Switch & Burn (Royal Bastards MC : Idaho Springs Chapter)

by Bink Cummings

  When I don’t respond quick enough for Raff’s liking, he repeats the question. “He sleep okay? Not give ya trouble?”

  I think on it for a minute, letting him wait as he should. I’ll speak when I want. Not when expected. Patience is a fucking virtue.

  The clang of weights echoes through the room—a bouquet of perspiration and testosterone thick in the air. Grunts trail a string of curses from a brother lifting nearby.

  “Honestly? He’s been chill,” I answer when ready. “After our bout yesterday he’s been fine. Doesn’t talk, but he picks up after himself and cleans his plate.” Which I also hadn’t anticipated. Bonez painted Switch to be a violent young adult in need of an attitude adjustment. The Switch I know isn’t like that.

  “Doesn’t surprise me, abused kids attack when scared and appreciate a good thing once they know they’ve got it,” Raff explains like he’s an expert in the field.

  I swing a curious glance in his direction. “You speakin’ from experience?”

  Raff rolls a pair of dark chocolate eyes and smirks half-cocked. “What do you think?”

  “I think we’ve been brothers for eight years, and I still don’t know how you got that scar.” I flick my attention to the mark bisecting his pec, which snakes down those abs to disappear under the waistband of his sweats. After seeing him change in the locker room a million times, I know it ends on the inside of his thigh.

  As predicted, he evades the truth with a cheesy joke. “Shark attack.”

  Fucker.

  “Uh-huh. Think I heard you tell a club whore last month you wrestled a rhino.” The story was elaborate. Down to the knife he stabbed into the animal’s eye socket.

  Too proud of his dumbass antics, Raff bounces his brows suggestively. “Got me laid, didn’t it?”

  Wrong.

  I snort. “No, asshole. Your pretty face and six-pack got you laid. The story only makes them work harder, ‘cause they feel sorry for your lyin’ ass.” Raff’s the only ten outta ten in our brotherhood. He wears his hair shaved on the sides and ties back the rest in a series of ponytails or man-buns. The bastard has classic good looks… Ya know, strong jaw, tight muscles, ink the ladies go crazy for, and long, bitch lashes—a real Don Juan of the clubhouse. Part of me hates him for it. Though, that part is damn near microscopic. ‘Cause he’s one of the nicest, most genuine assholes I’ve met, and that’s sayin’ a whole helluva lot.

  Raff laughs and punches me in the shoulder. “Hey, don’t be jealous. Green ain’t a good color on ya, brother. How ‘bout you get your dick wet come the Friday night party?”

  I open my mouth to argue, but Raff keeps yakkin’ before I get a word in edgewise. “Don’t play the burn, or the I’m ugly, or the I’m busy bullshit. You’ve got yourself a ward now. One, who probably hasn’t had much pussy. Do us all a favor and show Red and yourself a good time. Pre-fight parties are fun if you let yourself enjoy ‘em.”

  There’s no use in arguing.

  “We’ll see… and his name’s Switch.”

  Ignoring me, Raff draws another person into our non-discussion. “Hey, Tank, you think VP should get his dick wet come Friday’s party?”

  “Raff, shut your hole,” I growl under breath, ready to tear his throat out. A haze of red paints the back of my eyelids as I clench my jaw and force myself to breathe through the desire to inflict damage, to unleash… everything. I pinch my burned forearm and pain sparks in mini pinpricks across the ruined skin, yanking my need for violence back from the precipice.

  Tank, God love the man, shrugs Raff’s bullshit off, and gets back to Switch, who looks our way as if just now realizing I’m standing here and have been for the past half hour.

  The shit-stirrer beside me doesn’t let up. “Yo, Switch, you want your roomie to show you a good time on Friday? Let you meet some ladies? Get some pussy?”

  Turning fire engine red in the deepest flush I’ve seen yet, Switch disregards Raff, shakes out his arms, and moves into a fighting stance to face off against his mentor.

  “Damn. He shot me down.”

