MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel)

by Bink Cummings

  With a quick peck on the lips, Marshall climbs off the bed and heads straight to his closet, leaving me needy for his cock. I’m always needy for it. I’m utterly insatiable, and he isn’t equipped to handle a woman like me. I know this, he knows this, but he tries nonetheless.

  Men in the club that I grew up in, fuck like rabbits. That’s where we are similar. Marshall is, well, he’s vanilla. Sweet, caring, careful, attentive, pleasing— yes, he’s all those things. A man who would just fuck me to fuck me is never going to happen. Doggy style, slapping my ass, eating my pussy—more things that will never happen with him. He’s too precise with his pleasure giving skills. The man can kiss though. He’s one helluva kisser. But the rest is just plain old everyday, boring vanilla. I enjoy it, don’t get me wrong, but every now and again I want chocolate, strawberry, or nuts. You know what I mean.

  I sit up in our bed just in time to see him reemerge from the closet in a black suit, charcoal grey tie, and the black onyx cufflinks that I bought him for Christmas.

  “I can’t sue your work if you’re fired for being late, Eva,” Marshall teases with a gentle smile, blowing me as kiss as he walks back into the bathroom to fix his hair.

  I slide off the bed and go to stand in the doorway of the bathroom, my hip leaning on the frame. “I know, but the men don’t care if I’m late. You know this.”

  “Do you want to gel my hair today?” he asks, watching me watching him, through the mirror above our marble vanity, completely ignoring my comment.

  “No, I like watching you do it though.”

  Truth be known, I really like Marshall. He’s a perfect gentleman, even if he is a bit controlling. That’s something I am quite accustomed to. Fortunately he isn’t a cheater, and he takes care of me, loves me, and he would never raise his voice or a hand to me. Plus, the man is sexy as hell… in a clean cut, no hair out of place, toned, not ripped sort of way. Marshall is five foot ten and full of lean muscle, since he runs on our treadmill at home every morning. He has shorter black hair, peppered with grey that he styles with gel. Marshall reminds me of a slightly matured GQ model, very easy on the eyes and the heart.

  And no, in case you’re wondering, I’m not in love with him. He knows as much. We’ve discussed it a hundred times over. It only took the man three weeks after we started seeing each other to drop the ‘L’ word into my lap. Sadly, I don’t feel the same, and I feel insanely wracked with guilt all the time for not opening my heart to him. Marshall’s a good man, a great man, but he’s a man who could never understand me for me. He knows little to nothing of my past or my upbringing. The man doesn’t even know that I’ve been called Bink my entire life, or where I actually work every day.

  “You okay?” Marshall asks, tugging me from my thoughts again.

  I nod, smiling sweetly to him. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Marshall finishes his hair, and I follow him out of the bathroom as we both go to gather our workbags and coats from the kitchen, before we lock up our apartment and take the elevator, where we ride in silence to the bottom floor.

  Out front, Raoul hails Marshall a cab, and I kiss him goodbye, waving to him from the curb before I convey the message about the package to be delivered from Marshall’s mother.

  Marshall and Raoul don’t much care for each other since I moved in with him part time. Raoul is a young, handsome, Latino man, who spends too much time ogling my tits every time I see him. So I’ve taken the liberty to handle all correspondence with Raoul myself, since Marshall has claimed he is at his wits end with the man, and is seriously considering filing a lawsuit against our apartment building for Raoul’s sexual candor. In other words, Marshall wants to have a pissing contest because someone else is looking at my tits. If only he knew how much they are drooled over at work. That would surely cause an uproar.

  “Hey, Bink,” Jones waves as I enter in through the squeaky side door.

  “Fifteen minutes late, Cummings. In my office, now!” Larry gruffly orders with a snicker, picking his teeth with his ever-present toothpick.

  “Fuck off, Larry. How many times I gotta tell ya, I won’t bend over the desk for ya to spank my ass, you sick fuck.” I wink at him with a dirty smile and stick out my tongue, as I walk into my office and leave the door open.

  “That tongue’s for lapping my balls, honey,” Larry retorts loudly from the shop.

  I chuckle, “Listen you sick, old fuck. Pretty sure those balls are too old to lick, bet they’re shriveled up raisins by now.”

