Switch

by Jennifer Ryder

  “What about?” I practically screech. “We said it all.” I turn away. No more rehashing!

  “You’re being stupid about this.” She grabs my wrist with her strong, long fingers, which have been intimate with every inch of my body. As I turn my head to face her, her touch sends a chill right up my spine, and then a weight crashes down into the pit of my stomach.

  “Don’t go,” she pleads.

  I tug my arm away. “I have to.”

  She scoffs and drops my hand. “Where are you moving to now? Not that I even know where you’ve been.” Her tone carries the same annoyance she had the last time we were together. She would have put up more of a fight if I’d told her I was leaving to live on April’s couch because I couldn’t afford somewhere on my own. It just would have inflamed the situation more. Once I’d made up my mind, nothing was gonna change it.

  Not that I need to justify my actions to anyone, I decide to tell her. “I was staying with April, if you must know, and now I’m renting a room. Once I’m back on my feet I’ll get my own place.” And with any luck, I’ll get an application approved for a place I can afford. I can’t believe how much competition there is for cheap places near the city. It’s why I was on April’s sofa for so long.

  “A room? Why do you always feel like you have to struggle? I thought the time apart might have made you see sense.

  Excuse me, what?

  “Sense?”

  “Well forgive me, but I thought you might actually still love me and come back.”

  I let out a loud sigh and toe my boot into the crack in the driveway beneath my feet. Were we ever going to work? Kids aside, would I have always been second best in the relationship?

  “Bon,” I say, on an exhale.

  “Why the hell did you move out if you had nowhere to go? You could’ve stayed.”

  “I left because IT WASN’T WORKING!”

  I never could bring myself to tell her about my real financial situation. As far as she knew, I was paying off my credit card and the finance on my car. Mind you, they cut up my credit card a long time ago.

  “So when you finally move into a place on your own, then what?”

  “I want a baby.”

  “Are you really ready to be a mother, Sophie?”

  What?

  “Of course I am!”

  “It’s not gonna happen overnight, you know. We had something solid … we still can if you just put your pride aside. What’s a few years?”

  Pride? My pride isn’t getting in the way; it’s my dreams that apparently are.

  “My fucking pride? Gah!” This shit has nothing to do with pride. I just want my shot at something. Something I always dreamed of. I want to be a mother. Come hell or high fucking water, I’ll never settle within my own skin until I get that. “You’re talking another five years before you’ll be in the same place as me. I can’t wait that long only to be told that maybe you don’t want a baby after all.”

  “You know I can’t make that kind of commitment.”

  “Bon, I know. I fuckin’ know and it kills me. But I can’t sacrifice the one thing I want in life, and I don’t care what anyone thinks—I’ll have a kid on my own.”

  “Are you seriously gonna do it solo?”

  “I will.”

  “How are you going to support yourself and a child working as a waitress?”

  “You know that’s not forever. You know I’m trying to be something better. I’ll work it out.”

  How many nights did she see my head buried in textbooks? Maybe I should have spent a few less nights buried between her legs, and I could’ve really gotten ahead with my studies. I’m not dumb. At least I don’t think I am, but I have to spend a lot of time studying for uni—as a mature-aged student, mind you. I don’t pick shit up easy. I have to work at it. Go over shit time and time again. I’ll get there; I’m just one of those unlucky people that needs to work hard for stuff to sink in.

  “I hate to say it to you, but maybe you should sort your career out before you go making grand test-tube baby plans.”

  A part of me knows she right. If only this debt wasn’t hanging over me, but I can’t bank on a relationship for another four years only to discover she’s not ready.

  “I’m trying.”

  “Baby, I know, it’s just you have some work to do yet.”

  “Yeah, I get it. For now I’m just a lowly fuckin’ waitress. Clearly that doesn’t make me good mother material.”

  “Bloody hell, Sophie. No need to go getting all defensive because I’m a doctor.”

