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

by Bink Cummings

  “Then, Darling, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Do you think you could have understood? That I moved from a club that I loved but still wanted to move from? Doesn’t make much sense, huh? There were factors as to why I left. It doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate and love the lifestyle. And there is no way a lawyer raised in Chicago his whole life could even understand how I was raised and not get all judgmental on me. I know we are opposites of the spectrum. That is why I like dating you. You are nothing like the men I grew up with. You’re classy, have great tastes, are refined, you don’t cuss, and are still a loving, caring person. All those things I like about you.”

  “I love you, Eva, and I’m sorry. I’ll try not to be judgmental. It was just a shock for me, okay? So when are you coming home? I miss the baby and your warm body beside mine in bed.”

  “You miss me and the baby?” I try to stomp down the disbelief in my voice, but it’s hard to do.

  He lovingly chuckles, which brings a soft grin to my face. I love his voice; it’s not as deep as Big’s, but it’s still sexy with a slight midwestern accent. “Of course, I do, silly. Why wouldn’t I? I started dating you right when we found out you were pregnant. If I didn’t care for her and you, I wouldn’t be in this relationship, now would I? You’re a package deal, and I am fine with that. Just like I’ve been fine with you keeping her father’s identity a secret, and allowing me to take on that role. Which I am happy to take.”

  I’ve understood that Marshall loves me, and he’s accepted that I am pregnant. I never actually thought about him wanting to take on the responsibility as a pseudo father. I can respect that about him, it’s undeniably sweet. Although, that’s not what I want or expect. She is Big’s daughter, and up until now I never thought about someone else taking his place. Not that I want him to be a dad, but someone else adopting that role? That just seems… wrong.

  To deter Marshall from clicking into father mode, I change the subject altogether. This topic is something I will have to iron out on another day. Today not being it.

  “Well, I won’t be home until probably Sunday. Give me a few more days to calm down. And give yourself a few more days to try to come to terms with all that you’ve learned, and make sure you still want this relationship. I—,”

  “Of course I still want this relationship.” He’s firm, talking over me. “I want you home. And if I have to wait until Sunday, that’s perfectly fine. I will just miss you until then. Are you at least staying some place decent?”

  Decent to Marshall is a five star hotel, with room services and a concierge to dote upon you hand and foot. Now my idea of decent, is a Motel 6 with a hard bed and no cockroaches. Deke’s house is somewhere in-between.

  “It’s fine,” I groan. “See you Sunday.”

  “See you Sunday, Darling, I love you.”

  “Peace.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I hang up and toss the phone back onto the cradle again with a long exhausted sigh. I’ve had enough phone conversations today to last me a week or possibly two. Now I’ve got to cut this week’s checks for the men and enter them into the paid column on the computer. I’m staying at Deke’s again tonight. Not sure if he knows it, but I am. Not only for myself, but for his daughters too. I want them to like me and feel comfortable around me since I know they don’t have many female figures in their lives. Once they move to the compound, they will though. And as long as they steer clear of my mother and the whores, they will be just peachy keen.

  Now it’s time to work. Hope y’all have a fanfuckingtabulous day, and stay out of trouble. And for my sake, I hope I do too.

  Peace.

  Chapter Five

  Saturday: February 22, 2014

  “Seriously? You had to bring me to this teenybopper party zone? As if I don’t already feel old enough as it is, let’s bring the fat pregnant lady to the club with all the hot fresh meat and make her feel like the oldest dinosaur in the joint,” I chastise my cohorts, slumping my back into the corner booth here at the hottest nightclub within thirty miles. Five minutes of sober sitting, in a glittery red vinyl booth, scanning the bar (that I am oddly surprised doesn’t have a children’s ball pit), and I’m ready to hightail it outta here.

  “Shut it, Bink. We all saw the way the bouncer by the door looked at you when we walked in,” Debbie shoves at my shoulder in a playful manner, her hand wrapped around a fruity concoction. The thought of any type of alcohol at this point has me willing to beg for just a taste. Jack. I miss Jack, almost as much as I miss having regular sized ankles.

