Chris
Special Bonus Chapter
Also by Victoria Light
INTRODUCTION
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Chris
Thanks to the fight, my face is once again on every tabloid page in America. I wasn’t going to just let that guy call me gay. Now my management's forcing a 24/7 bodyguard to keep an eye on me until my new album drops. Just what I need, temptation in the form of Sylus Synn, a hard-bodied, hot-as-hell ex-Marine now living under my roof.
When I find out Sylus is gay, I feel myself slipping. I want to him to know my secret, to finally indulge in the pleasures I’ve been denying myself. But how the hell can I break through a lifetime of fear and guilt?
Sylus
Babysitting a troublemaking celebrity should be nothing compared to what I’ve done as a spec ops sniper, but Chris has a way of making everything difficult. I can’t help but feel like he enjoys getting his ass subdued by me.
My intuition tells me Chris might not be as straight as he wants everyone to believe. It ain’t my job to get Chris out of the closet. But when he comes to me with one highly unusual request, it’s damn hard to remain professional. How can I turn down an offer to teach a “straight” guy a few gay tricks?
1
CHRIS
It was tough to make rational decisions when you were that many whiskeys deep. But fuck that asshole, he deserved what was coming to him.
I stood from the VIP booth and scooped up the bottle of Jack from the table, wobbling on one foot before catching myself on the railing. The voices of my entourage sounded like they were underwater; they were calling to me, but I had no idea what they were saying. I didn't give a damn. My head was only in one place: teaching that smart-mouthed fuck a lesson.
Denny’s gonna kill me for this. Every camera in this place is gonna be on me.
Even in my drunken haze the voice in my head still reprimanded me, doing its best to keep me out of trouble. My manager would kill me for this. But at that moment, nothing could've stopped me. I strutted through the pounding Vegas nightclub, whiskey in hand. People were calling my name. I shoved past a girl holding her phone up to try and take a selfie with me, my eyes fixed on the table across the room.
"Chris! Chris Stevens! Your show kicked ass tonight!"
"He's so hot."
"He looks really wasted..."
I ignored the random voices drifting at me like specters in a fog, the faces following my every move and the hands reaching for high fives and photographs. I took a swig from the bottle and the whiskey burned in my belly, hot as my temper.
I spotted him. Ugly son-of-a-bitch. Spray-on tan, slicked back bleach-blond hair, popped collar. One of those Jersey Shore-type motherfuckers. I approached the table and stood over him. The rest of his group went silent—they all knew what I was there for.
"Hey," I said. "What did you say about me back there?"
He turned and looked up at me, smirking. "Yo, bro. Don't even trip about it."
"You said that I look like a queer. Hey." I snapped my fingers. "Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you."
His eyes narrowed. "So, what? You're a fucking celebrity, bro. I can say whatever I want. That's my opinion. It's not my fault you don't like it."
The flames roared higher. I was fucking pissed, and the crazy thing was that I doubted I could’ve exactly said why. I never could explain myself in these situations. It infuriated me if people insinuated I was gay, even as a joke.
Was it because I was scared they knew the truth? Or because I despised myself for the things I'd kept locked away inside? This wasn't my first time getting into some shit over this. It'd been happening even before I got famous, but I'd be lying if I said that the limelight hadn't made things worse. That pressure had a way of getting to you, especially when you had so much to hide.
My hand moved on its own, lifting the bottle up in the air over the guy's head, slowly tilting the neck so that the contents sloshed from one end to the other. Glug, glug, glug. He jerked in surprise as the whiskey poured through his gelled hair and splashed down his face. Someone gasped. The cell phones were coming out and I knew it, but I was too far gone.
Jersey Shore shot to his feet, his white dress-shirt soaked with the brown liquid. I tossed the bottle aside, sending it ringing across the floor. The music continued to pound, the club lights flashing across the guy's face. I wanted to hit him so badly, and I wanted him to hit me. Yeah, I'm trash. Teach me a fucking lesson. C'mon.
"What?" I shouted. "Let's go! Let's fucking go!"
WHAM. His fist connected square into my jaw and I stumbled back. Normally, I would've caught myself, but my whiskey legs meant I just kept going. I tumbled into a table, throwing glasses and a bucket of ice everywhere. My cowboy boots squeaked across the floor as I tried to get up. The world was really spinning now. He dove onto me, managing to clock me again on the side of my head. I was bleeding; the fucker was wearing a ring.
I grinned up at him. "That all you got?" I swung my knee up into his stomach, and his eyes bugged out as he wheezed like a deflating balloon. I shot to my feet and wobbled as everything around me twisted like I was on some out-of-control carnival ride, and then, BAM, was back on the ground again. I felt something painfully cold against my palm like ice, and I realized I'd fallen onto broken glass.
"C'mon, you piece of shit, let's finish—"
My words were cut off as someone hauled me to my feet by my collar and spun me around. It was club security, followed by my bodyguard, Big Mike. Mike looked at me like he'd seen a ghost. Another security guard pushed past and stopped Jersey Shore just as he tried to jump me again.
