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

by Bink Cummings

  “Sup, Bonez.” I wink with my better eye and smirk.

  Dumbstruck by tonight’s event, he scrubs a hand over his shorn skull, bicep flexing. “Fuuuck.” Jacked up on adrenaline, he puffs out a breath and shakes his head, eyes wide.

  “Crazy, huh?” I watch on, pleased with his reaction.

  The bout of head shaking carries forth. “He’s a beast.”

  Tell me about it.

  My smirk transforms into a lopsided smile. “I know. A couple of months training with Tank, and that’s what we got.”

  “He doesn’t even look like the same kid.”

  “Yeah. He does,” I defend. ‘Cause Switch is still Switch.

  Seated on a couch in his home state of Kentucky, Bonez feeds me a look that says I’m full of shit. “Burn, no, he doesn’t. You’re around him every day. You wouldn’t notice. His chest is as big as mine,” Bonez taps a pec, “and his muscle definition is… Fuck. And, he cut his hair.”

  “I cut his hair. It was gettin’ in his eyes.” Switch refuses to let anyone touch him besides me. I didn’t trust him with the shears. It’s not the best haircut, but at least he can see. “What’d you think would happen when he came here? Training and lifting seven days a week with no time off will give you muscle definition.”

  His head shaking persists, shallow and enmeshed in disbelief. “I know. I get it. I do. Just don’t realize ‘til you see it firsthand… He still not talking?”

  “Nope.” And even if he was, I wouldn’t tell him.

  My friend takes a drink from his glass. “How you handling that?” He plays it smooth like he isn’t prying. Thing is, I know the man, he has a habit of sticking his nose where it don’t belong.

  I shrug, a show of indifference. “Fine. Why?” Truth is, it’s not anyone’s business. Bonez left the kid with me, ‘cause he couldn’t handle the outbursts, and I’m dealing with Switch how I choose.

  “You’ve been living with him for five months,” he says as if that explains everything.

  “So?” Irritated with the trajectory this exchange is headed, I dig at my burned side for a welcomed bite of pain. It centers me. Gives me focus. Keeps me from spouting off at the mouth, when I’m about to do just that.

  “And he doesn’t trust you enough to tell ya what happened to him?” He’s suspicious.

  Thinkin’ Bonez needs a big dose of fuck and off.

  This asshole doesn’t wanna go there with me. Not about this.

  “Why would he?” My words are calm when I’m anything but.

  For good measure, I dig another spot, careful not to break the skin.

  “Raff told me.”

  That motherfucker.

  On reflex, my thighs and ass tighten at his words. He’s been snooping. Digging in places his nose don’t belong. “Told you what?” Again, I’m the picture of chill—the goddamn Mona Lisa.

  “That he’s still livin’ in your bedroom. That you watch him practice most days and never leave each other’s side.”

  His point?

  Am I supposed to be ashamed of our friendship? ‘Cause I’m not.

  “And?” I tilt my head to the side in question.

  “Thought he might’ve confided in ya by now. That’s all.” Is it just me, or is Bonez implying something? I’m not one to mince words or worry about reading between the lines. If you wanna say something, say it. If you wanna know something, ask. This vague shit is for women. I don’t have the patience for it.

  “There’s no timeline here. If he doesn’t wanna talk, I’m not gonna ask him to.” Now let it go. Let. It. Go.

  Not getting the reply he wants, Bonez shifts on the couch. “Your choice.” His expression’s tight, matching his words perfectly.

  Dick.

  I force myself to breathe in through my nose, before the verbal diarrhea starts and I can’t reel it back.

  “It. Is.” I grate, letting a fraction of my irritation show. “He’s fine.”

  The door to the locker room slams open, and a naked Switch steps into the frame, not giving a damn who sees his dick in its soft glory. That’d make one of us. ‘Cause nobody should see what he has to offer. It’s bad enough the club whores fawn over him every chance they get. The kid’s got himself a fan club inside the clubhouse and out. Pretty sure I saw a sign in the audience tonight from Switch’s Bitches. That’s what they call themselves. Real fuckin’ original, eh?

