In His Sights: A Brothers Synn Novel

by Victoria Light

  "Nice shot, Sylus." Virgil held out his fist.

  I bumped it with my own, grinning at him. The layers of emotion that came with shooting alongside my brother could sometimes feel a little surreal. We were hunting deer today just the same as we had back when we were little, and the excitement of making the shot brought memories of childhood. But a year ago, the two of us were side by side overseas doing a much more serious job. We got excited then, too, and often had to remind ourselves not to get carried away with celebrating our successes because those were men's lives we were silencing.

  We packed up our kit and headed down to pick up the deer. He was about five years old, a great size with a gorgeous rack of antlers. Perfect—there'd be enough meat on him to feed me and my brothers for a couple weeks. Food was always the goal for our hunts. There was something gratifying about killing your own food, about knowing where it came from. Taking a creature's life was difficult business, and I felt it provided a level of respect for what I was eating. Just picking up a package of random animal parts from the supermarket didn't sit too well with me, especially after becoming a reaper for MARSOC, the Marine Corps’ special forces.

  After loading the animal into the back of my pickup, Virgil and I drove to our family ranch house that was currently occupied by Bautista and used as the base of operations for his private security firm, Synn Services. We were the brothers Synn: Sylus, Virgil and Bautista. Three gay brothers, parents dead, no children to speak of, and chronically single. Our Aunt Mercy had taken to calling it the Synn Curse. We were the last three Synn boys, and God or whoever apparently wanted to make sure it was going to stay that way.

  Virgil rolled down the window and ran his hand through his hair. "How'd the date go last night?" he asked.

  I laughed, recalling the memory of that ridiculousness. He was my brother, a fellow cursed Synn; he should've already known the answer to that question. "First off, he looked nothing like his photo," I said. "Which was alright, I could overlook it. He was cute. But then it turns out the guy is a complete fuckin' tag chaser. He goes on and starts talking about all the ex-military dudes he's dated."

  Virgil tossed his head back and laughed. "Oh, bro. That's fuckin' rough."

  "I know. You'd think it would be easy to meet guys with Grindr and shit, but I've had zero luck. I'm just about to give up. Every man out there is fucked up worse than I am."

  "Best not to even think about it," Virgil said, staring out the window.

  I was trying not to, but the fact was that no amount of casual sex, no matter how good, could make up for the massive void I felt in my heart. One thing I’d learned from my time in the military was that every man, no matter how tough they seemed, no matter what walls they'd put up, wanted to love and be loved in return. To not have that could only make the walls taller, the void bigger, the shell thicker.

  It'd been ages since I'd had a steady boyfriend, not since I'd first joined up, and he'd cheated on me when I was on deployment. The Synn Curse was strong. But also, I wasn't about to waste my time on any old motherfucker with a dick, no matter how hot they were. If I had to die alone, so be it. I had my brothers. It'd be great, we could all die alone, together.

  The Synn ranch, or as Mom and Dad used to call it, the House of Synn, was an old three-bedroom home built in the '40s sitting on ten acres of land about an hour north of Los Angeles. The place had been through several upgrades over the decades, most of which happened after Bau took it over when our parents passed. He built a large garage addition for Synn Services Ops, and even a guest house for those long nights when the team needed to crash. Of course, Virgil and I found ourselves staying over at the house pretty often, even though we had our own places. It was comfortable there.

  Bau was out in front working on his project car when we pulled up to the house. He looked up from the engine and waved an oil-stained hand at us. At thirty-five years old, he had four years on Virgil and five on me. The man was not only the oldest, but the biggest, strongest, and probably the softest of the three of us. The dude had biceps that could choke out a horse, but he could be as sweet as a teddy bear.

  "That's a nice one," he said, wiping his hands on a rag as Virgil and I hauled the deer out from the back. "Beauty."

  "I'll take care of dressing it," Virgil said. "You guys go and take care of your work."

  "Thanks, Virgil," I said.

  "I hope I'm gonna be seeing some venison steaks for dinner tonight, Virg," Bau said, pointing at him.