  Again with this fucking argument. I couldn’t care less what she did for a job. I would have loved her if she were a checkout chick or worked as a service station attendant—it doesn’t matter to me.

  And there it is. Loved. My heart has shut her out. I just didn’t know it until I was faced with this shitty conversation again.

  That shit has never mattered to me. Having it thrown in my face, making me feel like I’m less of a human being because of my occupation? That shit hurts. It hurts like hell, because it’s the truth. I’m trying, but I’m taking three steps back for every one that I take forward.

  I throw my hands up and bring them down, shutting the boot. “I’m done.”

  I get in my car and slam the door and roar onto the street in the direction of Rocco’s place. Putting my phone on hands free, I dial his number to check that he’s home. It rings out and then goes through to his voicemail. I leave a message letting him know I’m on my way. A few minutes later, I try again. Still no answer. He’d fucking better be home.

  Even though I don’t like Rocco, at least I’ll have my own room. I’ll have my space, and some kind of independence so I can get my shit together.

  And a decent fucking bed. I can’t say I’m not pleased about that.

  I’m tired. On so many levels.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ROCCO

  She runs the nails of one hand down my bare chest, as she pumps her other one up and down my shaft.

  “Fuck yeah, I’m close,” I grunt out as I grip the back of her head, thrusting farther into her mouth. God, the girl can take it all. I picked a talented one this time.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Who the fuck could that be?

  “Mmm,” the girl moans, and flicks the swollen knob before taking me deeper.

  My legs jitter as I get closer to blowing, and my hands shake. I need another drink. To steady them, I tighten my hold on her black ponytail.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Again.

  It’s an instant party-dampener. My release now seems that much further away. With any luck, whoever it is will piss off.

  I get my head back to the beauty in my lap, who right now is sucking me like a hoover.

  “That’s it, suck me dry,” I say, my voice gravelly. She squeezes her lips tighter around me, and bobs her head quicker up and down. Oh yeah.

  Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. More insistent this time.

  “Fuck me!” I cry out.

  The knocking doesn’t stop.

  I stand up, and the dark-haired girl sits back on her ankles and gives me a vacant stare.

  “Hold that thought,” I order as I pull up my jeans, and tuck myself in.

  The knocking turns into pounding. I grit my teeth. I’m about to rev the shit out of whoever is out there. You don’t fucking interrupt a man mid-job. That’s just cruel.

  I pull my black T-shirt on and stride towards the door that’s copping an absolute beating from the other side. I’m surprised it hasn’t come off its hinges. I swing the door open and am met with a narrow-eyed, none-too-pleased Soph. Her blonde hair is wild, and she’s puffing as if she’s out of breath.

  “Finally!” she curses. “How long does it take to open the frickin’ door?”

  “Give a man a break. What are you doin’ here? I thought —”

  “Ah, hello! I’m moving in today? Thursday?”

  “Shit, it’s Thursday?” Fuck, I was sur
e she said next Thursday, not this one.

  “Yeah, it is, and if you bothered to pick up the fucking phone you would have known I was coming. I just had to finish work and then go grab my stuff, which was a fucking ordeal in itself.”

  Well, aren’t you a giant ray of bloody sunshine?

  “I didn’t hear the phone because I was busy.”

  She huffs loudly and drops her shoulders. “You gonna let me in, or what?”

  Obviously, she’s had a hell of a day. I look past her to see a couple of bags stacked on the landing. “You got much more than that?”

  “I’ve got some boxes in the car, but this is pretty much it.”

  A set of arms wrap around my waist, and a head rests between my shoulder blades.

  I turn to face the dark-haired girl, Belinda or Brenda—I can’t fucking remember her name. I unlink her arms.

  I don’t need her going and getting all handsy on me. Really, she was here for one thing, and one thing only. Which now isn’t gonna happen, because I’m as limp as a wet noodle, and I have this situation to deal with.

  “You’d better go,” I say coolly.

  “But I wasn’t finished?” she says, and bats her dark-painted eyelids.

