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

  Switch & Burn

  Bink Cummings

  SWITCH & BURN

  Royal Bastards MC - Idaho Springs, CO

  Copyright © 2020 by: Bink Cummings

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Proofreader/Editor- Heather Hendrickson

  Proofreader/Beta- Sheri Klotzer

  Cover Designer- Simply Defined Art

  Model- Golden Czermak

  Photographer- FuriousFotog

  Ebook Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to the Author and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Royal Bastards Code

  Blurb

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  READ MORE

  Letter to my Readers

  SOCIAL MEDIA

  HIS BOY SAMPLE

  Royal Bastards Code

  PROTECT: The club and your brothers come before anything else, and must be protected at all costs. CLUB is FAMILY.

  RESPECT: Earn it & Give it. Respect club law. Respect the patch. Respect your brothers. Disrespect a member and there will be hell to pay.

  HONOR: Being patched in is an honor, not a right. Your colors are sacred, not to be left alone, and NEVER let them touch the ground.

  OL’ LADIES: Never disrespect a member’s or brother’s Ol’Lady. PERIOD.

  CHURCH is MANDATORY.

  LOYALTY: Takes precedence over all, including well-being.

  HONESTY: Never LIE, CHEAT, or STEAL from another member or the club.

  TERRITORY: You are to respect your brother’s property and follow their Chapter’s club rules.

  TRUST: Years to earn it...seconds to lose it.

  NEVER RIDE OFF: Brothers do not abandon their family.

  Blurb

  For years, I thought I'd never be free.

  Until they found me.

  For months, I thought I had to fight every day to show I'm strong.

  Until they grew tired and sent me away.

  Within minutes of arrival, I found home.

  With him.

  The savior of my story.

  Burn.

  VP of the Royal Bastards MC and curator of the club's underground fighting world.

  He saw in me what others could not.

  I owe him my life...

  But hope he'll accept my heart in its place.

  Warning: Contains sexual M/M content, graphic violence, and dark emotional scenarios that may trigger some readers, including past abuse. Proceed with caution. You have been warned.

  M/M Novella- Standalone.

  Prologue

  One Year Ago

  Soul consuming pain slashes across my backside in ruthless succession. Another scar earned. Another day to live. To die. To remain frozen in this existence.

  I blink, unable to form words as I fight to stand. To give them a taste of what they deserve, knowing they’ll win anyhow. The fuckers always do.

  A lash of bright-white fire steals my momentum, and I crash to my knees on the broken concrete floor already bathed in my blood.

  “Stay down,” the violent piece of shit hisses as he delivers a staggering blow to my ass with a cane, then kicks me between the shoulder blades.

  I pitch forward and catch myself on one hand before my face meets its demise.

  Eager fingers claw at my bare hips. Blunt nails sink into destroyed flesh.

  The clap of a belt, a whisper of a zipper, sends ripples of unease down my spine.

  A digit swipes through the blood and spreads it down my crack in preparation.

  Licking my split lip, I succumb to reality.

  There’s no use in fighting. Not anymore.

  They’ve won. They always do.

  Submitting to their will, I flatten my naked torso to the ground. A sticky, cold sweat breaks across my skin as I lay my cheek flat, arms tucked against my chest. I stare at the moldy, cinderblock wall of my prison.

  More voices and footfalls enter the room I’ve called home for years... Never to see the sun, never to see my face.

  The newest bastard laughs in jolly delight as he beats me with his favorite toys until I’m left raw.

  The warmth of my blood bathes me, washing down my sides.

  “Perfect hole,” a man chuckles as he probes me, spreading me wider for his comrades.

  I remain still.

  Blink.

  Breathe.

  Go numb.

  Feel nothing.

  See nothing.

  Hear nothing.

  Smell nothing.

  Time ceases to exist.

  When they’re through, and the last drop of my blood has dried, I pry myself off the floor with a silent groan and use the old, white sink attached to the wall to help stand on feeble legs.

  No tears shed.

  No words spoken.

  This is life... My life.

  Their combined fluids run down my thighs as I grab the lone washcloth and rinse it with ice-cold water before cleansing the evidence from my body. Scars of my fucked-up existence build anew.

  1

  BURN

  On a mission I tear through the central part of our clubhouse, pull a bloodied bandana from my lip and chuck it at Raff. It smacks his scarred-up pec before he catches it on a snarl. “Fuck you, Burn.” He dumps the fabric in the laundry basket he’s carrying across our enormous, vaulted room that looks more like a luxury lodge and less like a place where bikers hang. Namely, us fucked up fucks of the Royal Bastards MC, Idaho Springs, Colorado Chapter. Yours truly is the resident VP. My father, the fat fuck getting his knob slobbed on in the corner by his newest, barely legal piece of ass, is the laziest, most worthless president ever to grace the Royal Bastards MC. Ignore him, the rest of us do.

