Switch

by Jennifer Ryder

  “Make me breakfast,” she orders as she walks down the hall. When she steps into the bathroom, she turns, flicks me the bird and pokes out her tongue. Thatta girl. I chuckle to myself as she disappears from view. This woman has so many sides to her, but I’ve gotta say, the one with attitude gets me the hardest.

  “Jesus, will you ever put the seat down?” she shrieks. I don’t miss the humour in her tone, though. There is next to no stabby vibe. I’m wearing her down.

  “I’m saving myself valuable time, Suds.”

  Her head pokes out from the doorway. “Well, with all this extra time you have on your hands, you can spend it in the kitchen.”

  “Fine,” I yell out, then chuckle quietly to myself. I’ll cook the woman breakfast. After last night, I owe her that much.

  Knowing there’s fuck all food in the house, I grab my keys and duck down to the corner shop for supplies.

  Mamma, I’m about to get back in the kitchen.

  ****

  When I take the small square dishes from the oven, the rich aroma of tomato, basil and parmesan drifts into the air, reminding me of home. Mamma’s eggs.

  “Sit,” I bark at Suds, and lift my chin towards the dining table. Suds pours us each a coffee from the plunger that I’d filled about five minutes earlier, and takes the mugs to the table. Fuck, I need a decent hit of caffeine today.

  “Sheesh, righto.” Suds parks her butt on a chair and watches me as I snatch some cutlery from the drawer and grab some dinner plates. Using a tea towel, I place a hot dish on each plate with some toasted ciabatta drizzled with olive oil on the side.

  “So I have to say, you seemed pretty comfortable with your head between my legs this morning,” she says, with clear amusement in her tone.

  I can’t help but laugh. I was pretty fucking comfortable. “Probably the closest to Heaven I’ll ever get.”

  “Ha! Do chicks even buy shit like that?” she asks, and tilts her head to the side.

  “I dunno. I’m not big on small talk. I prefer to let my actions speak for me instead. I find it’s pretty easy to convince a woman to do something when you’re lapping between their thighs.”

  “You think women just roll over that easy, huh?”

  You’d be surprised. “In my experience, yes.”

  “Ha,” she scoffs.

  “Can I ask you something, and feel free to slap me, but given your sway either side of the fence, who do you reckon eats pussy the best? Blokes or chicks?”

  Suds starts coughing and her cheeks turn a bright shade of pink.

  “Need some water there?”

  She takes a sips of her coffee and then clears her throat. “Definitely chicks.”

  I’d be kidding myself if ‘challenge accepted’ didn’t just flash in front of my eyes like a king-sized neon sign. “You don’t say.”

  “In fact, I’d go so far as to say I’m pretty fucking good at it. Women know what they want; I know what I want, so I think I’m in a pretty good position to deliver on that.”

  “You know I’m thinking about you goin’ down on a chick right now, don’t you?”

  “You didn’t even have to say. I assumed.”

  “You know I’d bet you every cent to my name that I could eat you out better than anyone—a chick or a dick.”

  Colour rises to her cheeks and she squirms in her seat. “I’m not making that bet,” she says, and shovels in another mouthful of bread laden with tomato and eggs.

  “You chicken shit,” I tease, and wink at her.

  She dips the bread back into the dish, and then fills her mouth again. I try to avert my eyes from her lips and ignore the noises coming from her mouth, but it’s useless. I can’t think of anything else other than what she could do with that mouth.

  “You probably wouldn’t know what to do with a dick then,” I tease. I can’t wait to see where she takes this. If I’m not careful, I might be wearing the rest of her breakfast.

  Suds laughs and shakes her head, not taking her eyes from mine.

  “That’s funny, is it?” I ask through a chuckle.

  “There’s a lot more you can do with your mouth than simply stick a dick in it. That part isn’t rocket science. It’s all in the tongue. That muscle is a wondrous thing, and should never be underestimated. Trust me when I say that I know how to use mine … very well.”

  I swallow hard. Pretty sure I nearly just came in my pants.

