Switch & Burn (Royal Bastards MC : Idaho Springs Chapter)
Page 2
My brain rejects the four letters as I look at him. Really look.
Survivors. Real warriors. Those who’ve endured and fought to stay alive, they aren’t born with names. They’re earned in Hell.
Just like me, Burn.
Just like Raff, Tank, Nose, and the rest of my brothers.
Forcing the kid to face center, I gently tap the side of his cheek, and John’s eyes open. They’re wary and not intent on giving me the time of day. Not that I blame him. I’m an ugly fucker to look at for long. “So, kid, your name isn’t John, and you don’t talk. That’s fine. Here’s how this is gonna work. I’m gonna get up and you’re gonna play nice. No more fighting me… Then we’re gonna play more nice with Bonez and the lady with him. Maybe eat. I’m sure both of us could use some grub.”
I wait for a flinch, a nod, any kind of response, and get nothing beyond him staring at the ceiling. To be fair, it’s a beautiful ceiling—wood beams, skylights, and a kickass wagon wheel chandelier.
“You’ll room with me since I can’t trust you to be on your own. Don’t worry. It’s a nice space. In the morning, we’ll go down to Iron Hell and meet your trainer… We in agreement?”
A single blink, slow and measured.
I grin in appreciation, sorta. That’s how it works in my world. Smiles and most facial expressions only sorta come through. With whacked nerves in my face, ya know, thanks to gasoline and fire, not all the pieces move right. Add tight, leathery skin, odd sensations, and you’ve got half a working mug.
The kid doesn’t seem to notice the distortion or doesn’t give a damn. Stubborn to the core.
‘Cause I enjoy pushing my luck, I softly trace the brand on his hip to see what he’ll do, if anything at all.
No dice.
Fine.
I sigh internally, hoping to get somethin’ outta this kid. Anything beyond misplaced anger, a few tears, and a blink.
Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us. Bonez didn’t call in an easy favor, that’s for fuckin’ sure.
I clear my throat. “Glad we’re on the same page. So… I was thinkin’, since your name isn’t John, and I’m guessin’ you won’t be telling any of us your real name soon, I’m gonna call ya Switch. John’s boring, and none of us ‘round here go by those kinda names. You gonna let me call you Switch?”
The kid closes his eyes for half a beat, inhales deeply, and when he reopens those green orbs, they’re shiny, and his red, almost translucent eyelashes are wet. His stomach shudders, barely, but enough I feel it travel through him into me.
Question answered.
Switch it is. If I’m reading his reaction right. Who the hell knows? I’m no expert in this shit. We’ve got scarred up brothers. Lots of ‘em. Even a half-deaf one. What we don’t have is a mute.
Not saying another word, I return Switch’s shirt to where it belongs and climb off him. He follows suit to stand on solid ground. I thumb toward the bar we have set up in the room and head that way. Switch falls in step, and when I pull a stool out for him to sit, he does. I take this as a good sign and round the bar to grab us bottled waters and bags of chips from under the counter. We store lots of snacks and crap there. On party nights, our head club whore, Chelsea, serves the alcohol. She and her whore friends also cook and clean for us. They’re Idaho Springs locals. Real biker lovin’ types with a desire to fix broken things. As if any of us could be pieced back together by anything with a pussy. Feelings and that sorta junk are reserved for women. Men don’t give a damn about that stuff. We eat, we sleep, we shit, we fight, we ride, and we fuck. There’s no place for love or feelings. Love is for those with a heart. Ain’t none of us got time for that. Not here. Not in this place.
I set a bottle in front of the kid and toss two single-serve bags of Doritos his way. Switch doesn’t hesitate to dig in.
Content to watch him eat, I lean against the counter where we store liquor in rows of colorful bottles. The kid doesn’t seem to mind the attention. He eats hand over fist until he’s inhaled the contents of the two bags. I find a few granola bars and toss them over. He accepts them like a starved puppy. In a steady stream, he finishes his food and I deliver more.
At some point, Bonez and his lady friend return to the great room and give us a wide berth. Probably a good idea. Switch’s tame right now. There’s no need to poke the scarred bear if it isn’t necessary. My biker friend lifts a hand to his ear in a call him gesture before his female companion mouths thank you.
