Текст книги "Switch"
Автор книги: Jennifer Ryder
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
I can do this. I can pull myself out of this shitty place.
I just have to find the faith in myself, which I know is buried down deep inside me somewhere.
****
After the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months, I have no trouble getting up. I take a towel and my purple bag of toiletries into the modern black and white bathroom, which houses the only loo in this place. The toilet seat is up, much to my disgust. It’s been an age since I’ve had to deal with that problem.
I unpack my toiletries into the second drawer, which had nothing but an empty razor packet in it, and take a shower. When I exit the bathroom the place is quiet, so I creep back into my room so I don’t wake Rocco. I waste no time dressing, and am ready as I’ll ever be to take on another busy day in the café.
When I pass the lounge room on my way to the front door, a grumble—well, more of a muffled snore comes from the couch.
Rocco is dead to the world. He’s lying on his stomach with one arm and one leg limp over the side, each resting against the timber floor. He’s polished off the tequila, and a shot glass has rolled not far from his inked hand. There are corn chip crumbs everywhere.
Boy, he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he needed a drink. I wonder what he’s got to be so stressed about. From what April tells me, he has a dream mechanic job on one of the most sought-out teams in Australia. I suppose we all have our shitty days.
I stride across the lounge room, wary as I approach. There’s barely any movement, apart from the slight shallow rise of his upper back as he seemingly takes breath.
If I poke him, will it be like waking an angry bear? I’m tempted, but I won’t. That’d be a bitchy thing to do. We might be living under the same roof, but we lead separate lives. And that’s how I want it. Completely separate. Removed. His business is his, and mine is mine.
I take a step backward and step on something metal. I crouch down and pick up a spoon. I look around underneath the coffee table, and find an empty glass bowl with remnants of green an inch below the rim.
Snatching up the bowl, the cruel absence of what I was planning to eat when I got home tonight mocks me.
The motherfucker ate my jelly.
“Hey,” I bark out with a hard shove to his shoulder.
Rocco grumbles and swings his head back violently, one eye open as he searches me out. “Who the … what the fuck?” he hisses. Rolling onto his side, he props himself up and falls back into the couch cushions and runs his fingers down his face. His dark brown, almost-black eyes drill me, as he runs his tongue over his bottom teeth. The whites of his eyes are scattered with red, and beads of sweat lace his brow and down the sides of his face. He looks like shit. More accurately, he looks like someone who greedily smashed a bottle of primo tequila last night.
“You ate my jelly,” I say, shoving the bowl towards him.
He shrugs and his lip curls to the side. “I was hungry,” he says with a challenging gaze.
“You were fucking hungry? I haven’t been here even twenty-four hours and you’re helping yourself to my food?”
He scoffs, and I want to punch him in the face.
“It’s jelly,” he says, with a roll of his eyes. “It’s like a dollar or some shit. I’ll buy a packet. Bloody hell, I’ll buy two. No need to get your fuckin’ panties in a bunch.”
He sits up and rakes his fingers back through the longer strands of dark hair on the top of his head. He slouches farther into the couch, one hand scratching at the faded black T-shirt adorning his chest, the other hand sliding between his legs and adjusting himself.
Fucking men.
“I’m not pissed about the fact it costs bugger all. I don’t touch your shit and you don’t touch mine. Got it?”
I turn on my heel, flicking my ponytail over my shoulder. I couldn’t be arsed waiting for his response. I can’t imagine I’ll like it anyway.
“Fine,” he grumbles.
“And would it kill you to put the bloody toilet seat down?” I throw at him as I walk out the door.
His laughter echoes into the stairwell, right before the door slams shut.
Arsehole.
****
I park my car out the back of the Wild and Free Range café and walk in through the back screen door. The heat from the kitchen instantly warms my cheeks, as I walk past the cookers, and dump my satchel in the small staff room.
Tarsh, a uni student who started with us a few weeks ago, is chowing down on a bowl of fries with aioli and reading a Cosmo magazine.