"What the fuck, Chris?" Mike said, throwing his hands into the air. Big Mike, six foot tall and three hundred pounds of pure unadulterated blubber. Great guy, but not much of a bodyguard. That was okay. I'd purposely misdirected him to the stripper poles and packed his pockets with stacks of bills so that I could get myself into some trouble.
"Sorry, buddy," I said, shrugging. "He called me gay."
The club security guard pushed me into Mike's pillowy chest, grunting, "get him the fuck out of here." I made my exit, cradling my hand as blood continued to drip down my face, and made sure to throw on a grin for the swell of paparazzi with cameras waiting outside. If I was going to spend another morning plastered across every tabloid paper in the world, I might as well have a smile on my face.
*
Denny's meaty, ring-laden fist hammered the top of his polished oak desk so hard that it made the Grammys on his shelf rattle.
"You moron, Chris. You're not invincible, you know."
It was the afternoon. I sat in my manager's office on the 30th floor overlooking downtown Los Angeles, m
y head was pounding from the whiskey and punches I'd taken last night. I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples, praying he’d take it easy with the loud noises. His voice was already enough to wake the dead.
"It's nice of you to be so concerned about my physical well-being. That guy couldn't throw a punch if his life depended on it. This is all because of his ring."
"I'm not talking about your physical well-being! I'm talking about your goddamn career! You're walking a damn fine line, Chris. It ain't gonna take much to tip you over the edge into obscurity. People love you now, but they also love to hate."
Denny tossed a stack of supermarket tabloids onto the table, and they fanned out to reveal a spread of colorful headlines in block text above a big photo of my blood-stained mug.
CHRIS BARKER STEVENS GONE BERSERK!
DRUNK CHRIS HUMILIATED AGAIN
CHRIS STEVENS THE HOMOPHOBE?
I groaned and pushed the papers away. "You shouldn’t read those. They’re bad for your health. I'm not a fucking homophobe."
Denny picked up the paper and shook it in my face. "There's videos of the incident all over the internet. It sure sounds like you've got a problem with gay people."
"I don't," I grumbled. I just wanted Denny to drop it. He knew exactly how I felt about it, because we'd gone through this situation before. But Denny didn't know the reasons behind my anger, so it was a fair assumption for him, or anyone, to make. I just couldn't take that shit, someone calling me gay. It infuriated me.
I pushed my palm over my eyes. Damn things felt like they were going to throb right out of their sockets.
"Here."
Denny held out a bottle of cold water to me. I took it and held it to my head.
"Drink it. Rehydrate, you drunk fuck.” He watched me as I opened the bottle and gulped it down. "Listen. Your next album is on the horizon. You can't have this kind of shit popping up. It'll fuck up your release! You're going to have to get it together. No more fights. No more fucking up."
I got up from the chair, pulled down one of the acoustic guitars hanging from his wall, and dropped myself onto the couch.
"Yeah, sure." I strummed out a tune. "Of course."
"That's what you said last time. So, here's what we're gonna do: I'm gonna hire you a bodyguard."
"I've already got a bodyguard," I said. "Big Mike."
"Not anymore," Denny said.
"The fuck you mean, 'not anymore?'"
"I fired Big Mike. You need a bodyguard who doesn't go off and get himself a blowjob while the guy whose body he's supposed to guarding is off getting his ass beat."
Oh, shit. Big Mike wasn't supposed to get caught in the crossfire like this, but I guess I should've known it would happen. I fucked up, big time. "Where is he?" I asked.
"Fuck if I know. Outside somewhere. He should've received the news by now."
I pulled out my cell to text Big Mike.
>ME: Don't go anywhere, man. I'll be right out.
"I'm calling in a specialist," Denny said. "Someone who will make sure you've got your shit straight, at least until the album release show. This guy is gonna stick by you morning, afternoon, and night. You go to take a piss, he'll be there. You beatin' off, he'll be there. This dude is not gonna let you out of his sight, understand?"
"You can't be serious," I growled, using my anger to cover up the fact that the idea of a man watching me while I stroked one out actually got me aroused. "So, you're hiring a babysitter. This is ridiculous, Denny. I don't need someone covering my ass, 24/7. I don't need—"
"That is exactly what you need," Denny roared, slamming his palms on the desk, "until you can prove otherwise!" He jabbed two fingers towards me. "Jesus, Chris. Get the fuck out of my sight. Go home and stay out of trouble until the new guy comes in. You're lucky you make me so much money."
I hung the guitar back on the wall. I knew when it was time to stop pushing Denny's buttons.
In the elevator, I slid on a pair of sunglasses, knowing full well that they didn't do much to conceal the bruises on my face, let alone the bandages covering my stitches. I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I walked through the lobby, but instead of the usual greetings there was silence.
Of course, everyone at Goldstate Records had already seen the video of their number one artist. It didn't bother me, not at all. Why would it? I'd gotten into that fight because I knew people would see. I wanted to be punished, to be seen for the garbage I was. Nah, I didn't hate gay people. How could I? It was me who I hated.