  Tired of justifying my life choices to Bonez, I hang up without a goodbye. I’ve got better shit to do anyhow. He can kick rocks.

  “You need a rub down?” I gesture to the kid’s shoulders.

  He sighs softly. Anyone else wouldn’t think much of the sound, but I’m fluent in all things Switch. You kinda expect that to happen when you live with someone for months on end, sharing your entire world.

  Nothing is said as I enter the locker room behind him. For privacy reasons, I flick the lock to keep everyone out and meet him at the physical therapy table in the corner. Switch lays face down, and I get to work, pumping massage oil into my hands from the small table of supplies. I warm both palms before applying pressure to his shoulders first and working my way down.

  This is how we handle his leftover rage. Unlike me, his scars aren’t as sensitive. If anything, they desensitize him to touch. As I dig my thumbs into Switch’s sculpted ass cheeks, I hum to his fight song by Rob Zombie. The noise moves things along without the added awkwardness of dark, tattooed hands on pale ass.

  My thumb brushes the edge of his crack on accident and my stomach cramps.

  I ignore it as I always do.

  Shifting a bit, Switch spreads his legs to give me room to operate. Between those thighs, his dick rests on the table, thickening as it always does—a normal response to physical touch. I disregard the organ as I squeeze the crease where ass meets thigh, getting the tight muscles good and loose. Slowly, I travel downward, working one red-haired leg with oil then the other before finishing at his feet.

  Hating this part, the kid grips the table’s edge. Knuckles blanch to white as I knead the arch of his foot, his heel, and the tips of his toes. A tiny noise breaks from Switch’s throat as his hips nearly come off the table. If I had to guess, he’s ticklish or touching his feet awakens an awful memory. Yet, he never asks me to stop. Never tries to get away. Every slick glide leaves him squirming. His breaths become sharper. He rubs his forehead against the plastic covering, groaning louder the longer I persist. If I were a better man, I’d quit for his benefit. Thing is, I know how hard fighters work, how bad their feet ache after hours of putting them through training. So, I don’t let up. I make him take it. And once I’ve turned the poor kid into a shuddery mess, only then do I give him a reprieve.

  Scratching my nails up his calves for a change in stimulation, Switch melts, and I smile in victory. By the time I drag my nails up his ass, he’s putty.

  Bonez wasn’t wrong when he said the kid has changed… some. He’s bigger now. Thicker. Our height difference was never as apparent to me before, when we were closer in body size. Now that he’s put on fifty pounds of muscle, I notice. With a mop of red hair and snowy skin, the kid takes some of the heat off my ugliness in social situations. The burns on my face become less of a focus. The cringing is far and few between when chicks are too busy fawning over my roommate and his physique. It gives Raff a run for his money. Add in a rare Switch smile, and the hottest brother in our chapter becomes downright invisible. Raff despises the competition. I find it hilarious.

  At the nape of the kid’s neck, I apply pressure in circles and work my way to his scalp, getting his damp hair, greasy. It’s nothing he can’t wash off later. The oils are good for the skin. Especially his.

  Switch turns his head to the side, facing my direction, eyes closed. I trace my thumb across the lobe of his ear, to his jaw, and rub his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, forehead. Then sweep oil across the bow of his too perfect lips. Shining in the dim overhead light, they part on a soft intake of breath. I watch in fascination, as I do
all things with this guy.

  “You’re done, kid,” I whisper and spread the remnants of oil up my forearms. The weird sensation in my belly worsens to the point of pain. I swallow and breathe and swallow and breathe through its onslaught as I always do when it stirs.

  Switch doesn’t move or respond.

  He’s calm now. No longer the poster boy for bloodthirsty desires.

  It’s what I came for. To help.

  Giving him privacy, I drape a fresh white towel over his ass and rejoin my brothers in the underground arena.

  Coated in blood, standing dead center in the middle of the ring, Nose raises his arms, throws his head back, and howls in triumph.

  Raff joins the celebration as do the rest of the Royal Bastard brothers from their stations in the crowded stadium.