“Hey,” I throw in her direction. It’s casual, because really, we haven’t worked together that much. I’m not one to gush over the new girl. I find it hard making friends. It’s easier keeping personal shit out of it. Most people think I’m a bitch, but I do it to protect myself. I don’t need to be judged by someone I barely know. The minute you start getting cosy with people, the more they wanna know. Besides, I have April. Best friend in the world.
“Hey,” she says, smiling brightly at me. “The new roster is up,” she says, nodding in the direction of the corkboard on the far wall.
“Cool,” I say, as I wander over to the wall.
I scan over the spreadsheet that details the shifts over the next two weeks. Motherfucker. They’ve dropped my regular Saturday shift next week, and I’m off on the upcoming public holiday. I was fucking relying on that double time for a little breathing room in my wallet.
“Fuck,” I groan under my breath. That’s gonna drop my pay by at least two hundred bucks.
“What’s up?” Tarsh says. I turn to see her light blue eyes regarding me. She tucks her short brown hair behind one ear.
I look back to the roster to find out who is working those particular days.
Tarsh.
No point bitching to the girl that’s taken the shifts from me. Took the money from my pocket.
She smiles sweetly at me. Shit. It’s not her fault. I’ll have to have a word to Tony, though. I’ve been working for the arsehole for nearly four years and he didn’t have the decency to give me a heads up? He knows I’m hard up for money. I’m the one he always rings when he needs staff, and I never say no.
“Nothing,” I mutter, offering no other explanation as I grab a black apron from the folded pile on the shelf and exit the room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROCCO
Mid-morning, I finally drag my hungover arse off the couch. When I get to the bathroom, I have another chuckle when I see the toilet seat down—lid and all. Of course, I leave it up when I’m done. After standing under the hot water for the best part of half an hour, I drive my truck down to the mall.
After an expensive trip to the grog shop, I get a few groceries. I need a man’s size steak and a hit of carbs. When I get to the dessert aisle of the supermarket, I pull every box of green jelly off the shelves and shoot them basketball penalty–style into the trolley. About twenty dollars’ worth to be precise. I know I wasn’t in the best form, but I’m pretty sure I was reading the situation right. The way she held that spoon and shot daggers at me with her vivid green eyes, I reckon I was about a millisecond away from being spooned to death. I guess she has a thing for jelly.
Ooh, I wonder if she’s ever wrestled in it. Lesbians do that shit, right? Pillow fights and jelly wrestling. At least that’s how they get started in pornos.
When I get home, I stack the small green boxes in piles on the kitchen bench, so she won’t miss them when she gets in.
I survey my handiwork. On second thoughts, I should’ve bought more jelly, like a pallet of the stuff. I look over to the lounge room, and work out how much space I’d have if I moved the lounges and the coffee table against the walls.
I should’ve gotten a blow-up pool. I’d be making jelly for the next few weeks, but it’d totally be worth it. She could invite all her lesbian friends around and we could make a night of it.
I could sell tickets. I’d make a killing. What a cracking idea.
****
SOPHIE
When I get into the apartment after work, the first things that catch my eye are the small boxes piled high in stacks on the bench. I inspect them further to discover they are all lime jelly. What a fucking smart arse.
I go to the bathroom to find the toilet seat up. Arsehole.
Once I’ve freshened up, I return to the kitchen and fill up the kettle in preparation for some oriental beef noodles in a cup. I’m mixing it up today, because as much as I love them, I can’t have chicken flavour everyday.
As I peel back the paper lid and empty the flavour sachet, I notice three sealed bottles of Patron silver label tequila lined up next to the sink. I guess Rocco has his next bender or two planned out.
I count the money in my wallet, mentally tallying up my budget until payday. It’s gonna be fucking tight. Nothing new in that. I pour the hot liquid into the dish and let it sit.
The apartment is eerily quiet, and I almost feel as if I’m intruding. It’s his place, and I’m here alone. It’s not like I’m about to go hunting around in his drawers or anything, but it feels strange. Apart from the small amount of stuff I brought, nothing is mine.
I decide to get the fuck over it. I have a roof over my head. I have space. I’m not listening to the freaky noises that April and Jones used to make while they were getting busy.