  "Yeah? You cooking?" Virgil called back as he hefted the buck over his shoulder, fireman style.

  "I can."

  Virgil hooted. "That's a fucking promise, Bau! I'm gonna hold you to that!"

  I followed Bau into the garage office. It was a two-story structure, with a loft upstairs, a kitchen downstairs and a big open space with sealed concrete floors that housed a fleet of three ATVs, two Jeeps, a Dodge RAM 1500 pickup, and a blacked-out Cadillac Escalade. On the far side of the building from the vehicles was the actual office area; a cluster of desks with computers, a leather couch next to a whiteboard and projector screen, and a military-style Ops table in the center. Bau ran such a badass ship that the police force of one of the tiny neighboring incorporated towns sometimes turned to him for assistance.

  "Coffee?" Bau asked.

  "Please," I said. "I'm in sore need of a caffeine fix."

  He filled two mugs with coffee and handed one to me. "Bourbon?"

  "Nah."

  "Right. You quit drinking."

  I shook my head and sipped my coffee. "Just not as much as before. Made too many bad habits."

  Bau splashed some whiskey into his cup and stared at me as he drank.

  "What?" I asked.

  "Just good to have my little brother home."

  I laughed. "Bau, I've been out for nearly three months already."

  "I know. I'm still getting used to it. So, how'd that date go, huh? You get yourself some ass?"

  "Nope.”

  Bau laughed and patted the back of the couch. I sat down, and he turned on the projector. "The curse lives on, eh?"

  "The curse lives on," I agreed. "So." I rubbed my hands together excitedly, eager to change the topic. "My first big boy job. What've you got for me, boss?"

  "Something I wouldn't think to trust with anyone but my little brother. Biggest contract we've had in some time. Think you can handle it?"

  I grinned. "What are you giving me that look for? What? Is he hot?" Bau's expression said he was looking forward to seeing what reaction I would have

  He shrugged. "Not my type. Not in good form to fuck a client, anyway."

  "You're saying you've never fucked a client?" I asked.

  "No, I'm not saying that. It's just not in good form."

  He brought up a profile on the screen. The photograph attached was a crummy DMV photo of a man with dark hair and eyes to match. He looked familiar. I squinted. It was a shitty picture and I couldn't make a good determination on his attractiveness. DMV photos always had a way of making people look like shit.

  Oh, come on, Sylus. Was I that depraved that I was actually trying to see how hot the client was? This was a job, not fucking Grindr.

  "Do I know this guy?" I asked, pointing.

  "You might," Bau said, changing the slide. This time it was of a street photo that looked like it'd been taken by a paparazzo. It was outside of some kind of nightclub, and the guy was being pushed into a limo, his face covered in blood. "His name is Chris Barker Stevens. This was shot two nights ago in Vegas. The dude got drunk, picked a fight with some random asshole in the club, and got his face beat. Apparently it's not the first time."

  "Hold on," I groaned. I did know who he was. This motherfucker's shitty country pop music had tormented me my entire time overseas. Someone always seemed to have his shit playing. Against my own will, I probably knew half of his songs by heart. "Chris Barker Stevens is my client? You serious?"

  "Why, you like him?"

  I coughed out a laugh. "Like
? When I caught shrapnel in my eye and was sitting in the field hospital, some dude was playing Chris Barker Stevens on repeat. I was confined to my bed, couldn't move. Couldn't turn it off."

  Bau grinned. "Well, now's your chance to tell him how much of an impact he's made on your life. Your job is to make sure this guy doesn't get into any more trouble. You're gonna be with him at all times. You'll have a place at his mansion, you'll accompany him everywhere, and you'll definitely make sure that nobody gets up in his face."

  I slumped against the couch. I should've known Bau would give me the toughest gig he could find to initiate me. "Jesus," I muttered. "Okay. How long's the gig?"

  He pulled out a stack of papers, licked his finger and leafed through it. "The contract is for at least two weeks. His management wants him out of trouble until his big album release show. They’re paying top dollar for this."

  I sighed. Two weeks of hell. "When do I start?"