  Dropping my work sack on the old dingy sofa, I pull out my real clothes for the day and listen to the men in the shop teasing Old Larry, as I kick off those prissy kitten heels and black dress pants, to slide on something more comfortable, like a pair of my favorite holey jeans and combat boots. My stupid shirt is last to come off, and Deke enters the room, clearing his throat as he watches me tug on my black oversized Harley tee.

  “Feel better?” He eyes me appreciatively with a naughty half grin.

  “Which part, boss? The one where I put Old Larry in his place? Or changed out of those hideous clothes?”

  He shrugs his cut clad shoulders, “Both I suppose.”

  Yes, my boss, whose name is Deke, happens to be a biker. A Sacred Sinners nomad to be exact. Deke owns this vintage car and bike restoration shop on the outskirts of Chicago. I found out about it and the job opening when Pixie called to tell me Axel’s old buddy Deke ran a shop round here, and he’d called in a favor. Then one thing led to another, and I got the job. It’s one helluva ride to and from work Monday through Friday, but it’s the best job I’ve ever had. I get to run the legal books for a shop that restores and customizes bikes and cars. What’s not to love for a vintage car whore like myself? Plus, my boss is a S.S. member with an old lady and two kids. The shop’s kind of dingy but I love the homey feel it provides, which keeps me from becoming homesick most of the time.

  Five guys besides Deke work here. They’re all kind of a close-knit crew. Larry is the oldest man here at sixty, and he happens to be my favorite, besides Deke, that is. Larry’s an old, thin as a rail, harmless pervert, with the heart of gold and the funniest sense of humor. Deke’s sort of a cross between a hardcore biker and a golden retriever. He’s hard and shaggy, but he’s a hugger, unbelievably sweet, and adorable as hell. Where Big is this huge, thick motherfucker, Deke is a lean, tall, toned man, with bright blonde hair, lighter than mine, and the greenest eyes I’ve ever beheld. He’s four years older than me, and his wife Vivian is my age. Who just so happens to be a complete raving bitch, and kind of reminds me of my mother and Linda in a lot of ways. Not sure why Deke’s married to a woman who is so awful, but I don’t ask, as it’s none of my business. I just listen to him when he needs someone to vent to, and the fact he’s standing here in my office looking a bit haggard suggests this is one of those times.

  “Can I help ya, boss?” I raise a brow, rounding the lip of my shabby metal desk to sit in my office chair.

  “Yeah.” He shuts the door, and lifts my bag from the couch. Setting it on the floor before he plops down on the overly worn cushions that squeak in anger under his weight. Leaning forward, his elbows meet his knees, and his hands thread into his shaggy blonde locks. This tells me something big is on his mind.

  “What’s up?” I prompt cautiously as I casually tip back in my chair, kicking my boots onto the edge of my desk, with my hands threaded behind my head, in a comfy non-threatening position.

  Deke’s too nice of a guy and a worry wart, so the less I make this a big deal, the quicker the man says what he’s got to say. If not, we might be here for an hour or two, and I’ve got inventory to run.

  Sighing, Deke tugs at his hair and takes a deep breath. “I got two things I need to say.” He pauses, as if he’s trying to decide which subject to tackle first. “Well…I…umm… need some advice.” Deke explains, speaking to the ground, avoiding eye contact completely.

  “I figured as much.” I softly tease with a half-smile, to let him know that I am u
p for whatever he may throw my way. Pretty sure I might be the only person he can confide in that is halfway sane and isn’t an old pervert.

  “You see, Vivian, she’s been messin’ ‘round with this dude from her work. I saw the texts on her phone a few nights ago. They’re sexting, and it’s trashy as fuck.” He grumbles under his breath. “Not like I give a fuck she’s with some dumbass tweaker, but I’ve got my kids to worry about, ya know?” he glances up for my recognition, and I nod, egging him forward with the story. It’s amazing he’s not even been in here for ten minutes, and we’re already getting to the heart of the problem. That’s a rarity for him.