  I face Raff, blocking his view of the guys. Then mentally prepare to lay shit out. He can annoy me with his need to get me club whore cunt. What I won’t tolerate is him drawing a traumatized kid into his clutches, even if it’s in the name of brotherhood. Not gonna happen. Switch, as Raff already said, is my ward. Mine. Not his. Not anyone else’s. Mine. I’ll handle his care as I see fit. Pressuring him into sex will never be my MO. I don’t roll that way, and Raff, as much as he goofs around when he’s in a good mood, doesn’t roll that way either.

  “Knock it off,” I snarl. Like a smart man, Raff nods. That’s it. A simple incline of the head, and he backs down. When he was new, this would’ve ended in a fight, both of us bloodied in need of stitches. He’s grown a lot in the past five years. The first were much different.

  Nose, our bald-headed, noseless, former white supremacist brother, walks up in a pair of shorts and a tank, rocking half a body full of solid black ink to cover his old bigoted ways. He notices my take-no-shit stance and slaps Raff across the back of the skull.

  Raff takes it.

  From Nose, he’ll always take it. No matter what.

  Two years ago, Nose saved Raff’s life when an unauthorized fight broke out in our underground ring. A rival club came to take on Beast, the one brother you won’t hear me talk much about. When the fighter in the ring died on the third hit to the face, the room erupted in violence. The other club lost their shit. We, not ones to back down from any brawl, got in the thick of things. Nose, who scarred up his face and lost his nose in a motorcycle accident ages ago, tore through the crowd when a group of bikers were beating the life outta Raff. He took them on by himself, and I’m not sorry to say two of ‘em died.

  They’ve been tight ever since.

  Where Raff goes, Nose goes. They work out together in the Iron Hell. They eat together most nights. Fuck women together. Drink together. These bastards are attached at the hip for good reason.

  Out of the two of ‘em, Nose is better with his fists. Raff takes our fellow brother’s training seriously and places his own ring time on the back burner.

  I know what you’re thinkin’. Does Nose really have an open hole in his face? The short answer is, yes. The long answer is, he has a prosthetic that snaps in place whenever he wants, but he can’t fight with it. Trust me, it takes time to get used to the view. After a while, you don’t notice it anymore. Like the rest of us scarred up assholes, he fits in. Ain’t none of us perfect.

  Both of my brothers carry on amongst themselves, then disappear into the abyss of metal and weights. The entire warehouse is wall-to-wall equipment and mats. Ropes hang from the tall ceilings for climbing exercises. In the east, free weights and benches span. West, an array of machines, including cardio ones, take precedence. South, mats and a ring for practice. North, punching bags, oversized tires, and other various odds and ends are left to get the job done. It’s every fighter and gym rat’s paradise.

  Content to watch Switch move from mat to machine, I retrieve my phone from my jeans and chill on the bench beside the water fountain to work. Raff wasn’t wrong when he said we have a party Friday night. Brothers from two other Royal Bastards chapters are riding in to fight rich, white-collar fucks with high-dollar instructors and more money than God. The gentlemen fly in Saturday on their private jet, to make their first fight at eight. This should get interesting. Our chapter’s fronting the purses. Nose is the headliner of the evening, with Viking from the Charleston Chapter, and Drake from Savannah taking two of the other top slots. Five matches, ten men, a hundred grand. Good times. Massive bankroll. The gentlemen will lose big bucks come Saturday. Hope their egos can handle the blow.

  Brothers drop by to chat for a sec or two, as I finish what I need to before playing Candy Crush while I wait for Tank to finish with the kid. The Iron Hell’s almost a ghost town and my stomach’s grumblin’ somethin’ fierce by the time they’re done.

  Coated in
a thick layer of sweat, Switch stumbles in an exhausted daze to the water fountain and gulps down a gallon of the stuff before he comes up for air. Tank joins us, just as tired and sweaty.

  Using his white t-shirt to wipe his face, my brother’s attention flicks to Switch. “He did good.”

  “I figured.”

  “Got him set on a workout regimen to do every day before we train together.”

  Side-eyeing Switch, I catch him using a towel from our stash to wipe down. “You remember the regimen?” I address the kid.

  Still drying off, he looks up to lock gazes and nods.

  Fair enough.

  I return my focus to Tank. “Sounds like he’s good.”