  “Like his mother?” I yell over some R&B song thumping through the speakers about it being too hot in here. It is, by the way. But I am not taking my clothes off like the song suggests. I would scare these poor children to death. Listen to me? Since when did I become the old spinster? Does pregnancy do that to a woman? Or does turning thirty attribute to that? Most of the women I’m gallivanting with, with the exception of Jezebel, are older than me. Even Pixie. Although they do seem to be having enough fun. I’m the dud. The party pooper. Go figure.

  “Shush, you don’t look like anybody’s mother. He did look like he wanted to take a bite right outta you,” Candy Cane justifies, sipping on her rum and coke.

  I’m not buying it. They are just trying to make me feel better.

  “You think he’s hungry? Maybe he’d like a nice juicy cankle to chew on? Maybe he missed his dinner. Ya think?” Sarcasm is dripping from every word, which somehow forces a laugh out of my partygoers.

  Resting back in my seat, they carry on amongst themselves, jabbering about this hot man or that one. I know they don’t get out from under their old men much. This is like a breath of fresh air for them. I can respect that, even though I would much rather be home than here. Home, being Marshall’s at this point in time.

  Today has been spent as a mix match of entertainment. Shopping, which I loathe. The women insisted on picking out clothes for baby Gabe, Jezebel’s newborn, and wanting to help me decide on my little bundle of joy’s outfit to bring her home from the hospital in. Little does anybody know, including Marshall, is that I want to have an at home birth in a giant tub of water with a midwife. I can’t think of a better way to bring a child into this world. Shit, I grew up being taught not to retreat to the hospital for most things, maybe that’s why having an at home natural water birth appeals to me so much. I spoke to my midwife about it at my last appointment. Marshall was thankfully detained, which meant I could speak freely with her. Now that I’ve set the idea in motion, she said she’d handle the rest. My only worry is carrying this baby and delivering her in a timely, preferably not overdue manner. Pushing a ten-pound overcooked turkey out of a hole the size of a walnut is not my idea of a good time. A seven pounder seems way more appealing, even though it’s still gonna suck.

  After shopping and buying god knows how many outfits for Gabe and none for my daughter, I refused to start that nesting syndrome thingy that I’ve read about. I’m sure it’ll come eventually. However, it’s too early to start now. After that, we ate dinner at a fancy Italian eatery. Not that it mattered much because I threw it all up twenty minutes after I’d ate. And now we are here. Jezebel found the bar on her phone, and we decided to give it a go. It’s like a fifties diner meets dance club; it’s unique in its own sock-hop mashup kinda way.

  Dialing back into the women’s conversations, I see Pixie pointing rather obviously to a man sleeved in ink like her, standing by the bar with a blue Mohawk and skull plugs in his ears, the size that you could fit a cherry through.

  “I’m gonna start doing those at the shop,” she yells. “I already do piercings. It only seems natural to stretch ears too.”

  Now is a good as time as ever to bring up what I’ve been dying to talk about all day. “Do you think Big’s old lady would approve of you stretching his ears out? Maybe he needs a new look.”

  I meant it to be funny, but all the women’s faces
snap to mine, with obvious shock, eyes bugging and mouths gaping. Rubbing the edge of the table with my fingers occupies my attention just enough to keep me from reaching out and lifting Debbie and Pixie’s jaws off the table before they start to drool.

  I shrug, stop rubbing, and lay my arm across the back of the booth, trying to appear more relaxed than what I am. On the inside, I’m fucking dying, and I want to slaughter my best friends for not warning me. Shame on them bitches.

  “What? No?” I mock, lifting a single brow.

  Nearly a minute passes before anyone gets enough courage to stop sucking back their alcohol and staring at me to actually sputter a coherent word.

  “You know Big has a woman?” Debbie finally breaks the seal. Way to go Debbie, being the bravest.

  “I do,” I casually bob my head with an impassive tone. “What I don’t understand is how I found out from him instead of you all,” my head nods at each and every one of them in order, my brows reaching an all-time high, peeking into my hairline.

