Switch

by Jennifer Ryder

  Once in the bedroom, I unpack some of my clothes into the wardrobe, grateful there’s already a heap of metal clothes hangers in here. On the top shelf there are a heap of packing boxes with the letter V scrawled on the side of each one in black marker. Who’s V?

  I put the framed photograph of my Nan and I on the bedside table, and plug my phone in to charge.

  Too lazy to have a shower tonight, I crawl beneath the dark grey cotton comforter and flop my head on the soft pillow. The sheets smell a bit stale, as if they’ve been on the bed for a while, but I really don’t care. I have a bed. I have a room, even. I’ll wash the linen tomorrow.

  To someone else, someone like Bonnie, this wouldn’t be anything to be excited about. To me, it means so much. Something so simple has given me a little bit of hope.

  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 won
der 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.