Switch

by Jennifer Ryder

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ROCCO

  Sometimes I wonder when it all went wrong. When I was sixteen and my racing career was crushed, I battled on. I found a way. I travelled with a privateer to national race days, helped prep the bikes and got the riders to the gate on time. I cleaned the bikes, washed the pit tents and did the shit jobs no one else wanted to. I worked fifteen-hour days, back-to-back at race meets to get a name for myself. The Honda team picked me up and put me through my apprenticeship. I earned next to nothing, but I continued to work hard, because I wanted nothing but to live and breathe motocross. I proved I had the skills to diagnose and make fast repairs in the worst conditions. I took pride in race preparation and bike maintenance, and years later got a job as the top mechanic on the KTM Factory team.

  After losing both parents, my love for alcohol consumed me. That was when it all turned bad. If it wasn’t for the fact I knew Jones then, I don’t think Mac would have even interviewed me.

  Jones barely spoke to me on the way to the factory today, and then kept his distance from me for the rest of the time. I don’t blame him. I was a right arsehole last night. He was there picking up the pieces like a good mate, and I couldn’t even thank him for it.

  Getting wasted last night was the worst thing I could have done knowing how much work there was to do stripping the bikes and cleaning up. Every time I’ve exchanged glances with Mac today, he’s given me the hairy eyeball. So much for getting into his good books.

  All this bullshit is because I’m weak. I let my guilt over V get the better of me, and I’m too pig-headed to say no to tequila when it’s thrust in my face.

  Before I enter my building, I call Long Bay and let them know I’ll be visiting V tomorrow. I don’t need anyone overhearing that conversation. My head pounds with every step I take up to my floor. This is one hell of a hangover.

  I dump my bag inside the door, because I’m too fucking exhausted to take it to the laundry. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with it.

  I walk into the lounge room to find Suds on the couch with her legs curled beneath her. She’s wearing a pair of daggy purple bed socks, grey pyjama bottoms and a white tank. No bra. Her nipples look hard enough to cut glass. Her blonde hair is piled high in a misshaped bun on the top of her head, and she’s wearing dark glasses. Why the fuck haven’t I seen her in these before? She’s conjured up some daggy, I-don’t-give-a-shit librarian look. And she pulls it off.

  “Hey,” I mutter, trying to pretend with the casualness of my tone that I’m not excited to see her. I never quite know what I’m gonna walk in on when I come home. I was kind of hoping I’d catch her scrambling naked on the hallway floor again, but no such luck.

  Like every other day, she’s eating a bowl of noodles, holding a tangle of long strings high from her fork. She purses her lips and blows on the strands before slowly sucking them into her sweet mouth. The not-so-lesbian lesbian does good noodle eating. I bet she does a lot of good things with that mouth. I clear my throat and divert my attention to the TV.

  “Jesus, you look like shit,” she says.

  I ignore her comment, because I know she’s right. No point agreeing with her. “Whatya watching?”

  “Stand By Me.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know, Stand By Me, as in classic 80s movie? You know, with River Phoenix?”

  “Oh, right,” I say, as if I know. Maybe I’ve seen bits and pieces. Who the fuck knows?

  I unlace my black Doc Martens, kick them off and sit on the opposite couch to her. When I shuffle to get comfortable, there’s a fat kid on screen drinking a bottle of castor oil. Have I seen this?

  It’s not like growing up I had family movie nights at home. Dad was usually passed out in the shed after drinking himself stupid for the day, and Mum worked night shift. It was just V and me. For the most part we kept our noses clean, otherwise our bare arses would become acquainted with Dad’s belt. It didn’t take much for him to lose his temper. I knew when to stay clear of him; V, on the other hand, I had to keep on a short leash because the cocky son-of-a-bitch would have been flogged every day if I didn’t look out for him.

  Dad had mellowed out over the years, probably due to the fact that early Alzheimer’s had set in. Thank Christ for that. His home was drinking in the shed, tinkering with bikes.