I nod a silent goodbye to them both. Then they’re gone, escorted by two of my brothers off our mountain compound. Guess they didn’t wanna stick around.
“Looks like it’s just us,” I comment when the kid has a pile of empty wrappers scattered across the bar top in front of him.
He cards a hand through his ginger hair and heaves a sigh that sounds a whole helluva lot like he’s full.
“You ready to see our bedroom?”
Switch gathers his mess and climbs off the stool.
I wave off his manners. “Leave the trash. Someone will be by to pick up later.”
He complies and forms a neat pile of wrappers for a club whore to discard as I throw my empty water bottle in the sink for them to recycle.
At the rear of the great room, through a gaping doorway, I turn left toward my room. Once we reach the end of the hall, we take a set of log stairs to the second floor, where the bedrooms are.
Mine’s the first on the left.
The swipe of a keycard has it unlocking. A turn of the handle gets us inside. I usher him ahead of me to get a clear view of the place.
Switch reads my cue and cautiously enters the suite. I’m right behind him with a quiet close to the steel door and a flick to lock the damn thing. We don’t need any of the brothers interrupting us tonight. The kid needs time to settle in.
In the middle of my king-sized bed is a duffle bag, which I assume is his. One of my guys probably brought it in when they set up his rollaway in the corner.
Giving the ginger space to take in the room, I carry his bag over to his bed, not far from the foot of mine. Then perch my back against the wall to watch him. He hasn’t moved, and those curious eyes are busy eating up every square inch of the area. Likely checking for traps or restraints. Maybe a weapon or two. He won’t find any of that here. I had it stripped of all weaponry when I heard he was coming. Don’t want a knife in the throat when I’m asleep.
It won’t take long for the kid to realize he’s fortunate to bunk with me. I’ve got the best room in the lodge. A corner suite with a window the size of a small car overlooking the mountains behind us. Every morning I wake up to that lush, million-dollar view. I love the sight so much I breakfast in front of it at a two-person bistro table.
Switch observes my hunter green comforter with a frown. He does the same with the floor to ceiling nook of shelves bursting with books. I’m a reader. Always have been. When you live in the mountains, you have downtime. It’s a way of life. More relaxed and less of the hustle and bustle you’d get in a city like Denver. Some play pool, darts, video games, or pinball in our rec room to chill. Others live in the gym. A few drink and fuck themselves into oblivion. My father, Dog, would be one of those bastards. I prefer a clear head. Alcohol muddles the mind and… well… I like blow jobs sometimes. But I haven’t had sex in years. Let’s just say I don’t like to be touched, and let’s be real, women want to touch you when you’re pounding their cunts. My scars are sensitive. Plus, we both know chicks prefer to screw prettier guys. Apart from Nose, I’m the ugliest motherfucker here.
“Your bed.” I kick a wheel on the base of his twin.
He observes the white sheets and matching hunter green bedspread before his red eyebrows wrinkle in confusion as he notices an open doorway that leads into yet another area.
“Go on. Check it out.” I flick my chin that’a way.
Switch looks to me with innocent hesitation. It breaks my heart wide open.
All right. Fine. I’ll go first.
There’s a galley kitchen that serves as a makeshift hallway, with a fridge, two-burner stove, sink, dishwasher, microwave, and a handful of cupboards for storage. Nothing fancy. I drop my ass on the couch in the adjoining room, kick my feet up onto the vintage coffee table, and wait for the kid to do whatever he needs to do.
This room’s nice. Another car-sized window overlooks the mountains at the couch’s six. A TV hangs above an ornate wood-burning fireplace. On either side, an outdoorsy scene of bears and wildlife is carved. To add to the overall ambiance, a club whore placed a faux bear rug in front of the stone hearth. More bookshelves and books take up another wall. An old-school rocking chair serves as my favorite reading spot.
The kid takes his time soaking in his new home. I watch in fascination as he does, hoping he’ll talk and reveal something about himself beyond the obvious.
He doesn’t.