  As VP, I climb the outer ring steps and push open the chain link door to join Nose in celebration of his deathmatch win. On the floor, at his feet is his lifeless opponent. Fragments of cheekbone pierce through bloodied skin as his leg bends at an awkward angle. The cartilage once making up his nose is flat. An ugly kill, but Nose appropriate. From the look of the man’s tats, a skinhead.

  Raff set up the match and I didn’t bother asking questions.

  My guess, this is a former associate of Nose’s.

  Our victor swings his gaze to the corpse and spits on it. “Fuck you, Jed.”

  Well, wouldn’t ya know it, I’m right.

  Happy to see him walking straight after a match, I slap him on the back. “You didn’t get yourself killed.”

  Nose flashes me a manic smile, and crimson paints the front of his crooked teeth. “You worried, VP?”

  I smirk. “Was I supposed to be?”

  “Nope.” High on victory, Nose returns my back slap blasting my burns full on. Setting off a chain reaction, waves of excruciating pain shoot down my side. I grit my teeth and power through it. Sharp knives hurt less. Hell, getting shot hurts less. This takes my damn breath away. I stagger back a step as Raff whistles to us from the ground, both of his arms wrapped around two ladies. “Time to fuck, Nose. Let’s hit it.”

  Too focused on getting his dick wet, Nose smears blood across his face with the back of his hand, thinkin’ he’s somehow wiping it away, and drops his shorts at the gate, baring his dick.

  “Come suck me, you beautiful whores!” he cheers, swinging his wang like a helicopter.

  Half of the room erupts in laughter, as Raff rolls his eyes at Nose and pushes one of the women forward to take care of business. She does, not giving a damn he just killed a man, or that he’s painted in blood. She gets a fist full of Nose’s dick and guides him down the steps to the closest chair, then drops to her knees to blow him. Raff takes the open seat beside our brother and watches Nose take pleasure before undoing his own jeans and lettin’ the other whore deep throat his cock.

  Me, I try not to throw up as tears prick my eyes.

  If things couldn’t get any worse, Switch decides now’s a good time to join the party. Which is what tonight’s gonna bring. Undefeated fight parties are the wildest. I hate them with a passion. Too much sex. Too much bare tits and pussy. Too much alcohol and drugs. Yeah, I’m a real killjoy. I know. Fuck off.

  Switch’s Bitches flock to the kid. Six of them, all sleazy and ready to spread their neatly trimmed puss for him. Whores.

  I growl low in my throat, through the pain, through all of it at the thought of him… fucking them. Disgusting whores.

  Thankfully, the kid’s too busy staring at me to notice the clique. He weaves through those vying for attention and joins me front and center wearing a pair of sweats, Nike’s, and nothing else.

  A single look and his brows stitch together in the middle, the picture of concern.

  “I’m fine.”

  His lips thin at the lie.

  Not wanting to ruin his night, I incline my head toward the groupies, who’ve surrounded the bottom steps. At least they’re smart enough not to come inside when the dead skinhead’s crew is bagging the body.

  “Go on.”

  Switch’s nostrils flare.

  Great. I’m pissing him off.

  “You won tonight. Get a blowie, kid.”

  Clenched fists follow more nostril flaring.

  This is ridiculous.

  “What? I know you don’t jack off. You gotta blow your load somewhere. There are six mouths ready and willing.”

  I don’t see it. Hell, I don’t even feel it ‘til I’m flat on my back, blood pouring like a geyser from my nose, and Switch is hovering above me, the overhead lights a halo around his head…

  I blink.

  He glares, his skin the color of strawberries.

  Beautiful.

  Fuuuck…

  Pain bursts like fireworks as my joggled brain catches up.

  I blink.

  He hits me in the chest.

  I gasp for air, and nothing comes. I try to yell and… silence.

  Another strike weakens my stomach, and instincts take over. Rolling onto my side, I wretch the contents of my dinner onto the mat. There’s shouting and someone touches my shoulder. The bad one. The burned one. It hurts. Everywhere feels like I’m on fire.

  Then… I’m back there. That night. With them.

  “Your daddy won’t save you, bitch,” the bastard cackles as he pours gasoline over my destroyed face.