I flick on the giant wide-screen TV and settle into the cushions with my measly dinner as the nightly news wraps up the day’s events. After a story on childcare cuts, I pull out my phone and open the Google app, typing ‘Sperm Donors Australia’ into the search bar. I select the first website and read all about how I can make my dream of becoming a mother a reality.
Sigh.
I study the treatment options available for single women and read all about donor sperm and how they screen it. When it starts going into the detail of blood groups and pathology tests, I shut down the phone before I feel sick. My stomach is too sensitive when it comes to stuff like that. As I finish eating dinner, I imagine a little girl running around the apartment laughing as she chases a puppy into the room. One day.
A newsflash breaks me out of my daydream. The reserve bank has left interest rates on hold. I need to be out of debt before I can bring a little boy or girl into the world. My thoughts turn to the bank. I can guarantee my next payment is going to be short. They won’t be happy.
Without any further sign of Rocco, I drag my butt to the shower and then retreat to my room, shutting the door behind me.
I really need to start looking around for another job. Scratch that—I really need to finish my degree. I know I needed to chill tonight, but I’ve just wasted time I could’ve put towards my next assignment.
Fuck it. I’ll do some now.
I pull my notebook and a textbook out of my duffle bag and start writing notes. I need to sort out my shit, because no one else is going to do that for me.
****
I’ve hardly had any sleep as it is, and the sun isn’t even up and the house phone and a mobile phone in the distance keep ringing.
I grit my teeth together, griping fistfuls of the comforter as the ringing starts again.
I’m about this close to getting up and ripping the phone out of the wall, and finding the other to smash. I bury my head under my pillow and repeat to myself get over it. My jaw is tight when finally the ringing stops. About time.
I let out a tortured sigh of relief and melt back into the sheets. Another hour and then I’ll have to be at work.
As I’m drifting into that calm lull before sleep, my mobile rings.
“Are you fucking serious?” I grunt out to no one as I rip the sheets from my body and swing my legs off the bed.
“What?” I bark into the phone.
“Oh. Hey, Soph. It’s Jones.”
“Hey,” I grunt.
“Sorry if I woke you.”
I let out a long breath. “I was awake anyway. What’s happening?”
“I need Rocco, and he’s not answering.”
Bloody Rocco.
“Yeah, no shit. I’m guessing you’re the one that’s been persistently calling like a telemarketer on speed.”
He chuckles. “Sorry, but he needs to get his arse out of bed. I’ve been waiting downstairs for half an hour. We were due in the workshop ten minutes ago for a team briefing. Mac isn’t impressed.”
“And what makes you think he’s gonna listen to me?”
“This is important, Soph. I’m giving you the green light to do whatever it takes to get his arse downstairs.”
Hmm. Interesting.
“Whatever it takes?” I ask in a sweet tone.
“Yup.”
“No problems. He’ll be down in five.”
I tie on my silk robe and walk into the kitchen and go through the cupboards until I come to a large stainless steel water jug. I throw in a handful of ice-cubes and make sure the water from the tap is stone cold before I fill the jug to the brim.
I walk slowly to his bedroom, taking small steps so I don’t spill the liquid. I grin to myself, imagining the look of disgust on his face. The rebel in me rejoices. I can’t remember the last time I did something like this. For years it’s just been my bills and me. Work. Study. Work. It’s about time I had something to laugh about.
I won’t lie. I’m about to take great pleasure in what I’m about to do, and I have Jones’s permission to use whatever means necessary. It’s totally fucking necessary.
When I open the door to Rocco’s room, the stench of stale sweat and alcohol drifts around me and drives up my nostrils. I gag. Boys reek, and this one is bad. The whole room needs to be hosed down. When was the last time he washed his sheets? I’d say after this little wake-up call, they’ll be getting chucked in the washer today. You’re welcome, linen.
I flick on the lights and stand at the foot of his bed. He’s lying face down, his arms wrapped around his dark grey pillow.
I gently tug the black comforter towards me so it reveals more of his upper body. The muscles are toned and his tattoos weave up his bicep and around his shoulders like a perfect sleeve. Whoever did his work is very talented. If I weren’t here to spoil his morning, I’d totally gawk at them some more.