  Suds chows down the rest of her eggs and then stands up. I’m still frozen, open-mouthed, dreaming up exactly how she’s gonna go about visiting every part of me with that dexterous oral muscle of hers.

  “Thanks for breakfast. Best eggs I’ve had in a loooong time,” she says, and leaves me, with a sweet smile. Does she have any idea of how much blood she’s just directed to my cock, or how serious the case of blue balls is that I’ve got going on here?

  “No dramas,” I say, with a shrug. I’d get up, but it’s tent city down south. I’m just gonna sit here, because there’s no way I can walk straight with the mother of a hard-on in these jeans.

  She grumbles and then pouts. “S’pose I’d better leave for work. Thank God I have a late start today.”

  “Do you even like your job?” I ask.

  “It’s okay … keeps the bank off my back.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s pretty much it. What are you up to today?”

  Let me see.

  1. Jerk off.

  2. Visit my brother in jail.

  3. Go to the workshop and get my arse kicked.

  “Just bike shit,” I tell her.

  “Okay, well, have a good day. I’ll see you tonight.”

  I lift my chin in her direction as she opens the door. “Yeah. Tonight.”

  “I might even make a fresh batch of popcorn if you’re lucky.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The door clicks shut. With my right hand, I palm down the front of my jeans.

  Time to get the first item off the list.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ROCCO

  He doesn’t like me to visit. He says it makes it harder for him, but I can’t stay away. Not when his birthday was yesterday. Twenty-five. I can’t fucking believe it.

  The money I’ve been holding in trust for him since Mum passed can finally be his. When he gets out of here he can start a new life. I’ll have to get behind him and push him. I promised Mamma I’d take care of him. I’ve done a shitty job of it so far, but I’ll make things right even if I die trying.

  My bag is searched. I turn out my pockets and am scanned. After the usual security rigmarole where I have to give them my Visitor Identification Number and ID and fill out the visitor information form, I’m finally led into the visitor room, a long narrow space filled with tables and stools, screwed to the floor. Half the tables are already occupied with inmates and their visitors. I can’t see V yet, so I grab us a couple of Cokes from the vending machine and take a seat in the far corner of the room. I kick the plastic bag containing stuff I bought for him under the table. A young boy, maybe three or four years old, runs past my table, hollering and carrying on after what looks like an older teenage brother. It’s fucking crazy in here.

  I keep an eye on the guards near the door and wait. I bounce my knee up and down, the shaking distracting me from my trembling hands. Can’t they be more fucking organised in here? I don’t wanna waste a minute that I could spend with him. They make you go to all the trouble to confirm times and shit, yet they can’t stick to the schedule.

  A heavy door squeaks in the distance. From the far corner of the room, I see him. He’s pale, white as a fucking sheet, and he’s skinny. My heart sinks in my chest. Look at you, V. Any other time, away from this fuckhole of a place, I’d tell him he looks like shit, but I can’t do it here as I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t do anything to improve the way he’s feeling.

  A crooked smile pulls at his mouth when he lays eyes on me. Taking small, unhurried steps, he walks in my direction. Why the fuc
k is he limping? Is he hurt? Fuck!

  Taking in deep breaths now, I stand up and move around the other side of the table and take a step towards him. He holds out a hand to halt me. I suppose he doesn’t want me to make a big deal in front of other people. I get that. I need to be cool.

  My itchy fingers grab him when he finally stands in front of me.

  “You look like shit, Roc,” he says, his voice gravelly.

  A nervous laugh blurts from my mouth as I haul him into a hug. “Fuckin’ missed you,” I growl into his ear as I squeeze him like a vice. I bite down on my lip to stop it trembling and force myself to swallow the hurt and the anger that wants to transform into tears and a fit of rage. I’m not emotional at the best of times, but having him in my arms, having his wild, beating heart hammering against mine—if ever I’m gonna lose it, it’d be right now.

  “Same,” he chokes out.