  “Didn’t think otherwise.” My brother thumps me on the shoulder and does the same to Switch before he disappears to shower in the locker room.

  “You wanna clean up here or our room?” I gesture the way his trainer went.

  The kid doesn’t bother communicating a damn thing as he strolls toward the underground tunnel that connects the warehouse to the lodge. I fall in step a few feet behind to see if he knows the way or needs a guide.

  Switch surprises me when he leads us to our bedroom door and waits for me to unlock it. Once I do, he strips off his clothes right next to my bed, balls the sweaty gear in his arms and hauls them, along with his bare ass to the bathroom.

  In no hurry to do more than unwind, I remove my shirt and shoes to give my burns air to breathe, then pop by the kitchen to see if Chelsea had time to stock the shelves. By the looks of things, she did. Inside the cupboards, there’s not a stitch of room left to fit anything beyond air. On the floor, there’s a bag of extras she couldn’t find space for.

  I riffle through the granola bars, and protein shakes, takin’ stock of what we got on hand when I hear a loud thump in the bathroom. Three more sounds follow in succession like someone’s throwing shit. The kid had better not be having a violent meltdown.

  Not wanting the best room in the lodge to get trashed, I hightail inside to find Switch under the spray deliberately dropping my bottle of body wash on the floor.

  “What the hell, dude?”

  He points to the opposing showerhead. The same one I used yesterday is running.

  “You want me there, now?”

  A wannabe innocent, yet not so innocent head dip is all I get.

  Fuckin’ A.

  Rolling my eyes like a teenager, I drop my pants and boxers to the ground. “You throw my body wash again and I’ll bust your ass,” I growl as I toss my clothes in the hamper and run a palm down my abs to my dick to scratch the thing.

  Switch smirks, knowin’ damn well I’ll do no such thing.

  I let the redheaded asshole win and throw open the shower door to join him. Not saying another word, we do the same share and slide we did yesterday, only in reverse. When we’re through, he hands me the lotion I use on my burns as I grab us towels from the cupboard.

  Side by side, we finish our deodorant, cologne, dry off stuff before freeballin’ it into the main living area. I take the rocker to read the same book as yesterday while Switch digs through the kitchen cupboards for sustenance.

  “Don’t eat everything in there. I’m cookin’ dinner tonight.”

  Christ, that sounds domestic.

  I clear my throat. “Scratch that. Eat whatever you want. I might cook dinner tonight. Ya know, if I feel like it.”

  As expected, Switch doesn’t say shit, though he brings me a bottle of water and a cheese stick when he’s finished doing his thing. I nod in thanks as he takes his stash of snacks to the couch. From the looks of things, he went light: an apple, banana, granola bar, and water.

  Guess I’ll be playin’ the domestic bitch tonight, when I feel like it.

  The cheese goes down the hatch, and ten book pages later, my stomach growls like it hasn’t eaten in days. The snack just ain’t cuttin’ it.

  Doing what needs done, I pan fry a couple cheeseburgers on the stovetop and serve dinner on the tiny table in our bedroom, overlooking the mountains. It’s late. The stars are twinkling in all their glory— true beauty when eating in silence across from a scarred-up kid who won’t talk.

  Devouring all three of his burgers at record speed, Switch’s leg bounces against mine beneath the table. Like he’s some fascinating creature, I watch him chew, swallow, and gulp water from his bottle. A bit of ketchup dribbles down his chin. Without thinkin’ much about it, I wipe away the sauce with my napkin.

  Fuckin’ hell, what is it about this guy?

  Disturbed by my own behavior, I crumple the napkin in a ball, shove the last half of my burger into my maw and chew it like a caveman. Not bothering to finish at the table, I continue the mouthful as I clear my empty plate and water. Switch joins me in the narrow kitchen a moment later. His bare hip hits mine as we maneuver around the space, dishwasher open, to put our plates away. Back and forth, we take turns handling the wares. Every handoff feels natural, like I didn’t just meet him. Like this isn’t our first dinner in the suite together.

  He grins as the door comes to a close and we start the machine together.

  And I… I ignore my body’s reaction. The tightness in the gut from his simple grin from handling household chores. The equal tightness in my throat when I try to swallow and my mouth feels dry.