I move to the side of the bed closest to him and pour the cold liquid in a steady stream from the back of his head, down his spine to the dimples on his lower back.
“Rise and fuckin’ shine, arsehole,” I mutter.
His back arches and a primal growl roars up his throat. He twists and turns over, water splashing all over the taut muscles of his stomach. The jug tumbles onto the bed as he lunges at my hand, but I’m out of reach before he can make contact. Rocco grips the sheets and pulls them to his crotch.
“Are you fuckin’ serious?” he sputters.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” I reply, my tone bored.
“Of course I’m awake, you fuckin’ psycho!” He shakes his head, drops of water spraying onto the sheets.
“Jones would appreciate it if you answered your phone, and quite frankly, so would I.”
“Fuckin’ Jones put you up to this?”
“He asked me to wake you.”
“Fuck,” he groans, as he rolls onto his side and moves his head to the edge of the bed. He widens one eye and checks out my leg.
“You even wearing panties?”
I gasp and tug at the front of my robe, horrified that he may have caught a peek at my beaver.
“Should I get more water?” I threaten.
“Suds, if you were to come back with that bare puss of yours, I’d let you bring a bucket-load with you.”
“Argh,” I grunt out as I pace towards the door. Fuck! He saw! This is what no sleep does to me—I don’t think. Next time I’ll be putting on a pair of jeans and a hoodie before I come within kilometres of him.
When I reach the doorway, I turn to face him. “Jones is downstairs waiting for you, so get moving,” I throw back at him.
“Fuck, he’s here?” He throws the sheets back and stands up. I shield my eyes from being exposed and stalk from the room.
“Yes, and he wasn’t happy,” I shout out.
A few minutes later, a pair of heavy boots clod down the hallway, and the front door slams. True to my word, Rocco’s downstairs within five minutes.
Anytime, Jones.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROCCO
I walk into the workshop, my tail between my legs. Jones is a few steps behind me.
“Thanks for joining us,” Mac shouts, disdain dripping from each word.
“Traffic was hell,” Jones says to no one in particular. Billy and Stone grunt hello from the far corner.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, son,” Mac says, shooting the filthiest look at Jones.
Shit. I can’t let Jones take the heat. It’s not his fucking fault I had a bender last night.
“It wasn’t the traffic, Mac Daddy, it was me. Sorry, I slept through my alarm.”
Mac shakes his head and lets out a heavy sigh. He takes my elbow and pulls me aside.
“Don’t let it happen again, De Luca. I’m not paying you good money to put up with this shit. The boys and I need you to be on your game. We’re depending on you,” he says, his voice low.
Fuck. When he puts it like that, don’t I feel like a low-life piece of shit? It’s my job to keep the riders motivated. Most of the time I’m the last one they speak to before the gate drops. Right now, all they probably see is that I don’t give a shit. I can’t even turn up on time. I’m twenty-nine years’ old, and I’m far from having my life together.
When I try to block out all the shit with V and my parents, I forget there are other people around me who actually give a fuck. People who respect my work. People who have given me a chance after I’ve fucked up every other one.
“I’m fucking sorry. I won’t do it again.”
“I’d like to believe you, son. You know I would, but I’m not here to babysit you. You’re a professional and you’re good at your job, but over the last few months I don’t know what has gotten into you.”
My brother getting caught muling a kilo of coke is what happened.
My brother getting locked up for muling said kilo of coke and taking the heat for his fucked-up motorcycle club is what happened.
I could explain, but I won’t tell him about V. I can’t. I don’t want the pity. I don’t want people to know how much of a battle every single day is.
I nearly told Jones the other day. Sometimes I just wanna talk to someone. I trust him, but I don’t want the pity.
I stare into the eyes of the greying man in front of me. He deserves some kind of explanation, but I’m too fucking proud to say. I know that I’m responsible for myself, and I’m doing a shitty job of it. Explaining why I have no stop button when it comes to booze isn’t gonna help me. It’d just be another mark against my name.
“There’s been some shit goin’ on, but I’ll get my head back into it,” I offer as some kind of explanation.