  I open my mouth to scream and he drowns it in liquid.

  I choke and vomit, and when I think I’m done, I choke more, throat on fire, tongue scorching.

  “You’re gonna die.” He kicks my side as I roll around, trying to find a dry patch of ground. Rocks cut into my palms as I fight to stand, to live.

  There’s the click of a lighter.

  Then… Hell.

  I scream and scream and scream.

  And he’s there, the redhead with haunted green eyes. His fingertips brush over me and pain fades to nothingness. He whispers he’s sorry, his breath hot on my skin, and I know everything’s gonna be alright. It’s him. He’s here. The man with skin of milk and… a…

  4

  SWITCH

  Flat on my stomach, hands zip-tied behind my back, the Royal Bastards rain hellfire upon me.

  “You piece of shit!”

  “He trusted you!”

  “I’m gonna break every bone in your body!”

  If they think they scare me, that their words have any effect, that their fists inflict real pain, they don’t. The only person in this world that means anything to me... everything to me... is Burn. I’m nothing. Always been nothing. But he doesn’t think that. He believes I have value. That I’m deserving of a bed, of food, of showers, and his company. He lets me read and doesn’t judge when I prefer to be naked. Fabric irritates the scars.

  “I know you don’t jack off. You gotta blow your load somewhere. There are six mouths ready and willing.”

  His words echo in my skull as someone slaps the back of it. I feel nothing, beyond the sting of rejection and anger. So much fucking outrage. Burn wants to pawn me off on women. To serve my cock up for their liking, like Master.

  For years, he gave me to his friends. His cute boy for the taking.

  After my parents died, then my grandma passed, then my aunt, I became a ward of the state. My foster parents sold me to him, Remy. The man who stars in every nightmare. Or the ones I used to have before Burn accepted me.

  At first, I lived in luxury. I felt special then. A chocolate on my pillow every morning. A kiss goodnight. Master Remy treated me like I was perfect when I was a boy. I was worthy then, when I didn’t displease him with body hair and man stink, as he called it.

  No longer appealing, he sent me to the basement at fourteen and found other boys. Loved other boys. Let them fulfill his desires as I rotted in the dungeon for years in darkness; unloved and worthless.

  I won’t let Burn do that. Trade me to those… females. As if I’d want their hands on me. As if I could ever draw pleasure from someone’s mouth on my cock.


  I’m dead inside.

  I feel nothing.

  Mostly.

  Except him.

  I feel… with him.

  Less vile. Less damaged.

  I’m fucked up. I know it. You know it. A man with a third-grade education who doesn’t speak. I used to. I did. Years by yourself, begging for freedom, for them not to do what they did. My voice lost its worth. You don’t need a voice when all it brings is laughter and cruelty. You scream, and they penetrate you harder. You cry for food, and they bring none. You sob for sympathy only to be rewarded with the swift lash of a cane, bloody and broken flesh, lost dreams and fractured soul.

  Screaming erupts from the bedroom next door. Our bedroom. Burn’s screams. I feel them. Inside me. Inside my head, my stomach, everywhere. Needing to get to him, to make him okay, to make it all better, I fight my restraints.

  I did this.

  I saw red… I saw Remy and his five friends. Me on his bedspread, laid out for their enjoyment. Them praising me before they used me up. I kinda liked it then. They loved me. Worshiped me for what my body offered. I can’t be used again. Not by anyone. I saw red. I… fuck.

  I must get to Burn.

  “Fuck! What’s goin’ on?” someone hisses.

  “He’s dreamin’ or somethin’.”

  Refusing to let them keep him from me, I fight the ties until blood wets my wrist, turning them raw.

  A foot presses in the center of my back, keeping me still. My cheek rests against the musty hardwood floor. “You’re not gettin’ away, shithead. You’re gonna listen to what you did.”

  Burn, I’m sorry.

  Please don’t hate me.

  Please.

  I saw red.

  I didn’t mean it.

  I… Saw him.

  I’m… I…

  A lone tear escapes my eye. A traitor. A weakness.

  The screams turn to violent shouts.

  I’m so sorry.

  5

  BURN