  For the rest of the evening, I struggle to explain why Switch’s presence doesn’t drive me up the wall… when it should. As you already know, I’m not keen on sharing my space with other people. That’s why I don’t have a bedroom beside anyone else’s. Their late-night fuckfests and other behaviors are a nuisance I don’t wanna deal with. Nor do I have to. Coming up empty, I use his mutism for validation. Even if I know, it’s not that. If anything, it should irritate me more, not less.

  We read in companionable silence for hours—me in the chair, him on the couch.

  Before bed, I take a leak, and he’s in there right behind me, ready for his turn, dick out.

  It’d piss me off if anyone else in my life invaded my privacy like this. Hovering too close. Watching. But I can’t muster a single fuck to give about Switch’s intrusion. It’s kinda nice not bein’ alone. It’s kinda nice havin’ someone present without having to deal with females and all the drama that comes with ‘em.

  Believe it or not, I had a girlfriend once. Just once. It was ages ago, a couple years after we opened the chapter. Her name was Selene. She was beautiful in every way a woman can be beautiful—full lips, lush curves, big tits, round ass, large chestnut-colored eyes, and the silkiest skin. She was perfection incarnate. I was madly in love with her, or so I thought. The first six months, I was infatuated. This was the woman who saw beyond my burns. Who worshiped my cock and me, its owner. We had good times. Real good times. Until… we didn’t. Wish I could say she cheated, or I did. That’d be easier to explain.

  Thing is, we didn’t drift apart. The sex didn’t become stale.

  One morning about ten months in, she was in my bathroom doing her hair when I pissed. We’d never done that before. Some things should remain private. I considered that one of ‘em.

  I felt violated when she watched, even if it was irrational.

  From then on, I started to notice things—How she left her hairbrush on my counter when we didn’t live together. The gloss she wore on her lips was sticky on my own. She ate like a bird, never indulging in more than a single bite of dessert. Somehow this beautiful woman was too perfect. Too beautiful. Her skin too soft. Lips too delicate. Even her smell, I no longer found appealing.

  By the year mark, I fought to keep erections.

  Then I gave up.

  I broke her heart and somehow damaged little of mine. Until yesterday, I didn’t think I could live in the same room, much less breathe the same air as anyone for any length of time. Seems I was wrong. Maybe things will change tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll wanna wring his neck then. Who the hell knows?

  3

  Fists fly, an arc of perfection, taped knuckles to bare flesh
. The crowd roars their bloodlust and Switch siphons the frenetic energy to power his next assault. It’s beautiful… The dance. The bright spotlight illuminating his flushed, once milky skin. The scars he wears on display to give the world a big, fat fuck you.

  I video chat it all, to show Bonez what he brought me. What he gave the brotherhood. It’s addictive to watch… The intensity in which Switch strikes inside the cage. The focus. The drive. I’ve never seen anyone like him before. Neither has Tank.

  Delivering a flawless spin kick, Switch’s heel clips the caramel-skinned fighter in the temple, and he’s gone... Down for the count. His body collapses to the mat as Switch shakes both arms down at his sides, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he trembles with unspent thirst. I know the look well. The manic green orbs sparkling under the lights. The healthy sheen of sweat. The muscles contracting to inflict more harm. He’s a machine.

  Our ref lifts Switch’s arm in victory as his opponent’s team claims the unconscious man. He’s still out as they sit him on the ground outside the ring, waving salts beneath his nostrils.

  When my roommate jogs down the steps and beyond the throng of excited spectators, he disappears into the locker room. I take it as my cue to join him. I’m the only person who can calm the kid after a fight. We learned the hard way, after his first when he trashed the locker room. For two months, he’s been working his way up the roster to bigger fish, and like the rest of the matches he didn’t get enough time to feed the demon. He’s too strong, too fast, too smart for the men Tank insists we pit him against.

  No more of this small-time bullshit. Not after tonight.

  I skirt the crowd as Nose enters the ring.

  In the hall, the noise of the arena wanes to a dull thunder. I flip the camera to face me and rest against the cold concrete. It seeps through the cotton of my t-shirt—goosebumps pebble across my back.