  When we were around, we helped Mum in the garden and around the house, but in the kitchen was the place I liked best. God, I miss the old woman. I miss her sweet smell, her crooked smile and her hugs. For a short arse, the woman gave good hugs. She was the only one who made living in that house bearable.

  “I love this part,” Suds says, her eyes glued to the screen. The kid devours pie after pie. Then, he stands and pukes in a guy’s face, the purple liquid riddled with berries coming out like water from a fire hose.

  “Jesus Christ!” I call out, half covering my eyes but unable to completely look away.

  “What? It’s hilarious! You don’t find that funny?” she says through a chuckle.

  I don’t do vomit. I can’t handle that shit—mine or anyone else’s. “That’s fuckin’ crook. Speakin’ of crook, what’s that smell? Something around here smells like old feet.”

  “Well lucky for you I don’t have a foot odour problem.” She passes me a paper bag, which was tucked into the couch beside her. “I made popcorn.”

  “I guess that explains it.”

  “What did you have for dinner?” I ask her, noting the absence of dirty dishes on the coffee table.

  “Popcorn. Noodles for dessert.”

  “Popcorn is not fucking dinner.”

  “It is in my world.”

  “Well in my world, it’s far from it. Jesus, do I have to force feed another steak into you?”

  “Tonight I felt like popcorn. Is that okay with you, Daddy?”

  “Daddy?’ I ask, eyes wide.

  “Yeah, Daddy.” She gets up and moves to the kitchen. As I munch on some popcorn, I get a sneak at the dimples at the base of her spine and a hint of arse crack. She pulls up her pants, which seem loose around her waist. Has she lost more weight? Surely not.

  Suds approaches me with two glasses of water, even though I hadn’t asked for one. She sits them on the table, and I nod as she takes a handful of popcorn, my own mouth too stuffed to be able to speak.

  Unable and unwilling to move, I decide it’s easiest not to protest about what we’re watching, and I just go with it. I melt back into the couch, and let the calm wash over me as I watch these four boys take some weird-arse journey. I can’t remember the last time I did something so normal. I guess this is what people do. I’m sitting and watching a movie … and I’m doing it with a chick and not drinking.

  Weird.

  “Gimme some skin,” one young guy says to the other. They wipe their outstretched palms against each others.

  “That’s like the best line ever,” Soph says, and sighs.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ cool.”

  “When I have a kid, it’s gonna be cool.” Her gaze doesn’t shift from the screen.

  Suds wants a kid?

  ****

  When I wake, the room is only lit up from the light streaming from the TV. The sound is turned down, and I can tell from the images of the fruit blender they’re trying to sell that it’s late. Fucking hate infomercials. Suds is gone. I don’t even remember saying good night to her. Guess I passed out. I was probably riveting company.

  I sit up and peel my back from the leather couch. I’m sweating like a whore in church. My entire body is trembling.

  It’s the drink. I’ve been overdoing it, and now I need more.

  I wipe the drool from my mouth and stumble into the kitchen, flicking on the light with my open palm. Somehow, a bottle of tequila and a shot glass end up in my hands.

  Maybe just one shot will take the edge off.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SOPHIE

  At some stupid hour, my body decides it’s time to pee. That’ll teach me for trying to d
rink the recommended two litres of water intake. Who can drink that much, seriously? Imagine how I’ll be when I’m pregnant. From what I’ve read, women have to pee all the time because of the pressure on the bladder.

  When I come out of the bathroom, flashes of light coming from the lounge room draw my attention. Surely he’s not still up?

  I flick on the hall light, which casts more light into the room and onto Rocco’s upper body. He’s flat on his back, with one arm and a leg hanging off the lounge.

  I go to collect the empty tequila bottle and the shot glass to take to the kitchen, but I decide to leave it there. I want him to wake up and be reminded of the choice he made last night. Instead, I go to my room and take my knitted grey woollen blanket off the bed, the one Nana made me. Kneeling down beside him, I lay the fabric over him, tucking his outstretched arm across his chest and moving his fallen leg beside the other.