  “I’ll call you.” Which means I probably won’t. I swat her jean-clad arse and usher her outside the door.

  “Fine,” she huffs, and glares at Soph as she awkwardly brushes past her and clip-clops down the stairwell in her heels. I’m impressed at the death stare that Soph shoots back at her.

  I take a step back into the hall, and prop open the door with a wooden wedge.

  “You owe me,” I say, clutching between my legs.

  Her gaze travels down to my crotch, and she sniggers. “Ha. I don’t think so.”

  I grumble as I take the large black duffle bag from her hand and walk towards the room, which, for the time being, will become hers. I flick the switch on the wall, lighting up the pitch-black room.

  “Let’s get the stuff from your car, and then I need a drink.”

  “You offering to share?”

  I raise an eyebrow and look her over carefully. I bet she’s a pink girly drink kind of woman. “You drink tequila?”

  “I drink whatever I can afford.”

  “Tequila it is. My fuckin’ treat.”

  “Then tequila is about to become the highlight of my day.”

  My sentiments exactly.

  ****

  SOPHIE

  After a few trips up and down two flights of stairs, I’ve worked up a sweat.

  “This bag weighs a tonne,” Rocco says, as he picks up the red backpack and makes his way to the bedroom. I follow close behind him with my last box. “What’s in here?”

  “My prized sex toy collection, so treat with extreme care.”

  He stops short and narrows his eyes. “Really?”

  “No, you idiot. It’s textbooks.”

  His face drops. “Oh.”

  “My toys are in another bag.” I say and jut my chin in the direction of my belongings piled up in the corner.

  He glances over my shoulder, and makes a ‘hmm’ noise. “Toys you use on other birds?”

  “We’re really having this conversation the first night I move in?”

  “What?” he says, with a shrug. “I’m fuckin’ curious is all.”

  “Nope. We’re not having this conversation.”

  “What you studying?” he asks, thankfully changing the topic. Thank God.

  “Human Resource Management.”

  “Huh. Like helping people get jobs and shit?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  I put down the box and take the backpack from him, and settle it at the foot of the bed. There’s a wistful look on Rocco’s face as he glances around the room.

  “Guess this is yours now,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. What’s the deal with that?

  “It’s only short term. I’ll give you the first two weeks’ rent on payday next week, if that’s okay?”

  He stares blankly towards the window. “Sure.”

  “So how much?” I ask.

  “Sorry?” He walks backwards towards the door, and then shakes his head as if something is bugging him.

  “How much rent?”

  He runs his straightened inked fingers across his forehead and shrugs. “I dunno. Can we have a drink already?” He walks back into the hallway and turns towards the kitchen area.

  I stalk after him. “Fine, let’s have a drink, but you need to tell me so I can work this shit out. I’m paying my way.”

  He takes two shot glasses from a cupboard above the stove top, turns and clangs them down on the marble surface and slides a short clear glass bottle closer to him.

  “Did you even hear what I just said?”

  He turns to me, annoyance evident in the bunch of his brow. “Are you still talkin’?”

  “Gah! Just open the bloody tequila.”

  “Now that I heard.” He cracks open the bottle and pours us each a glass.

  I don’t waste any time knocking it back. The smooth liquid glides down the back of my throat, warming my insides along the way. It packs a punch, but it’s delicious. I bring the thick shot glass down hard on the counter with more force than I intended.

  “Greedy girl,” he says, and gulps down his drink.

  “So, rent?” I dare ask again. I don’t give a shit if I annoy him. I need to know.

  “Fuck, I dunno. A hundred bucks a week?”

  Wow. That’s cheap. A lot lower than I was expecting, but it’ll still make things tight. The bank is always first in line.

  “Good. I’ll have your money next payday.”

  Rocco takes a worn gold key out of his pocket and hands it to me. “Here,” he grunts.

  “Thanks.” I nod and put it in my pocket.