“Show me that I made the right decision to hire you. You could be a senior team mechanic if you wanted. You’ve been here nearly two years, and you could be there; you deserve to be, but you’re not. You’re just coasting along, doing what you need to, not thinking ahead. You’re not trying to do better, and I know you have the potential. You’re a smart kid. You have a gift. Don’t waste it, because truthfully, there are mechanics I’d take on in a heartbeat. If you tell anyone I’ll deny it until I’m blue in the face, but I’ve got a soft spot for ya. Just don’t make me look like a fool.”
The muscles in my jaw clench as I grind my teeth. That’s the last thing I wanna do to Mac, after all he’s done.
“I’ll get my shit together. I will.”
As soon as V is out of jail, my world will be looking a hell of a lot brighter. I’ll have to be responsible then, because I’ll need to get him back on track. He’s the only shred of family I have left. Someone needs to be a father figure for that kid. He needs out of the MC, and I’ll do whatever I can to make that happen. Even if I have to pay the rotten bastards off. If Mac sees potential in me, it’s only a fraction of what I see in V. I’d love to get him back into motocross.
“I look forward to the day, son. So, did you get those parts sorted?”
“The freight company said they’d be here before eleven this morning, and then I’ll get moving on Stone’s bike.”
“Good. Let’s get this team meeting underway, huh?”
With a firm yet encouraging slap on my back, Mac and I head over to the guys.
Billy Boy, Jones and Stone are busy talking amongst themselves as they unpack a few boxes with some new team gear.
Brett, the senior mechanic, who started with the team before me is standing with his arms folded, his feet firmly planted shoulder-width apart. He narrows his blue eyes at me as I approach. He’s wearing a stupid, smarmy grin, and I instantly wanna punch him in the face. Stupid redheaded fuck. We’ve never gotten along. He always tries to show me up, and he’s probably just come in his pants watching Mac have a go at me. He’d better stay clear of my path today.
“Right boys. Gather ’round,” Mac announces.
Everyone pulls up a plastic chair, and step-by-step Mac goes through the schedule for the day—the rebuilds and the sponsorship stuff, as well as the training and travel schedules. I get the feeling that the emphasis on the dates is for my benefit more than anyone else’s. Rightly so.
All day, I have to push through the pain. Acid gurgles in my stomach, and I keep breaking into cold sweats. Holding down the dirty hamburger with the lot I have mid-morning is a mother of a challenge. I have the shakes something chronic, which makes it fucking hard to use some of the tools. I push on, because I made a promise to Mac. I will try. I’m on my game today, and tonight will be my sweet reward. I need to get rid of the shakes, and I need a good, hard fuck to clear my head.
Tomorrow I can spend the day doing sweet fuck all. Hopefully, that involves getting my dick sucked.
****
I shout another round of beers, eyeing off the uncracked bottle of tequila on the top shelf as I do. You’re next, sweetheart.
“You did good today, Rocco,” Jones says, as I hand him a cold schooner.
I swallow down a few large gulps. I wanna scull the whole beer, but I need to ease my way into it. The second beer took the edge off, but I’m greedy. I just wanna drink myself into oblivion.
“Didn’t have much choice. Mac chewed my arse this morning.”
“Any particular occasion for the piss-up last night?” Jones asks, and then takes a long pull of his drink.
“Nope.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for someone having a piss-up but, mate, Mac’s a pretty patient man, and it’s starting to wear thin.”
I finish off my beer, and wave at Jack behind the bar for another round. Jones has barely made a dent in his drink, but I’ll buy him one just the same. He tried to cover for me this morning. Unfortunately it’s not the first time in so many months. Buying him another beer, or however many he plans on drinking tonight, is the only way I know to show him that I appreciate him. I’m not sure how to put it into words. My old man was never one to display emotion, and as a kid he’d used to rip me apart for not being tough enough. Some role model.
“I know, and I get that. Just some shit went down, and I’m trying to get my head around it.” It’s the closest I’ve come to saying anything to him.
“Anything I can do?” he asks, and I know he’s sincere as shit. It’s why I’m proud to be his best man. I’d do anything for this guy, and I know he’d do the same for me. I just can’t talk about it.