  He was tired as anything when I left for bed. How did he go from that to feeling the need to get tanked again? Did I have to send him to his room to save him from himself?

  My heart sinks. Whatever it is that haunts him, this is how he copes with it. Is it the death of his parents that plagues him or something else?

  “Why do you do this to yourself?” I whisper, as I smooth the fabric over his shoulders. I take a close look at the dark circles beneath his lashes, and the tiny lines at the sides of his eyes. The wrinkles across his brow he seems to constantly wear have disappeared. At least in sleep his worries temporarily disappear.

  I brush the long strands of dark hair off his forehead and tuck the blanket under his chin.

  “Hey,” he croaks, causing me to sit back on my heels.

  “Hey,” I whisper.

  He slides the blanket down to his waist and reaches for my hand. His fingers seek out mine, and I let them weave together with mine. A shiver runs through me. I really should’ve put something warmer on, but then again I didn’t expect to be sitting on the hardwood floor at stupid o’clock.

  “Do you care about me?” His words are sincere, and it takes me aback. Where in the hell has this come from? Is it because I put a blanket over him?

  “It’s just a blanket.”

  “It’s not the fucking blanket,” he huffs. “Why did you ask me before why I do this? You must give a shit if you’re prepared to ask.”

  “Well, I guess I do care. I’m not an animal, you know,” I say and roll my eyes.

  “I know you’re not. You think you’ve got everyone fooled, but know there’s more to you. You’re afraid to show it.”

  “So what if I am? There’s nothing wrong with self-preservation.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “The truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate seeing you like this, Rocco. I hate seeing another person destroy themselves or their chances at being something better.”

  “Ha. I hate to tell you, Suds, but this is my life. And I don’t see it improving any time soon.”

  Her eyes search my face. “Why are you like this?”

  “If I told you why, you’d only hate me more.”

  Does he think I hate him? Prince Fuckface I hate with every bone in my body, but Rocco? Hate is such a strong word.

  “I wouldn’t say that I hate you … you just get under my skin.” I take in a deep breath as he continues to toy with my fingers. His hand is shaking as if he has a nervous twitch or something. “Why do you drink? Did some woman break your heart?”

  “Interesting question, there. Let me see … Trinity fucked me over, but that’s not the half of it, Suds.”

  Okay, so I know his parents died, and that’d be enough to haunt anyone, but there must be something else. Is she the reason for his binge-drinking and fucked up serial one-night campaign?

  “What did she do?”

  “Ah, you see. She did so many things, and apparently not just with me.”

  She cheated on him? Ouch.

  “Tell me about her,” I probe. I’m more than curious to know about the woman that damaged him. By the looks of it, she did a stellar job.

  He scrapes his hands down his face, and then rakes his fingers back through his hair. “It’s been fuckin’ years since I’ve thought about her.”

  Then maybe she isn’t the reason for the alcohol, but I’m guessing whatever happened with her has had a big impact on the way he uses women.

  “Maybe it’ll help to talk?”

  “Unlikely,” he mutters.

  A long pause follows, and I figure I’ve gone too far. He doesn’t wanna talk, and I totally get that. I still have trouble. I don’t share my shit with anyone. April, to some extent, but even she doesn’t know the whole Fuckface saga. It’s a part of my life that no one else needs to know about.

  As I stand to stretch my legs, Rocco sits up and grabs my hand.

  “She was a tattoo artist. And a nympho. So really, she was a match made in heaven for me.”

  He lifts back the blanket and tugs me to sit beside him. Looks like I’m in for a bedtime story.

  I wiggle into the back of the couch, hugging my knees to chest, tucking my ice-cold toes under his jean-clad thighs.

  “Is she still alive?” I dare to ask. Seems like there’s a lot of death around him. Poor guy.

  He rests his closest arm on the back of the couch, and throws the blanket over my legs with his other hand.

  “I wouldn’t know. We’re not in the same circles anymore.”