  I sit down opposite him and pull up the bag from underneath the table. “Hey. I bought you some more socks and shit, and a couple of dirt-bike magazines. I put some more money in your account, too.”

  He peers inside the bag and then slides it to the side of the table. “Thanks.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

  We share silence as we look each other over. I can’t help but ogle at the intricate cross down the left side of his neck, the one I took him to get when he was eighteen, the one Mamma whooped both our arses for—him for being so stupid, and me because I was the eldest and I should’ve known better.

  When my eyes wander to his throat, the ink there makes my blood boil. The Guardians flaming skull motif has been permanently etched on his skin with ‘guardians’ tattooed in large letters in a curve across his collarbone. Dark shadows hang beneath his red-rimmed brown eyes, and his skin is dull with dry flakes at his temples. He looks much older than he is. The way he holds himself, he gives off the vibe of a young man whose spirit has been crushed.

  “Happy birthday for yesterday,” I say, but there’s nothing happy about my tone. It’s sad that it’s another fucking day that he was in here, and he had to contemplate it alone. I’m sure he would have kept it to himself.

  “Worst fuckin’ day of my life,” he mutters, and casts his eyes down to his hands in his lap.

  “What happened?”

  “They held me down in the shower and fucked me up the arse, is what happened.”

  I stand up and drag in a mammoth breath as if I’m about to roar fire.

  V grabs my hand. “Don’t,” he pleads.

  “Who the fuck did this?” I whisper-growl, clenching my other fist. Is one of them in the room now?

  “Sit the fuck down,” he says through clenched teeth. He scans the room, taking his time, looking from table to table. When he’s done looking, he leans in closer. “I saw one of their faces, but I don’t know who actually … did it. They just left me like a sack of shit, bleeding.”

  My baby brother. Raped. Here I was thinking he was safer on the inside away from the MC, but it’s no different. Because of his links, he’s fucked no matter where he is. My blood boils when I imagine them forcing themselves on him, taking what innocence he had left.

  “Fuck me dead.” With my elbows on the table, I bury my head in my hands.

  “I thought there were some rough cunts in the MC, but they’re a pack of fucking animals in here. Savages.”

  I look up and am met with the chilling fear in his eyes. Acid stirs up my gut and my heart beats faster. “You’re in this fucked-up position because of Dad. The dead-shit never should’ve brought you into the MC.”

  I was ten when Dad had joined the club. He got lured in with the promise of easy money and booze on tap. Over the years, he got in deep. I was always on the road, and I foolishly trusted my father to look out for my baby brother and make sure he was kept clear of that addictive lifestyle. Then the club got their fucking hands on V, and I didn’t know until it was too late.

  “Not helping.”

  “Why the fuck couldn’t he stick with motocross? The best fuckin’ years of my life were racing beside you, brother.”

  “Roc,” he pleads.

  “I know my career was fucked once I ruined my knee, but you?” I point my finger at him. “You could’ve gone as far as you wanted. You still can.”

  “I made choices, and I have to live with them.”

  “I know.” I slide my sweaty hands down my face and take in a sharp breath when I think about the rape. I could rant about Dad all day long, but that won’t fucking help anyone. “What do you want me to do? Surely there’s some fuckwit around here I can talk to and sort this shit out? It’s not fucking on, brother. You need protection.”

  “I could talk to the welfare officer, but people watch every fucking thing you do. It’ll only make things worse for me.”

  “I can’t ignore it.”

  “You have to. They watch me. Things will be harder if I blab. It’s a fucked-up power play. I’ll just keep out of sight. I’ve been spending a bit more time in my cell so there’s not as many opportunities to get fuckin’ harassed.”

  “Is that why you’re pale as fuck?”

  “As much as I love the taste of freedom that fresh air promises, it’s not worth it.”

  Jesus.

  “I’ll talk to our lawyer and see if he can do something, because this shit is not on.”

  “He hasn’t been helpful from day one, so no point wasting more money. Drop it.”

  “I don’t give a shit about the money. I just want you safe, got it?”