  The intricately carved, oversized double front doors open just before I reach them, and in walks our latest guests with two of my club brothers as escorts.

  Waving for my brothers to get on with their day, I stop away from our visitors, so I don’t scare the curvy redhead I’ve never met before with my ugly mug. Beside her is a sight for sore eyes.

  “Bonez.” I tilt my chin in greeting. “You bring me a prize?”

  The tatted-up brother from the Corrupt Chaos MC I met decades ago flashes me a smile that’d make any bitch get on her knees to suck his cock. The way he swings, he’d probably have a few men on their knees, too.

  “Burn, meet John.” The gray-haired brother steps sideways to give me an unfettered view of the kid my club is taking on for them.

  Ya see, Bonez and his female companion are good people. They got a deal ironed out with a club I don’t know the name of, where they take in those freed from sex trafficking and offer no-strings-attached rehabi
litation. Real Mother Teresa shit. They feed them, clothe them, house them, educate them if needed, and get them jobs to help assimilate back into society after the hell they’ve lived through. Sounds perfect, right?

  Here’s the thing, it’s all well and good for those who can adapt. Then you’ve got the few who can’t.

  Bonez waves a tall, lean, porcelain-skinned kid forward. The green-eyed ginger takes his cue with a jaw tick. His nostrils flare in aggression as he shoulders his way into the open space between me and those who brought him. Fists clenched at his sides, the boy squares up, shoulders back, chin cocked. The Henley he’s wearing fits snug across his frame, jeans hanging loosely off his hips.

  Anger, pain, and a whole lot of fuck-right-off simmers in a set of eyes that stare through me like I don’t deserve to share the same air. Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s felt that way about me.

  “Name?” I address the troubled kid.

  He ignores me.

  The redheaded woman with them sighs. “He doesn’t talk.”

  “At all?” Again, I look straight at the ginger kid for confirmation, my gaze locked on his.

  John does jack-all besides stand there, his body priming for a fight. I sense the air around him boil, desperate to let go. That’s why he’s here. Bonez can’t handle him, and I can see why. Men like John can’t be tamed. Not by the shit society calls normal, anyhow.

  Our chapter runs an underground fight ring. People from all over the country travel here, into the mountains, to unleash in our cages—bikers, the mafia, rich fucks, and everyone in between is welcome if they pay their dues. Myself and my fellow club brothers were all recruited to this chapter for a reason. Our need for violence—the raw and dirty kind, where blood seeps into your nail beds and fists meet flesh. It’s our calling. We’ve all seen shit, been through shit, and we live here to help expel the inner demons in a way that keeps us outta prison and from the hangman’s noose.

  John’s skin glows a healthy shade of pink, the color nearly matching that of his hair… His unchecked rage is palpable. The kind you can taste on the tip of your tongue. It’s sweet and salty, the best combination.

  I take a step forward to see what he might do.

  A vein bulges in his forehead—an artery in his neck pounds.

  To keep from being too much of an asshole too fast, I curb my desire to smile. If it were anyone else I was facing, I wouldn’t hesitate to rile him up. But I don’t know John, yet. Time will reveal whatever it needs to.

  As if reading my body language, the guy flexes his abs. I catch the outline beneath the cotton of his shirt.

  Okay, so he’s lean and built. And he’s got an easy six inches on me in height, which ain’t hard to do when I’m lucky to hit five foot nine with my shoes on.

  “Burn, he’s got a short fuse,” Bonez warns, and I nod, hoping he does. Let’s see what this redheaded firecracker’s got. He isn’t here to prospect for the club, and he ain’t got a penny to his name, so those fists better be up to the challenge. Tank, our club trainer, is a tough bastard. If you can’t handle me, you sure as fuck can’t handle Tank.

  “Name’s John, huh?” I taunt, taking another step forward in workout gear. I just got back from sparring in the Iron Hell. It keeps me fit in my advanced age since I haven’t seen the inside of a cage in close to five years. Thirty-seven is too damn old to go against these new-age psychos. I’m content to stay in shape, run this chapter, and handle the business end of things.

  The kid doesn’t engage, but is on the brink.

  “If he doesn’t talk, how do you know his name?” I ask the curvy woman, knowing they’ve had John under their care going on five months. He’s been impossible to handle since day one. Bonez called me about him last week when he broke another person’s nose for no apparent reason.

  “We don’t. He hasn’t spoken a word to us,” comes from the lady.

  “Then why you calling him John?”

  “John Doe,” Bonez clarifies, sounding broken up about the name.

  Ah. Makes sense.

  John Doe.

  Clever.