  “See… umm… here’s the thing. If I leave her, which I’ve wanted to do for the past three fuckin’ years, I don’t want her to have any access to the kids. She’s a shitty mom as it is, and I can’t have them bein’ raised by a coke head. I’ve fed that habit long enough. Held her hand through rehab three times in ten years, and she relapses over and over. And the bitch has stepped out on me twice before this, and like the dumbass I am, I took her back.”

  This poor guy is breaking my heart with this story. The paleness of his face and sunken in eyes tells me he’s slept very little in the past few days. Poor Deke. He’s probably the nicest man I’ve ever met, and he’s with one of the worst women.

  Deke clears his throat, “Shit,” he scoffs a partial demonic laugh, “I know Cherry ain’t even mine. The bitch got knocked up by one of her stupid fuckin’ boy toys when I was locked up for six months eight years ago. Me bein’ the nice guy I am, I stuck with her, figured I owed her as much for stayin’ with me after I’d been to prison. Now this new dude is in the picture, supplyin’ her coke habit and bangin’ her. I can’t take care of another baby, Bink.” He looks up to meet my eyes, “I know that baby won’t even be mine.” His voice is pained. I know he’s battling with something internally, and I want to help so badly. I want to fix everything for him. Deke deserves to have someone on his side.

  I don’t speak as I drop my feet off my desk and get out of my chair, headed straight to him. Reassuringly, I pat his shoulder and sit next to him on the couch, positioning my body so I can wrap my arms around him. And I do, I hold him because I know he needs it. Even the baddest of bikers can let their walls down in the comfort of a woman’s arms.

  “It’s going to be alright.” I hug him from the side, threading my fingers through his hair, and tilting his head to rest it on my shoulder. Deke solemnly turns towards me and buries his face into my breasts. Under different circumstances I would probably shove him away and berate him for being a pervert. But this isn’t one of those times. He is seeking comfort, and I am going to give him just that. Relaxing back onto the couch, I take him with me and use my large beasts to my advantage, rocking his head into them. One hand softly combs through his messy hair, as my other rubs his back. His hot heavy breaths bathe my skin through my shirt, and my heart aches for him.

  We remain quiet for what feels like an hour, as I continue to soothe him. “So,” I finally speak, barely above a whisper. “What do you want to do? You know I will help in any way I can.”

  Deke rolls his head to the side, and gazes up at me, his eyes matted with unshed tears. I swallow hard to keep myself from crying. I have to be his rock.

  “What do you want to do, Sweetheart?” I comb through his hair, and with a gentle smile, lean down and kiss his forehead.

  “You’re a really good woman,” Deke mutters. “A really fuckin’ good one.”

  I don’t want to talk about that. I don’t think I’m a good anything, except maybe an avoider, and if I am being really cocky, I can suck good dick. But I’m confident that’s no longer true, considering Marshall would never let me touch him down there with anything but my hand.

  Shaking my head, I wash those unwarranted thoughts from my mind. This is not the time or the place.

  “So what can you do?” I rephrase my question to a more realistic one.

  Deke shrugs and lifts his head from my breasts, rubbing his eyes. He relaxes back into the couch beside me, our shoulders touching. Reflectively I don’t even think about it as my hand rests on his thigh. Don’t ask me why but I feel like I need to be touching him, to show him my silent support. Call me crazy, I can’t help it.

  “I’ve been talkin’ to Axel, you know, your friend Pixie’s old man,” he explains.

  I nod in understanding.

  “I’ve known the man since I started in the club. I told him about all this shit and asked how I drop an old lady. I know it’s like some sick ceremony where I gotta burn her property cut and blacken in her name on my back. He said Pixie would do it for me, since she’s a tattooist and all…..” he sighs and continues. “Anyhow, so we got to talkin’, and he said they could use some more brothers over at the original chapter. They got houses and shit for me to raise my girls. They’ve even got a shop for me to work at.”

  As much as I hate to hear this coming from his mouth, Axel was right about all of it. It might actually be the best place for Deke to go with his kids if he’s leaving Vivian. The brothers will protect him, and the old ladies will help with his daughters. A ping of jealousy cuts to my heart at the thought of him being there and not me. But I quickly dismiss those feelings for nothing more than fond memories.

  “So what is it you want to ask?”