The last door Switch reaches, he touches the knob with reverence before eyeing me for permission to venture further.
“Check it out,” I encourage, knowing he’ll love what he finds. A bathroom the size of a bedroom. A glass-walled shower big enough to fit six people that overlooks the mountainside through a floor to ceiling adjacent window. A sunken tub the size of a Mini Cooper. Double vanity sinks with more of the same carvings you’ll find throughout the lodge. More rock and wood… and a skylight. Heaven. It’s the most relaxing place on the compound. An oasis. Brothers would give their right nut to use it, even once. Thing is, I’m not keen on sharing my space.
When Switch doesn’t return after some time has passed, I get up to check on him. I pause at the doorway at what I find…
Facing the mirror, now shirtless, the kid probes his scarred skin with a single finger. Tears drip like a leaky faucet down his flushed face as his bottom lip trembles. Unable to tear my eyes from his form, I lean my shoulder against the frame and watch him when I know I should walk away. I can’t. I fucking can’t.
As if living in a world of his own, Switch unbuttons his pants and drops them to the floor. He does the same with his boxers, pooling at his ankles, above his shoes. Every inch beneath the fabric is like the rest— wrecked.
He cups his balls and massages his limp cock, watching every moment in the mirror as I do the same… like a creeper.
Bending down, Switch removes his shoes and the rest of his clothing until he’s standing there stark naked. Then he turns, giving me an unadulterated view of his damage as if he knew I was standing here all along, as if he needs me to bear witness to the unspoken horrors. It tugs a sacred place inside me. One I rarely visit. There’s a reason I lock it down. Nothing good comes from there.
A tightness coils in my chest as I trace his scars one by one, memorizing their paths. Hands fisted down at his sides, the kid lays it all bare. As if I’ll judge. As if I wouldn’t want him here.
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
Needing Switch to know, to feel, he isn’t alone; I tug my shirt over my head and throw it on the ground at my feet.
Seeing the mutilation, he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. Much like his, it extends beyond my face and arms, down my torso and…
I drop my shorts and boxers to the floor.
There, he sees all of me as I see all of him.
“You’re not alone. I don’t know your story, but you need to know you’re not alone.”
The poor kid bows his head and sighs a broken little sound that rips at my guts.
I’ve been through a lot, seen a lot, but this is different. He’s different.
Doing the only thing I know how, I kick off my clothes and grab towels from the cupboard. I lay them on the floor outside the shower stall as I open the door and turn on all four rainfall showerheads.
“It’s been a long day and I need a shower. Wanna join me?” I point to his spot in the booth. As a fighter, modesty is for those who sexualize the human form. Showering beside another man is normal in our world. Just two adults trying to wash away their demons and nut funk.
I don’t wait for Switch to decide whether or not he wants clean when I enter the stall and claim my corner. On the floor beside my feet is my primary stash of manly scented body wash, shampoo, and loofa. In my defense, it’s as black as my soul.
Somewhere between scrubbing my balls and cock, my new roomie quits contemplating world hunger and claims the showerhead across from mine. I kick over the soap I used, along with my loofa, when I’m through. We’ll get him his own later. When he’s ready to see the small town we live near.
Not wasting time, I leave him to do his thing, climb out, and dry off as I always do. Then apply lotion from head to toe in front of the mirror. Have to keep the burns hydrated. When done, I toss my towel in the dirty laundry and free ball it into the living room of my suite.
Keeping it all-natural, I select a book I haven’t read in a while from the shelf and settle into my rocker for quiet time. Tomorrow I’ve gotta run numbers and schedules for the up-and-coming fights, but only after I introduce Switch to Tank. I think they’ll get along fine. As long as Tank can handle the no talking, and Switch can reel in his temper.
At some point, the kid exits the bath with a towel wrapped around his waist. I arch a brow at the thing, wanting to laugh, but think better of it.
He takes one glance at my expression and scans the rest of me with clinical regard before discarding the towel into the bathroom hamper.
“There’s a remote on the table there, if you wanna watch something.” I gesture to the black rectangle with the jut of my chin.