  Bau tossed the stack of papers into my lap. "Better pack your bags. And maybe Virgil will have to pack you a couple of those venison steaks to go."

  The setting sun threw buckets of golden light across the parched Southern California hills that lined the southbound freeway into Los Angeles. I'd traded my beat-up pickup for the company Escalade, and had a duffel bag on the seat and an ice chest on the floor packed with a few fresh steaks cut from today's kill. I figured I'd share with my new boss. Extend some kind of olive branch to get our relationship off on the right foot. I was gonna be living with the guy for a while.

  Uprooting myself at a moment’s notice for a mission had become second nature to me. When I was in Afghanistan, me and my squad would chopper in for an op, spend a few days in the field and then chopper out, only to repeat the process again, sometimes just a few hours later. The sleep we did get was spent on dirt floors or bare ground with just a hole to shit in and not a shower in sight. Having a sleepover to babysit a naughty celebrity would be a walk in the fucking park.

  Yellow hills soon transitioned to urban sprawl as I entered the city. Damn place actually could be pretty at night. At least you couldn't see the smog. Soon, I was parked in front of the gate enclosing a massive Beverly Hills McMansion. I double checked the address to make sure I was in the right place and then pulled the car up to the call-box sitting in the driveway. It rang off the hook.

  Frowning, I checked my watch. Shouldn't the guy have been expecting me? I called again, but still no answer. I pulled out the packet of papers that Bau had given me and found Chris's cell phone number. No answer there, either.

  I got out of the car and checked my cell phone for any missed calls. Nothing. I was already on the clock, and my mission was to keep the client out of trouble. I wasn't about to call Bau or anyone else to ask for further instructions. I was given permission to operate at my own discretion. The client's management wanted to make sure he was kept out of trouble, any means necessary. I made a judgement call—I'd get in there and locate Chris Stevens.

  Any means necessary.

  3

  CHRIS

  "My god, Chris. You look like shit."

  I lay on the couch video chatting with Audrey Apple, the only person in this world who knew my secret. She was almost ten years my junior, new to the world of entertainment but already a far bigger star than I was. She had a huge YouTube following but had made her mainstream success by winning the American Music Challenge, which was how I met her.

  With our close relationship, the rumors flew like fireworks. Audrey didn't do anything to dispel gossip that we were sleeping together—she thought it would help dissolve her innocent image as a young YouTube star. I didn't much care because it meant people wouldn't be asking questions about my sexuality, not to mention it only strengthened my brand as a bad boy country rock star.

  "I saw the videos." Looking disappointed, she picked up Lady, her cat, and stroked her gently in her lap. "Why you gotta act like that, Chris? Your rep is taking a hit, you know? I know that's not who you are."

  "I don't need another lecture, Audrey," I said. "I don't give a damn about my rep."

  "Obviously, you do. Otherwise you'd come out of the closet."

  I felt a twinge of annoyance. "Don't say that."

  "Don't say what? You're in the closet, Chris."

  "I'm not in the fucking closet. I just... I hate that phrase." I hated the idea that I was hiding from something, even though that was exactly what I was doing. Audrey gave me a why are you trying to bullshit me look.

  "You're completely ridiculous, you know that?" she said. "I feel sorry for you."

  "Don't. It's my problem, I did it to myself."

  "You can choose to not do this to yourself, you know? Accept yourself. Others will. I do. You can be a gay man—"

  "Audrey, I don't wanna hear none of that 'woke' bullshit right now, okay?" I gritted my teeth, hating that I'd let myself blurt that out at her.

  She blinked at me, her eyes wide and offended.

  "Alright. I'm out. Shame on me for trying to help a friend out."

  "Dammit, Audrey, I just..."

  "I'mma go spend some time with people who aren't afraid to be real. You can go suck a dick. In fact, I think you really should."

  "Audrey..."

  My phone went black. Call disconnected. I groaned and sent her an apology text before tossing my phone aside. It clattered across the floor, disappearing somewhere under the furniture. I sat up and looked around my cavernous living room, too big for the amount of decor I had. Too big for one man. Most of the rooms in my house were completely empty. My own bedroom was just a king-sized bed and a couple guitars. I needed a fucking interior decorator, but honestly, what was the point? I was alone, anyway.