  “Um… what do ya think about the chapter? I mean, I know you know the place. Your pops was a member there, right?”

  I guess I should make this clear—Deke and I talk. He knows that I have an association with the club. However, he knows nothing about Big and I’s little fall out or me growing up there. I’ve been keeping all that shit bottled up and to myself ever since I moved here. It’s been hard to keep quiet, but maybe it’s time to come clean, if only to give reassurances to Deke about patching over. I might not want to be there, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love my family or think the club is a great place. I didn’t run from them. I ran from him.

  “Deke,” I sigh, squeezing his knee. “My daddy is the VP down there and Big Dick is their president. I grew up on the compound, so whatever questions you wanna know about the place, I’m pretty sure I can answer.” It all comes tumbling out, and I still, holding my breath, waiting as the clock on the wall ticks its taunting tick, eating up the eerie silence of the tension-fogged room.

  Please don’t yell. Please don’t yell.

  “Fuck,” Deke harshly blurts, smacking his hand on the arm of the couch. A puff of dust floats into the air, and I cough, covering my mouth.

  “Fuck,” Deke repeats calmer. “You’re the fuckin’ president’s old lady.” A statement, not a question.

  My face bunches up in disgust. “Excuse me?” I throw out my attitude in spades. Sitting I snap to gather eye contact.

  What the fuck was that? His old lady? I thought we covered this when I left.

  “Yeah, Axel said somethin’ ‘bout the club being a big fuckin’ mess when he first called to get you this job. Somethin’ about the president’s old lady skippin’ town. You’re the old lady who bailed, aren’t you?” He throws me a questioning look.

  “Nuh—ooo,” my hands fly in the air with emphasis, as I begin to talk animated with my hands. “Big Dick wanted me to be his old lady. I never agreed to it. I never wore a cut. I never signed my life over to him. That is why I left. So yes, I guess you can say I skipped out, but it wasn’t because I was his old lady, it was because I didn’t want to be. There’s a huge difference.” I sure hope this sinks in; I do not want to repeat myself.

  “Okay….” Deke slowly glances down my body.

  Son of a bitch, please don’t ask the question, nobody knows the truth.

  “Is that his?” he asks, staring straight into my soul.

  Lie Bink, just fucking lie to the man. He won’t know the goddamned difference. But shit, I am so tired of lying to everyone. Enough is enough, my shoulders can’t hold any more of this load.

  My attitude deflates, “Yes, she is his.” I rub my sto
mach, cradling my baby bump, and my daughter who rests healthy inside.

  Surprise!

  Yeah, don’t scream at me, like Deke’s about to do. I know I probably should have confessed. Remember that night I told you about with the whole black out and me seeing Marshall in a new light…. Let’s elaborate shall we? Before you want to strangle me too.

  After the pizza and the college talk, Brit got up and stomped back to her room, utterly pissed off at her dad for being so nosy. Three minutes after she had left, my ‘stomach flu’ reared its ugly head, and Marshall was the one to rub my back as my stomach purged all of the delicious pizza into the porcelain throne.

  Handing me a towel to wipe my mouth, Marshall sat back onto the tiled bathroom floor, holding the lantern as it casted an eerie glow in the small confined space. “You need to see a doctor,” he suggested. “How long has this been going on?”

  I tried to feign indifference, but the truth was I had vomited every single day for over a week and every other day for a few weeks prior. I hadn’t told a soul. Brit was the only friend I had in the city, and most of the times I puked, she was gone, so I kept it to myself. But I was exhausted, I had lost ten pounds, even though I somehow felt fat, my clothes were starting to tighten, not loosen, like I had suspected they should with my weight loss. I couldn’t handle the burden on my own any longer.

  “I’ve been puking for about three weeks,” I honestly told Marshall.

  A wash of understanding came over his handsome face, and he reached out and took my hand into his. “Eva, I think you’re pregnant,” he calmly voiced. For some odd reason he wasn’t hurt or outraged, he was sweet and reassuring. His kindness melted my heart, and shortly after that was when I knew I would be giving Marshall the chance he deserved.

  However, at the time I pushed off that absurd notion of pregnancy with a scoff, yanked my hand from his, and got up from the floor. “I am not,” I snapped.