  He refills his glass and hovers the neck of the bottle over mine.

  “Another?” he asks.

  “Why not?”

  The second shot goes down easier than the first, and it’s about now I realise how hot my cheeks are after the first drink. I’m a cheap drunk and out of practice. I’ll be floating on cloud nine before I know it. I’d better put something in my stomach first.

  “Cheers for that.” I look around and spot a kettle in the corner of the kitchen beside a chrome toaster. “I’m just gonna make myself something to eat.”

  “Knock yourself out.” He pulls a foil bag out of the pantry and takes it with the bottle of alcohol and his glass to the lounge room, which is near the entry to the apartment. With a remote, he flicks on the large wall-mounted TV and then tosses the remote on the black leather lounge beside him. Sounds like a rugby game. Great.

  I top up the kettle halfway with water and flick the switch to set it to boil, while I grab a shopping bag from my room that contains some staples: chicken-flavoured noodle cups, tea bags, instant coffee, a litre of milk and, of course, jelly.

  I put the milk inside the fridge, which has a few condiments, juice and a pizza box. I find some space for the tea and coffee in the corner of the bench top, next to a spice rack. I run my hand along the lids on the top row. Dust collects on my finger. Are these spices for show or can Rocco actually cook?

  The rustle of foil and a loud burp comes from the lounge room. Pig.

  I angle my head around and catch him just as he shoves a fistful of orange corn chips into his face. Nope. He doesn’t look like the cheffy kind to me.

  I take the plastic wrapping from my noodle cup, peel the paper lid halfway back and fill it to the line with boiling water.

  The crunching in the lounge room continues, as Rocco feeds his face. Again, pig.

  Without moving too far, I glance around the apartment, which hasn’t got much by the way of anything homely. A few old-fashioned tequila posters adorn the walls of the hall, but that’s about it. The living areas are open, with a dark dining table and chairs to the side of two lounges.

  I take a look around the kitchen. Has it been recently r
enovated? The grey-flecked marble top matches well with the charcoal matte finish doors and black splashback. The ceilings are high with ornate cornices, indicating that the apartment was built quite some time ago. Stuck to the double-door stainless steel fridge is a photo of two guys, one of them Rocco, but with shorter hair all over, likely a number two, and a guy who looks similar but much younger. I’d ask who it is, but I’m not here to make friends with this guy. I might be living with him, but I want my space—physically and emotionally. I don’t want him to think that because I ask him questions that he’s entitled to do the same. My personal life is none of his business, and I guess in that light, his is none of mine.

  “Fuck yeah!” Rocco calls out as the volume on the TV grows louder.

  As if I wanna know all about his life. About all the MX hoes he’s had. I’m well aware he’s a whore. April has told me enough about him to know he’s a serial one-nighter without a scrap of a conscience. I hope he’s discreet when it comes to bringing women home. If I had a key to his apartment this afternoon, I know exactly what I would have walked in on. I don’t need to see him getting busy with some skank in his lounge room. Well, I guess it’s our lounge room, now.

  I’m done with dick, and he needs to keep it in his pants when I’m around because seeing it will only remind me of Prince Fuckface, and I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.

  I find a glass bowl in the cupboard and mix together green jelly crystals with half the remaining amount of boiling water, stirring until the sugar has dissolved, and then add the remaining cool water and put it in the fridge. Now that the noodles have been soaking long enough, I drain the liquid into the sink and take a fork from a nearby drawer.

  I sit at a bar stool at the bench and eat in silence.

  What a fucking day.

  I eat the noodles slowly in an attempt to trick my body into thinking that it’s full. I clean up after myself, and move around so Rocco can see me. His head doesn’t move, but his dark eyes follow me.

  “I’m off to bed,” I mumble.

  He raises his glass in my direction, tilts his head back and pours the clear liquid into his mouth. He returns his gaze to the TV without another word.

  This arrangement might actually work. At least I think it will, if Rocco keeps his mouth shut.