  “So she cheated on you?”

  “Too many times to count. I was a fucked-up, dopey-eyed kid who thought she was the world. When I found out she was taking sexual favours as payment for her artwork it was the biggest kick in the guts. Fuckin’ bitch.”

  Wow. What a piece of work. I shake my head. “That’s fucked up.”

  “Yeah,” he grunts.

  “It’s no wonder you have commitment issues,” I joke.

  A smile curls at his mouth. “After her, easy is just … easier, you know? I don’t need that shit.”

  “Is she the reason why you drink?”

  His smile is gone in an instant and his head falls back against the couch cushion. He blinks as if he’s contemplating each open and close of his eyelids.

  “I drink because I’m a failure. I failed my brother,” he chokes out.

  A lone tear glides down his pale face. “Il mio fratellino,” he says, whisper-soft with a hint of an accent.

  Oh, Rocco.

  I stretch my legs over his lap and pull his head to my chest. It’s the only thing I can do in this moment that feels right.

  Rocco sweeps his strong arms around my waist, and with ease pulls me down the couch so I’m lying flat. He buries his face into my stomach and tightens his grip around me. He stills, and I sense him holding his breath. Moisture leaches through the thin fabric of my tank top beneath his head.

  With caution, I smooth my hand over his unruly hair and rest my flattened palm in between his shoulder blades. The tension he is burdened with is unmistakeable.

  I rub over his upper back in gentle circles. Little by little, the stiffness in his frame fades.

  His struggle is real.

  I bite back tears of my own. I can’t remember the last time I cried.

  My heart hurts for Rocco.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ROCCO

  Monday

  I smell pussy. I came home alone last night, right? If I didn’t, then why is the chick still here? I move slightly onto my side, and outstretch my bent leg. A warm body rolls into me. I open my eyes, and focus on a white tank top. Inspecting lower, I find a pair of purple and white-striped pyjama bottoms. Huh?

  When I look back up, I am rewarded with a prized pair of high-beaming beauties and tangled blonde hair around tanned shoulders. Fuck me, Soph is beautiful, even in this state.

  What is she doing here? What are we doing here together?

  Fuck, that’s right. We talked. As I watch her breathe, shallow and softly through her mouth, the conversation comes b
ack to me in great detail.

  I don’t want this to be fucking weird. Figuring this may be my only shot to get close, I press my lips against her belly button, and then move them lower … and lower … and then take a deep breath in through my nose.

  Her scent sends blood rushing between my legs. My cock throbs for this chick. I could try and talk her out of these pants, but for some reason I won’t attempt it. My head is blocking me. Is it the fact she doesn’t hate me after all? That she listened? That she’s … different?

  Christ, please don’t ask me how I’m feeling when you wake up. Please.

  “Suds?” I whisper.

  “Hmm,” she mumbles, arching her back and slipping her fingers into my hair as her hips roll into me.

  Now I really wanna talk her out of these pants. You’re making this real fucking hard, Suds. Making me hard.

  The only way I’m gonna stop myself from doing it is by being a smart arse. She responds well to my arsehole ways.

  “Was it good for you?” I ask with one eyebrow raised.

  “Huh,” she mumbles, as her eyelids flutter open. “What the hell?” She sits up and moves her arse farther back into the couch.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t remember?”

  A sly smile creeps over her lips. She must be onto me.

  “I’m shittin’ you, really, but keep that moaning up and I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.”

  “I was not moaning,” she protests.

  “You were too. Don’t worry, babe. If I had the chance to work you with my tongue, I promise you’d remember every little flick.”

  She rolls her eyes. It’s very dramatic. “Very funny.”

  “And to be clear, I prefer my women wide awake and moaning for real before I get down to business.”

  She shoves me on the shoulder as she swings her legs off the couch. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

  “No probs.”

  Suds sneezes three times in a row. I’m surprised her head is still on her shoulders. She stands up and pulls a few tissues from the hall table and blows her nose.