  It was my own damn fault. I didn't deserve a friend like Audrey. I didn't deserve anyone. Even if a man were to fall right into my lap, what good would that do me?

  Well, for one, it would mean I could get laid.

  I closed my eyes, and it felt like the couch was swallowing me up like quicksand.

  That was a pretty fucking big thing. I was the kind of guy that men wanted to be and girls wanted to be with. That was my schtick, and it'd packed arenas with thousands of fans and filled my bank account with millions of dollars. I was an American sex symbol who'd never had sex. In reality, I'd been living my life like a damn monk. I'd brought groupies back to my hotel room and pretended like I was too wasted to fuck them. I'd avoided relationships and no one really questioned it because I was Chris Barker Stevens. I didn't need to be in a relationship—I had all the women I could ever ask for.

  What a joke.

  I rolled off the couch and dragged my ass to the studio room, which was the one room in my house that was fully decorated and built up. I had a full recording studio in there, with a sound booth and monitoring station so that I didn't need to leave the house if I wanted to put together a track. Most of my guitars were in there, too. It was my sanctuary, sound-proofed and quiet.

  I pulled down one of my favorite guitars, a 1972 Gibson Les Paul Deluxe, and brought it and a 500-watt amp out to my living room. I wasn't about sound-proofed and quiet right now. I didn't want sanctuary, I needed therapy. I wanted to blow my windows out.

  The amp buzzed as I hooked in the guitar. I wrapped my fingers around its neck, feeling the silky-smooth finish of the wood, polished by years of use. My body tensed in anticipation, the same way it did when I was about to swing a punch. I raised my arm, pick in hand, and slammed it down to the strings. This wasn't the country-pop twang I played for the radio. This was heavy shit. Gritty shit. Cut-into-my-fucking-soul shit. With the gash in my right palm, playing hurt to hell—but that was okay. Physical pain, I could take.

  I jumped up on the couch and tossed my head to the rhythm, machine-gunning out a run of chunky power chords before breaking into a piercing solo. My hand felt hot and I was pretty sure I was bleeding, but damn it felt good to play. Throughout my life, music had been the one place I could always escape to. When Dad passed, my guitar was there for
me. It was there for me when I realized I liked looking at the boys at school more than the girls. It was there when Mom caught me holding hands with the boy down the street. Music never made me want to hide. Playing was the closest I could ever come to feeling truly myself.

  From the corner of my eye, I was suddenly aware that I was no longer alone in the room. I whirled around, and the guitar cable twisted around my legs and sent me tumbling to the floor. I managed to keep the guitar held up in the air and out of harm’s way as I hit the ground.

  I clambered back to my feet. The man stood in the doorway, clad in a dress shirt and slacks with an eyepatch covering his left eye, a duffel bag in one hand and a cooler in the other. My mind raced. A burglar wouldn't wear business casual, would they? What the fuck was with the cooler? Was he going to steal my kidneys?

  His clothes were well tailored around his figure, and it was obvious that he was rippling with muscle beneath the fabric. Was he some kind of mafia hitman? My mind went back to Jersey Shore. Shit. Had I fucked with the wrong douchebag?

  I wasn't going to wait to find out. For him to get through my security system and break into my house, he obviously meant business. I realized I was holding my precious guitar up like a baseball bat, and put it down onto the couch before I made any regretful mistakes. My heart was pounding—but it felt good. Fuck it, if I was going to go down fighting a bad guy, I was good with that. At least it'd be an interesting death.

  I charged at him, shouting at the top of my lungs. He didn't even flinch.

  That's not good.

  I swung.

  Air. It was like he’d disappeared from in front of me. He'd stepped to my right. I swung again. He slipped that one, too. Then, in one sudden motion, his arm trapped mine. I was by no means a small man, but he swung me like a rag doll and dropped me to the ground. His knee jammed into my back, my arms locked firmly behind me. He leaned forward, putting more weight on me and pressing my cheek against the hardwood. I could feel his breath on my ear.