Page 52 of sWitch

Trevor looked like he’d seen a ghost as he fumbled over his words.

Fauna elbowed my ribs. “No, we weren’t. We were just looking for a snack. Do you guys want to go hunt down the brownies Watson promised us?”

We walked toward the big house, our flashlights long lost or burning batteries somewhere.

“Wait!” Trevor stopped us. “Watson promised you guys brownies? He never baked for us growing up, and webegged.”

Mary Jane shrugged. “He likes me and Fauna better.”

“We’re nicer,” Fauna added as they skipped ahead of us.

I clicked my cheek. “We’re in for it. Sorry to say, I think we’ve met our matches with those two.”

Indeed, we had.

All because of a grand switch.

LEVEL 17

PLAYER ONE: REMY

Two kids,one girl, one boy, sharing the same face and build, under the same opulent roof, grew up to embrace two completely different paths and aesthetics. My twin’s response to the glittering quartz of unattainable parental approval was to excel, to chase love through honors classes, valedictorian speeches, clean cut polos, and winning soccer goals.

My choices may have seemed more brazen, rebelliously showing up to every family function with more piercings and drawing satisfaction from my father’s disappointed scowls. I got addicted to their blatant disapproval—oh, but the attention from girls wasn’t so bad either. I spent so much time at the tattoo shop, getting new tattoos before the ink on the previous had even healed.

After asking a lot of questions and observing a lot of shit, the shop started to feel like home. I worked up the nerve to ask for an apprenticeship. Then, I pushed my luck and asked if the band could practice in the back after hours. School wasn’t for me. The rules, the uniformity—that was Trev’s thing, not mine. Honestly, I sometimes wondered if my need for pain and body impulsivitywas an inspired act of individualism, or just me putting more things between me and any desire to please my parents. If they hated me for my tattoos, they wouldn’t have to look any deeper and find more disappointment.

The week following the after party brought my first shift as an official piercer. My license came through, my needles were waiting…and I was scared as fuck someone was going to waltz into the empty shop and ask for something difficult like a conch or tragus piercing. Thankfully for my coward-ass, the artists had packed up for the day, and I was just fucking around on Joss’ guitar she’d left after practice. Fauna was in class and working at the animal shelter, but she’d been coming by my place every night and we would hang out. Well, my mouth would hang out with her pussy, at least. I fucking loved it.

The bells jingled up front. I put the acoustic back on its stand and stopped in surprise to admire my visitor. Fauna leaned on the front desk, her perfect, round little ass just barely concealed under a cream dress covered in lace and frills. Her pink hair was curled into ringlets and clipped behind her cat ear headphones.

“You look like an angel,” I said, wrapping my arms around her and picking her up. “An angel I’d like to fuck, please.”

She giggled and wrapped her legs around my waist. “Shh, Remy, someone will hear you.”

I walked her over to my piecing station and sat her in the blue leather chair. “It’s just us, princess. This is a nice surprise. Let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you dinner and whatever pretty little thing you want afterwards.”

Fauna shook her head and shoved me away as I kissed her cheeks incessantly. “I’m here as a customer. I hear there’s a hot new piercer in town, and I’d like to check out her work.”

I crossed my arms. “Oh, is that so? What would you like pierced?” I grabbed a clamp off my station and circled the fabric atop her bellybutton. “Here?” Her breathing hitched as I used the cold metal object to circle her nipples. “Or here, perhaps?”

Wrapping her hands around my neck, she pulled me in for a kiss, flicking her tongue over the hoop on my lip. “Here,” she said.

“A lip ring? Those are tricky to heal.”

“Well, good thing I have an experienced professional looking after me.” She leaned back in the chair. “Hurry up, or I’m not tipping. And I want a pink diamond, not a hoop.”

I pulled on a pair of gloves. “You’re hot when you’re a brat. But a hoop it is—for healing purposes at least. In six weeks, we can change it out.” I reached in my drawer. “For some bizarre reason I ordered these pink hoops last week. Like them?”

“Some mysterious reason, huh? Yes, those are pretty. Let’s do it.”

Once my instruments were prepared, I kicked out the leg rest and leaned my girl back in the chair. “I’m getting a little nervous now,” she admitted in a small voice.

Instead of going around to the side of her, I climbed on top, straddling her hips. “Does this help?”

“Now I’m nervousandturned on.”

We shared a laugh as I mapped out with a purple marker the best place for her new adornment. Once she approved the placement and my tools were ready, I clamped her lower lip.

---