  “We didn’t think you’d want to know,” Pixie adds.

  “Really?” I’m shrill. “A man I grew up with finds himself an old lady, and I don’t want to know?” Now this time I can’t feign my indifference, I’m pissed at them.

  “Bink,” Debbie reaches over Pixie to me. With her hand landing on my knee, she gives it a loving squeeze. “You know we didn’t tell you to be respectful to you. Just like we haven’t told our guys you are pregnant because we knew that was important to you.”

  “Did Big or the brothers tell you not to tell me?”

  Candy Cane gasps, throwing her hand over her mouth. “How could you think so low of us? We are sisters, and as much as we love our old men, we don’t always listen to them. And Tripper would never ask me to hide that anyhow. We didn’t tell you because we didn’t want you upset.”

  I am upset. He has an old lady, and I wasn’t fucking informed.

  “She’s not his old lady anyhow,” Jezebel chimes in, tying her hair atop her head with a scrunchie. “Fuck it’s hot in here,” she states, rubbing the back of her neck with her hand and sighs. “Ah, much better,” then turns her attention back on me. “She’s his girlfriend. They started datin’ in November. She doesn’t live on the compound, but she does stay over a lot. And I do know he’s still been fuckin’ whores.”

  “Of course he has.” The words are like thick molasses as they stick to my mouth. Big and whores are like two fucking peas in a pod. He couldn’t be faithful to anyone. Sick old bastard.

  I have to hand it to my sisters though. Axel is simply pussy whipped by Pixie, even though he’s the southern charmer and more social than she is. Debbie and Dallas, they are two halves to a whole. Tripper and Candy Cane, I know that woman would kill Tripper if he strayed and though I’ve seen him with a wandering eye, he never acts on it. Then you’ve got Jezebel and Bulk, and the sun sets and rises with her in his eyes. Now that they have their new baby, he’s been a loving father and doting husband. Or the best he can be, considering he is a biker. Makes me envious in a lot of ways. Marshall is a great man, but he’s sometimes too stiff and clean cut. That’s what I like most about him, but it happens to be the thing that I also dislike the most about him. It’s a damn catch 22.

  “So….” I take a sip of my water and set it back on the Formica tabletop. “What’s she like?”

  “You,” Debbie blurts, and realizes quickly what she just said. “I mean, not personality, but looks wise,” she recovers.

  My get on with it hand motion sways Jezebel to formidably fill in the painstaking details that I want to hear, but then again I don’t want to. It’s like a doctor diagnosing you with something horrendous. You know it’s awful because he’s disclosed that much. What you don’t know is how awful the prognosis is and in what way it’s going to affect you. This is the same. Except I’m not dying. My heart may be, but physically I am as healthy as a horse or maybe a cow. You pick.

  “She’s blonde, short hair, blue eyes, and big boobs. She’s less curvy though,”

  “You mean skinnier?” I cut in.

  “No,” she shakes her head. “I mean she doesn’t have curves.” Jezebel sticks her tongue out. “If she was skinnier I’d tell you, honey. I’m not a stick figure myself.” Her hand rolls down the sides of her thick curvaceous body and devilishly grins.

  “What she’s saying is she has no ass.” Debbie corrects. I don’t know why those words from her affect me, but they do and I instantly start to laugh hysterically. Then the entire table catches the laughing bug, and we all turn into crazy hyenas cackling in the corner about this blonde woman who has taken my place at the club. Laughter is the best medicine, right?

  Catching my breath a minute or two later, I swipe the tears from my eyes and take another sip of my water. “So she’s not curvy, check that off the list.” I pretend to check it with my finger. The girls’ chuckle.

  “She’s also about six inches taller than you. Not that that’s hard,” Jezebel says.

  I flip her off. “Funny, bitch. I know I’m short.”

  “Yeah, you’re short but she’s not. She’s a lot younger than you too. Probably twenty three at most,” Jezebel explains.