Switch gives zero sign he’s listening to a word I say, but I know better when he selects a book from a shelf and sprawls out on the sofa to read.
A shower and reading with no blood loss, not too shabby.
I smile to myself for the win.
“Whenever you’re hungry, there’s food in the cupboards. And if you need something we don’t have, let me know.”
As expected, Switch pretends I don’t exist, and I’m cool with it. Talking’s overrated.
We read in near silence with nothing but the gentle rock of my chair and the wind outside to serenade us into the fictional worlds we seek. It’s peaceful. Something I’ve never done before. Nobody else I know appreciates the simplicity of reading and rocking. It’s old-school, sure. But it’s a little bit of solace I get in a place made for sex and violence.
Flipping to the next page, I peek at the kid. Using the arm of the couch as a makeshift pillow, both knees bent, feet flat on the cushions, he props the hardback on his thighs to enjoy.
I sigh in contentment, elbows perched on the chair arms, legs spread to give my balls fresh air.
Time passes in a fictional fog.
As the sun sets, I get up to turn on two small antique lamps. Not wanting to disturb him, I gather a bottle of water and granola bar from the kitchen and set them on the coffee table for him to eat whenever he’s hungry. The kid glances up with gratitude as I back away.
I wink with my good eye and deliver my own version of a grin.
A slight quirk forms at the edge of his lips. A mere blip of emotion that makes me feel ten feet tall.
I retake my chair, feeling lighter than I have in days. Maybe months.
He’s still watching as I do.
“I’m happy you found a home,” I mumble, not wanting to make shit awkward.
Too late… Switch bites his bottom lip as his gaze darts back to the pages of his book, one I’ve read a dozen times before.
And I let him, ‘cause more than anything I want the kid to be okay.
Scars like his aren’t born from nothing.
His demons are ours to help exorcise.
Tomorrow the real trial begins.
Tonight, we read to forget.
2
In the furthest corner of the warehouse we call Iron Hell, Tank takes Switch through different fighting techniques and stances. The kid soaks up k
nowledge like a sponge. There’s no doubt he’s wicked smart.
My six-foot-seven, three-hundred-and-fifty-pound brother smiles my way as the kid completes a combination the first time through. Raff sneaks up beside me and bumps his sweaty shoulder into mine. “Looks like we got ourselves a natural.” He gestures to the kid’s fluid movements we both know can’t be taught. Not without an aptitude for the art, anyhow.
“It seems that way, huh?” I clamp down the urge to smile with some weird, fucked up sense of pride. It’s dumb. I know it is. To feel this way about someone I met yesterday. But I can’t help it. The urge is still there, lingering like an infected hangnail.
“Gotta put some more meat on those bones, though.”
Arms crossed over my chest, attention on the sparring, I nod in agreement. “I know. He ate half a dozen scrambled eggs this morning, three pieces of toast, and six sausage links.” Damn kid inhaled every bite like it’d be his last. I was so transfixed, I forgot to finish my toast and coffee. We sat where I always do at the small table, naked, our knees bumping in the too-tight space—another first for me. I’ve never shared it, or my mornings before. The brothers know not to fuck with their VP between the hours of midnight and six a.m. Having Switch around will take some getting used to.
“Jesus.” Raff whistles in awe. “That’s some grub.”
“Tell me about it. If I’d known the kid could eat twice as much as I do, I’d have stocked the room better.” After we got dressed, and I brought him down to meet Tank at seven a.m. sharp, I left to handle club business in my office and texted Chelsea with a list of ingredients I need stocked in my kitchen. If I’m gonna cook our new fighter breakfast, I’m gonna need a helluva lot more than what she put in there the day before yesterday to prepare for his arrival.
“He sleep okay? Not give you any more trouble?” my brother asks.
On the mat, Switch lands a solid punch to Tank’s stomach, and the giant thumps the kid on the shoulder in praise. I reserve a private smile for myself. It ain’t easy getting a hit on the man. Not unless he wants you to. Tank’s been a fighter for the better part of his life. Started wrestling and turned into the trainer we’ve got today after he broke his femur in a deathmatch ‘bout a decade ago.