  V huffs and slides his hands through his hair, clasping them together behind his neck. “How you doin’?” he asks, shifting focus.

  What’s the point in telling him that I’m struggling? My problems are nothing compared to his. He just got fucked up the arse. He’s been in here nearly three months, halfway through his sentence, and it looks like he won’t be seeing daylight until he’s out. Even though I’m in a shitty place right now, it’s Bora Bora compared to where he’s at.

  “Work’s busy.” Do I tell him about Soph? If I do, will he think that I won’t have room for him? When I look into his dark eyes, and see the ghosts there, I know I can’t tell him yet. It doesn’t sit right in my gut. “You know I cooked this morning. Mamma’s eggs,” I tell him instead.

  “You’re shittin’ me. You haven’t cooked like that in years.”

  “True.”

  “What made you do it?”

  That’s the thing. It’s the who—that’s what’s made me wanna cook. A girl. “It was time.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Are you drinkin’ flat out?”

  He knows I hit the booze big time after we lost Mum, and after a while I had a handle on it, but I don’t want him to know that him being in here is what kicked my arse off the wagon. It’s not his fault.

  “Mate,” I whisper. Do we really need to get into this? I sigh heavily and shrug. I won’t lie to him, but I’m sure he doesn’t have to hear me say that I’m still drinking like a fish. I don’t need him worrying about me. He has enough to think about.

  “The yellow tinge to your eyes gives you away anyhow.”

  “It’s under control,” I lie.

  “Yeah, that’s what Dad said,” he spits out.

  A tall, overweight guard comes to our table. “Two minutes,” he grunts, and then moves on.

  I grip V’s inked hand across the table and squeeze. “Hang in there, brother. Only a few months and then you can start a new life.”

  “Ha. What new life? I’ve gotta lot of time in here to think about that shit, and I don’t see things changing when I leave.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to get you out. That’s a promise.”

  “I don’t think it’s gonna be that simple, bro.”

  “Like I said, whatever it takes, V.”

  I hug my brother goodbye, and make my way out. With each step, my blood brews. I want some fucking answers. By the time I reach the guard station, my f
ace is burning hot and I’ve broken out in a sweat. I zero in on the nearest man in uniform.

  “I need to talk to whoever is in charge. Now,” I demand.

  “Settle down, please,” a guard says, holding up his pudgy hand defensively. He looks like the poster child for Big Mac, with his huge gut hanging over the front of his pants. “What’s the problem?”

  I take a quick look around me to make sure no civilians are lingering. “I need to report an incident,” I say through gritted teeth.

  Big Mac calls over a wiry, bald man. The stick man doesn’t hide his scrutinising gaze, but rather seems to revel in it. Yes, I have tattoos, you fuckhead.

  “Come with me,” he says, gathering a pen and notepad. He ushers me into a room to the side of the visitors’ desk. The heavy door slams behind him, causing an echo to bounce around the small room.

  I take a seat on the metal chair he offers me, and watch him carefully as he slaps the notepad down on the table and sits opposite me.

  “Tell me about this incident. Name of inmate, please.”

  I swallow down hard. “My brother, Vinnie De Luca.”

  He scrawls his name across the top of the yellow lined notepad in blue ink, and then underlines it.

  I baulk, telling myself I shouldn’t be going behind V’s back. Then the look on his face as he told me what happened clouds my vision.

  I give the guard all the information I know. Whatever they can use to make sure this shit doesn’t happen again.

  “Have you noticed a significant change in his behaviour?” he asks, flipping over to a fresh page.

  “Says he doesn’t wanna go outside, staying in his cell to keep out of trouble.”

  He writes some more and then puts the pen down and rubs his fingers across the deep lines of his forehead. “Does he know you’re reporting this?” he asks, more sympathetic than he’s been since I walked in here.

  “He didn’t want me to.”

  He shakes his head and lets out a deep sigh. Remnants of his last cigarette waft around me in the stagnant air. “They never do.”

  “So what are you gonna do about it?”

  “We’ll assess the information, and decide whether we place him on protection.”