“Nope, but thanks.”
A series of giggles come from the corner of the pub. I swing my head around to check out a glamour group of six girls crowded around a small table. I recognise a few faces from the usual chicks who follow us from round to round. My dick twitches at the sound of their playful banter, and the sight of their open body language. Settle down, boy. Soon enough. Cleavage is in abundance thanks to their tight, slutty tops. They don’t hide the fact that they’re watching us, and I don’t hide the fact that I’m watching them, of course, with a subtle flick of my tongue stud for good measure. Chicks love the stud.
I look over to Jones, who is sipping his beer, blissfully unaware of the beauties in the corner. He seems to have grown a pair of blinders since hooking up with April. It’s as if he doesn’t see them at all. Such a waste.
The girls know this is our go-to place for drinks. We can drink ourselves stupid here, and it’s not that far from home. The owner puts up with a fair bit of shit from us boys, and we rarely get kicked out. Apart from the lure of alcohol, this bar is my go-to place for pussy. It’s a tapped resource that never dries up. If I don’t wanna go home alone, I don’t. Simple. Tonight, I’m taking a honey home with me, and I’m gonna drive her into next week.
The pretty brunette on the left winks at me, and then flicks her long hair over her shoulder as she crosses her slim, jean-clad legs. Just like that, I’m in. I know that look in her eye all too well. She’s hungry for cock.
I don’t know whether I’ve had the pleasure of her pussy before. I jut my chin towards her and then motion my hand towards the bar. She presses her lips together, says something quietly to her friends, and then stands and slowly stalks in my direction, swaying her slim hips as she walks like a catwalk model in those tall fuck-me heels. Easy prey.
Bartender Jack places two beers on the bar and I pay him.
“You need to make like a tree, Jones,” I say, handing him another beer.
“Huh? A tree?”
“You need to leave.”
He turns and his eyes widen as he watches the beauty approach. Boy, am I gonna have fun with this one. She has legs that go for miles and a spectacular rack.
“Gotcha,” he says, and takes a walk towards the end of the bar where Billy Boy is chatting with Brett. “Don’t forget to wrap it, bro.”
“Always.” I’d rather not have my cock fall off thanks to a raging STD.
When she stands toe-to-toe with me, I slip my arm around the girl’s slim waist and pull her to the space at the bar where a vacancy has now appeared thanks to Jones’s prompt exit.
“What’s your name, darlin’?” I ask her, rubbing my calloused thumb across the small strip of exposed flesh on her lower back just above the waistband of her jeans. She shudders and a soft moan whispers from her cherry red lips. That shade will look magic at the base of my cock.
“Jacinta,” she says, mischief in her tone. She’s said one word to me, and I like her already. I hope to Christ she’s not a big talker. Not that it matters, I guess, because she’ll be too busy with my cock in her mouth anyway.
“You like tequila, Jacinta?”
“Uh-huh,” she says with a slow nod, and a bat of her long lashes.
I turn side on and press my semi-hard cock against her hip. She takes in a sharp breath, drawing my eyes to the swell of her tits as they rise and fall.
“Then you’re gonna fuckin’ love how I do tequila.”
I slap my palm twice on the timber top of the bar. “Tequila with lemon and salt, my friend,” I shout out to Jack and hold up two fingers. With a deep chuckle and a shake of his head, he throws a black cloth over his shoulder and grabs two shot glasses. He sets about placing a small bowl of lemon wedges and a salt shaker beside them.
“What’s your name?” she asks playfully, turning her body to face me as the tequila is poured.
“You know it’s Rocco,” I say cockily. She may not know my name, but I reckon given her female company this evening, she does.
Jacinta smiles, and then tugs at her lower lip with her perfectly white teeth. She leans in and puts her mouth to my ear, her breath warming me. She smells sweet as fucking pie, too.
“I wanna see what you can do with that stud, Rocco,” she says, her voice sexy and sweet.
Well isn’t she in for a treat. I’m the pussy-eating grand master. I grunt with satisfaction, and then grip her hip and twist her frame to face the liquid gold in the glasses in front of us.
“All in good time, babe. Tequila comes first, then you come second.”
