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

by Bink Cummings

  Hmm….That makes me wonder.

  Watching Marshall stirring a pot over the stove, I text Gunz again to find more answers.

  Me: Are my biological sisters coming to the wedding?

  Gunz: I don’t know. I think they were invited. Dunno if they’ll show up.

  Me: I don’t want them to show up. It’s going to be bad enough handling the family with this pregnancy thing, Marshall, my mother, and if they come…

  Gunz: Yeah baby doll, I get it. They are some stuck up prissy bitches. I don’t want ‘em here either. You bringin’ the stiff?

  Me: Probably, seems he wants to come. Must think it’s going to be all fun and games.

  Gunz: Hahaha, that man is going to run for the hills by the end of the weekend. There is no fuckin’ way he knows what’s in store.

  Me: You ain’t telling me somethin’ I don’t already know. Where can we stay when we’re there? I don’t want us using my room at the clubhouse, if I can avoid it. That will just makes things worse.

  Gunz: I think that’s where you’ll be stuck. Got the houses full with all the other guests coming in from outta town. You know Prez would never let anyone use your room, so that’s gonna be empty.

  Me: How many people are coming?

  Gunz: No clue. My guess is at least a hundred. Your bro was nice enough to hire the catering out though, so nobody is forced to cook. Probably didn’t wanna rely on people, if you ain’t around to supervise. You know, after the bullshit that went down when we last went on lockdown.

  I remember that -- food poisoning and Big fucking Niki. Ugh! The twisting of my gut makes me want to hurl at the thought. Why can’t I get past this? Thought distance would help separate my feelings, but apparently I’ve been mistaken.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Marshall announces, setting the food on the dining room table that is right off the kitchen. I slide off the stool and claim a seat at the table. Marshall sets a fork, spoon, and plate in front of me before he slides into his seat across from me.

  “Bon appetit,” he says, and we both dive into the garlic bread and pasta dish he prepared. We sit and eat in companionable silence, with only the sounds of Kenny G and our chewing to keep us company.

  Wiping my mouth with my napkin, I set it on the table and fold my hands into my lap. Taking in a deep breath, I relax my shoulders and prepare myself for what I am about to say. “You can go with me to my brother’s wedding,” I explain evenly. I am not excited about this little trip or bringing him along, but I know it’s only fair.

  Marshall sets his fork on his plate and grabs my hand from my lap. Squeezing it gently, he grins a tiny bit. “Good, I am excited to meet your family.”

  Poor delusional man doesn’t even know what he’s in for.

  Chapter Seven

  Two Weeks Later- Friday: March 21, 2014

  It’s show time!

  Walking back into the bedroom, my toiletries in hand, I glance at the stack of clothes Marshall has piled on the end of the bed. I think it’s time we have a little talk about this weekend’s expectations, and most importantly, his clothing choices.

  “Marshall,” I call out, stuffing my toiletries into my suitcase that’s resting on the mattress. I’ve already given the heads up to the girls and Gunz about our arrival, so it won’t be that huge of a shock for everybody present. Even though I have contemplated calling it off a hundred different times, it boils down to being there for my brother, even if my stomach is in knots. Two days ago, I found out from Gunz that Elise and Elizabeth, my estranged sisters, are also attending. Elise is bringing her fancy-smancy husband, Cliff, a leading obstetrician in New York City, where they live with their two kids. Her children are not tagging along though. My guess is, bitch Elise doesn’t want them to be exposed to the raw truths of roughneck biker life. Tomorrow my brother gets hitched, and tonight they are having a joint bachelor-bachelorette soiree at the clubhouse. It’s gonna be a long, emotional, and tiring weekend.

  “Yes, Darling,” Marshall strolls into the bedroom from the hall with two sport coats draped over his forearms.

  I give him a puzzled look, as I point to the coats. “I hope you’re not bringing those along.”

  “These?” He raises his arms and drops the coats on the bed next to the pile of his business casual clothing.

  This is not going to work.

  “Yes, those.” I go to join him at the opposite side of the bed, and I pick up one of the ugly coats. “This,” I shake it out in front of me at arm’s length examining it, as my nose bunches into a mild scowl, “is not to be worn at the club. There are standards, and we aren’t talkin’ fancy dress. Leather, jeans, and cotton shirts - those are what you have to work with.”

  Taking the jacket from my grasp, he drops it back on the pile. “But it’s a wedding,” he argues.

  “A biker wedding,” I emphasize, “Which means men are going to be wearing leather cuts, jeans, or leather chaps, drinking alcohol like it’s a sport, and showing off their women like they are trophies at a redneck biker beauty pageant. The more cleavage and pasted on trashy makeup the better...” I sigh. “These,” I heft up the neatly lain clothes at all once, overflowing my arms, “are not suitable, unless you want to be picked on and stick out like a sore thumb.”

  Shoving the pile of clothes at Marshall’s chest, he takes them from me, and I head to his closet. Inside it is like an OCD fashion designer threw up. All of his shirts, ties, shoes, even suits are categorized by color and then by style. Only his briefs and argyle socks are folded in drawers. Not a white pair of socks in sight, which is the polar opposite of what I grew up with. Most of the bikers wear white Hanes crew socks. I think Mickey might be the only brother that I know of that strictly wears black crew socks. Not that any of this really matters… just an observation is all.