Big Mike sat on one of the couches in the reception area, taking up nearly the entire seat. He stood up when he saw me, holding his Dodgers baseball cap in his hands. It looked like he'd been crying.
"I'm really sorry, Chris," he said, sniffling. "I really fucked up."
"No, man. I fucked up. I caused you to lose your job. C'mon, let's go."
We walked outside. Even with the glasses on, the sunlight made my head pound.
"I had a great time being your bodyguard," he said. "You're a great guy. I guess I didn't do my job too well. I never seemed to be around when you got into fights."
I smiled apologetically. That was because I always made sure he was elsewhere when I wanted to get myself into shit. "Listen," I said. "This is my fault. I'm not gonna let you go out of work. I'll keep paying you the same amount they were giving you. You can be my... assistant, or something. Someone to do my shopping and stuff."
"You always said you never wanted to have an assistant," Mike said. "You said you never wanted to let celebrity life get in the way of--"
"Yeah, I know," I said. Poor Mike. Great guy, but not the fastest on the uptake. "I did say those things. But I changed my mind."
"You're going to pay me? That's a lot of money, Chris."
I patted Big Mike's ginormous back. My Camaro sat in the VIP spot in front of the building, and I unlocked the door with my key fob. "Not a big deal, buddy. I'm a multimillionaire rockstar, remember?" I grinned at him. It made my face hurt.
"So, who are they gonna get to be your new bodyguard?" He opened the driver door for me and leaned his arm onto the roof of the car to speak to me when I got inside.
"No idea," I said.
I didn't need a fucking watchdog. Whoever they were, I already knew we weren't going to get along.
2
SYLUS
Winchester Magnum 300, my sniper rifle of choice. Maybe overkill for the job, but an absolute comfort to have on me. Its familiar weight against my back was almost as good as the press of a man's body. Almost.
I army-crawled through the brush, careful not to make a disturbance that would give away our position. We reached the blind we'd created from camo netting and fallen branches, and set up shop.
Virgil and I had done this together so many times it was like clockwork. He was my brother, so we'd always had a natural synchronicity that most sniper teams dreamed of. I only had one good eye, the other covered by an eyepatch, but one was all I needed to peer through a scope and read my brother's expressions. And right now, I already knew that he'd sighted a target.
"Sylus," he whispered. "There he is. The tall tree with the branches that look like Bau's pubes. Three fingers to the right of it."
I snorted softly. Bautista, our older brother and my boss, had the worst habit of walking around naked. Whenever I went to the house I'd practically have to beg the guy to put on some fucking pants. I pulled my rifle from my back, lowered the bipod and uncapped the scope. "Dumbass," I whispered back. "Would you stick to the sector names?"
He grinned from behind the binoculars. "Roger that. Sector 2, bravo. Ten meters to the east. Oh. He's walkin'."
I hovered my right eye in front of the scope, slowly adjusting the pan of my rifle. "I see him," I said. "Give me a wind call."
"No cross breeze," Virgil replied. "It's calm. Push left, point-three."
I adjusted the windage dial on my scope according to his instructions, keeping the target steady in my crosshairs. I lifted the bolt on my rifle, pulle
d it back, then slid it forward. Round chambered. Safety off. The target began to trot through the forest, blocked by the criss-cross of branches. "Shit.”
"He's just looking around," Virgil said. "Stay patient.”
"Copy that," I replied, and after a short silence added, "Bau got me a client."
"No shit?"
"Yeah," I said, without taking my eye away from the scope.
"Congratulations, bro. Your first job as a civ. What's the gig?"
"No idea. Said he would brief me when we got back. Said he didn't want to wreck my concentration. I don't know what way to take that."
"High profile, maybe?"
"I dunno. Does Bau do high-profile contracts?"
"Fuck yeah, dude. All sorts of wealthy clients who need a big, strong, heavily-armed man to hold their fuckin' hand and keep them safe. It's perfect for you."
"So why don't you work for him, too?"
"Just not my thing, bro. After MARSOC I'm good on answering to other people. All I want is— Oh, hey, hey."
The target had stopped and was sniffing around at the grass. The shot was clean. "Do it, bro," Virgil whispered calmly.
The moment before taking a shot was always a strange mix of adrenaline and calm. There was the exhilaration of utilizing all the skills I'd honed over the years and bringing them together at that one precise moment, but also the meditative, mind-clearing calm that I'd trained myself to keep. My pulse hardly rose a single beat. I was as steady as a preacher. No one on Earth could break my focus.
"Sending," I said, and pulled the trigger.
My WinMag reported like a bolt from Zeus himself, discharging a burst of smoke to both sides of the barrel that kicked up a fluttering of leaves. Birds cried in surprise and scattered to the wind. The forest was silent.
In my scope I saw our target, a young mule buck, wobble and drop to the ground where it stood. I exhaled, flipped the safety and opened the chamber. The hot brass jumped out and landed onto Virgil's forearm, and he flicked it away. As the normal sounds of the forest returned, so did my usual state of mind.