  “So what you’re saying is Big hasn’t started to date her? He’s adopted her? Since she’s over twenty five years younger than him.” It’s a ruthless jab, I know, but it feels good. Maybe being a bitch is the best medicine instead. Hum… I can’t decide. What do you think?

  “No, he’s fuckin’ her. But yeah, she’s very young. She kinda reminds me of a CZ diamond.” Jezebel raises her hand to flash her oversized engagement ring. “She’s beautiful to look at, she’s new, she’s clean, and perfectly cut. But then you get up and look closely and see that she’s not real. She’s a fake. She doesn’t glimmer like a natural diamond or hold the beauty and unbreakable strength of a real diamond. She’s just a manufactured piece of glass. Not the real deal. And sooner or later, that pig headed owner is gonna realize that fake diamonds can never pass for the real ones, no matter how much you wish they would.”

  Jezebel’s analogy, even though it’s a bit unorthodox and completely weird coming from her mouth, does make sense, as long as I’m the real diamond in the scheme of things. I think that’s what she’s getting to. Instead of asking, I take a drink of water, draining the rest of my glass, and slam it down on the table. It’s time to get the party started. That’s enough of the heavy for now. No more talk about Big.

  “Let’s dance.” I shove my hip into Pixie to slide out of the rounded booth, and all my sisters climb out, one right after the other. Standing at the edge of our table, we all turn and cast our gazes upon the crowded dance club. It’s packed with more hot sweaty gyrating bodies than a whore house, minus the fucking.

  “Okay,” I take in deep breath readying myself.

  Debbie looks scared as hell to dance, so I grab her hand, squeezing it for reassurance and guide her to the wooden dance floor. I didn’t wear this red wrap dress and studded black flats tonight for nothin’. It’s time to get our groove on.

  A weird song about lickin’ balls and windows to walls ends, and for our sake, we strike a bit of luck when a song I actually know pours over the speakers. Strangely enough the younger crowd screams their excitement, holding up their bottles of beer and drinks high in the air, as the manic strobe lights cast wild greens and brash ruby reds over the crowd, and the glittery disco ball rotates.

  My sisters and I do the girl thing and crowd ourselves into a spot on the side of the dance floor. They let the liquor control their actions while I fake self-confidence, forgetting that I have a small watermelon protruding from my abdomen. A watermelon that’s kicking me as I sway my hips, and sensually glide my hands down my sides, over my wide hips, and around my ass, where I sexually grind against my imaginary partner, lip-syncing to Def Leppard’s, Pour Some Sugar On Me.

  Lost in some sort of out of body experience, I close my eyes drifting off to the song, and I let myself go. My fingers run throu
gh my hair as my hips and ass work on their own accord, rocking to the beat of the music.

  This feels amazing.

  The erotic vibrations of the music seep into my veins, and I don’t stop as the next song, Livin’ on a Prayer, tugs a smile on my lips. One of my friends bumps into my side and quickly apologizes.

  “It’s okay,” I yell over the crowd, and return to lip-syncing.

  Pony by Genuine is next to feed my sensual dance-a-thon. Thanks to Brew and Jizz, my brothers, I know this song by heart. I caught my brother Brew making out with all of his teenage girlfriends to this song. Even walked in on him fucking one of them in his clubhouse bedroom with the door wide-open. This song serenaded their primal acts of passion through his boom box CD player that sat on the floor next to his unframed bed. I forgot about that night until now. Cindy Jane was her name. Pretty, carrot top girl with freckles for miles, and itty-bitty titties. Way less boobs than I had, even in the fourth grade. What can I say? I was an early developer.

  Perspiration beads on the back of my neck and my forehead dampens. I peek out to see my friends dancing right alongside me. Jezebel must have left and acquired herself another drink. Debbie is a bit awkward, as a boy in his early twenties tries to get her to dance with him. Flashing him her wedding band doesn’t seem to deter the tall, ruggedly handsome boy, as he shrugs palms up, mouthing, “So what?”

  I know Debbie well enough to know she’s too nice, so I dance a few steps to her, grab her hand, and pull her with me, while waving bye-bye to the cute boy.

  “Thank you,” she yells in my ear.