  I take a long assessing look of John, the ginger, from feet to the tips of his messy hair. Silvery scars bisect every which way across his exposed neck. There's a faded one on his bottom lip, trailing toward his chin. His hands tell me the most. Knuckles just beginning to heal from a fight. More scars littering the tops, spinning a tale he has yet to reveal. Don’t worry. We won’t ask about that here. This is home for scarred-up rebels. Our stories are our own to share or keep close to the breast, which is why I’m not afraid to tell mine.

  The first year I joined the club, I was severely burned when a rival MC captured me, tortured me for information I never divulged, then poured gasoline on half my body, and lit me on fire for my father to find. Only I didn’t die, even when I begged to, even when they pissed on me and laughed as I passed out from the pain. For months I recovered in a hospital burn unit. We lived in Michigan then. The week I was released, Dad brought me here and started this chapter with the national president’s backing. Here is where I learned to fight, to recover my dignity. This place is where John will reclaim his, too. Where we all have… The twelve of us. Now thirteen.

  I take a sizable step forward, within arms length of the newbie.

  “You my next project, John?” I provoke for shits and giggles.

  It does the trick.

  Bonez yells for him to stop, but John doesn’t heed his call. Faster than I expect, the kid comes at me with intent to harm and succeeds. A fist made of emotionally forged steel blasts me square in the jaw. Head snapping to the side, fresh blood spews from my already busted lip. I welcome it. Every adrenalin-fueled second is high octane pleasure straight to my system.

  Not having had his fill, John swings to connect a second time. I block him with ease.

  Then the tables turn as they always do.

  I might be shorter, I might be older, I might even be slower, but my wisdom and experience far outweigh his misdirected rage. Grabbing a hold of John’s forearm, I shove it back at him with zero anger behind the momentum. When you deal with a rabid dog, you can’t show him weakness or fear. You also can’t fight aggression with aggression. It leads nowhere.

  Lessons need learned.

  Trust formed.

  The hierarchy will prevail as it always does.

  Hungry for an opponent, he strikes a third time, and I’m ready for him. John punches right, and I go left. Air swirls around our dancing forms before I do what needs to be done and land a well-placed jab in that small section between hip and ribs. It’s enough to knock him off balance for today’s most important lesson...

  Don’t. Fuck. With. Me.

  Giving no time to recover, I lock John’s shoulder with my own and hip toss him onto the floor, back colliding with wood. It’s a mild takedown—little force behind it, but enough to stun some sense into the kid.

  He scrambles to redirect the brawl.

  Taking it a step further, to convey what words cannot, I knock his footing back out from under him when he attempts to stand, then straddle his hips. My feet lock his thighs down as I wrap a hand around John’s throat and press.

  “Enough!” I growl as he continues to struggle, and for the first time since he arrived the kid’s eyes blink, and they blink, and they blink as if the demon inside is giving the sane part a chance to surface.

  Oxygen pistons in and out of his lungs, his chest rising and falling with each laden breath.

  Sweat drips down either side of his forehead onto his temples.

  I look…

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuuuck.

  Low in my chest, born in the pit of my stomach, a furious growl forms as I stare at him. At them. At…

  Fuck.

  The kid’s shirt must’ve ridden up during the scuffle. Beneath it is wreckage... pure wreckage that could only be doled out by a monster bursting with hatred.

  There isn’t a stitch of skin not marred
by whip marks. Long, thick, pink scars. Unable to stop myself, I shove his shirt further up with my free hand.

  John tries to fight me, but my hold on his throat tightens, and my eyes lift to meet his that swirl with panic and fear… of broken shards of man.

  “Trust me,” I whisper, and he submits, going pliant beneath me as if he’s needed to hear those words for a century. His eyes slide closed, a lone tear leaking from the corner as I draw the hem of his shirt to his nipples.

  They, too, are damaged. His skin no longer milky and smooth.

  “Shit,” Bonez hisses, seeing what I am.

  It sickens me—them gawking at him, turning him into a spectacle.

  “Out!” I order to anyone in the area. “Get. The. Fuck. Out!”

  Another tear joins the first, trailing down the side of John’s face before it reaches his ear and disappears like a phantom.

  Footfalls echo and voices carry away until we’re alone.

  Beneath me, the kid simply breathes. In and out, in and out, slow and deliberate. The outline of his ribs protrude with every inhalation. His pulse throbs beneath my fingertips, such a stark contrast—Asian and Native American roots wrapped around his Northern European pallor. Tattoos and burns alongside raised switch marks.

  What did they do to you, kid? How long did those assholes have you? Even Bonez didn’t know when I asked.

  Leaving his shirt be, I trace what I can only assume is a brand on his rib.

  R.W.

  There’s a twin on his hip. Same size, same font, cast of iron pulled from the fire like they use on cattle.

  Depraved.

  Whoever the motherfucker is who did this, I hope he got dead. Painfully dead. Not the peaceful kind. The torture brand of justice. The kind John… yuck… that name doesn’t fit. This isn’t a John beneath me.