  Honing in on his sparse jeans section, I tug three pairs from their designated hangers and drape them over my shoulder. Then I head over to the t-shirt area, which is also lacking in choices, and I shuffle through them, picking four that would be the most presentable. On the wall is a rack for shoes, and I scan the length up and down to find anything that resembles boots. Looks like we are S.O.L. Maybe we should go shopping before we go?

  At the bottom of the shelves tucked behind a dusty pair of pristine house slippers, I find a pair of black Chucks. Bingo! Those will fit in nicely. Maybe not as well as say a pair of boots or steel toed shoes, but better than a pair of polished dress shoes that cost Marshall a few hundred dollars a pair, which will only get ruined when we’re outside, or dancing in the clubhouse.

  I exit the closet to see Marshall packing his small suitcase with the business crap he already laid out. With a faint grunt, I drop the clothes I have on my shoulder and in my arms onto the bed, and bump him out of the way with my hip.

  “No,” I chastise, reaching into his suitcase and throwing all his folded clothes into a heap on the floor.

  “Hey,” he whines, bending over to pick up his shit. “I was going to wear those.”

  “No, you’re not.” I shove the other clothes into his open suitcase and toss the flap closed, leaving it unzipped and washing my hands of this argument. “Those are what you are wearing unless you want to be subjected to a hundred bikers picking on you. They aren’t nice. This isn’t like high school where the bully might be an asshole, and you get to go home and shrug it off. No, this is real life where outlaw bikers exist, as do their colorful ways of telling you that they don’t like you.”

  I’m trying to be nice, looking out for him. Doesn’t he fucking see that?

  I’d hate to scare Marshall, but I already know it’s going to happen because he’s my boyfriend and even more so because he’s a clean cut lawyer. Gunz and I talked about this, and he has reassured me he would do his best to keep the tormenting down to a minimum. But I know Jizz and Mickey, and Marshall is already screwed. And that’s assuming Big is on his very best behavior, which is highly unlikely. I’m realistic, and as much as I wish this was a fairytale where all
my family loves my boyfriend and gushes over him, it’s not going to be that way. I know it, and I can handle their wrath. The real question is - can Marshall? I don’t think this man has ever been bullied his entire life, and these men could very well make him cry, or worse. Good thing Gunz is there as a backup because we’re going to need it.

  I don’t wait for Marshall to respond to my brash, unyielding clothing decision. I go straight to packing my own bag. I throw in some maternity bottoms, a few oversized t-shirts, a couple dress shirts, a dress or two, and my combat boots. I’ll be damned if these cankles keep me from wearing my boots at least one day while I’m there.

  Twenty minutes later, I am ready, Marshall is packed, and we are rolling our bags out the front door and locking up.

  “You got everything?” I ask, slinging my oversized purse over my shoulder with my custom gun secured inside. You can never be too careful.

  “Yup.”

  We get on the elevator in silence, and I can feel the palpable tension floating between us. Not sure if it’s the clothes or the family wedding that is making matters so difficult. At the bottom floor, we roll the bags out the back of the building and into the underground parking garage where Marshall parks his BMW. He takes our luggage and stuffs it into the trunk, as I slide into the passenger seat and pull out my sunglasses for the ride. I’m so nervous my stomach is close to purging the contents of this morning’s granola bar all over the black leather interior.

  Marshall slams the trunk closed and hops in. Turning the engine over, he pulls out of the garage, and I take this as my cue to enter the compound’s address into the onboard GPS. The woman instantly starts barking directions with her annoying as hell, monotone voice. The traffic is mild as we navigate out of Chicago proper and into the suburbs, where it thins out even further. On the highway we cruise, listening to soft rock on the satellite radio. Neither of us has spoken much since the clothing incident. Marshall seems too deep in thought, as his eyes stare at the open road ahead of us. I can’t help but wonder if he’s as nervous about this as I am.

  Thirty miles from our destination, Marshall reaches across the center console, threading his fingers through mine. “It’s going to be alright,” he squeezes my hand reassuringly.

  “I sure hope so,” I sigh, tilting my head back against the headrest. I can’t believe we are doing this.

  “Stop at the gate,” I order, sitting up in the seat and unbuckling my seatbelt. My feet have been bouncing in anticipation for the last ten miles. I can’t believe we are here!

  Oh my god, oh my god, what was I thinking? This is fucking crazy!

  Marshall stops the BMW at the closed wrought iron gate and rolls down his window. White Boy is manning the bulletproof guard station on the other side.

  “Sorry, but I think you’re at the wrong place, man,” White Boy explains through the silver intercom speaker that is on a post outside of Marshall’s car window.

  “No sir, we’re here for the Cummings wedding,” Marshall speaks dignified, and I can’t help it, I roll my eyes. He has got a lot to learn.

  White Boy laughs, “Naw, Man, you are definitely at the wrong place. Ain’t no Cummings wedding here. Move along.”

  I lean over the console. I know White Boy can’t see me because Marshall’s windows are tinted too dark or he would have already buzzed us through. Time to pull out the big guns.

  “Listen you little shit, my fuckin’ brother is getting hitched, and I gotta pee. Now open this damn gate before I sick Gunz on you for making me wait,” I lightheartedly scold the prospect and finish with a chuckle so he knows I’m not actually angry.

  “Oh fuck, Bink, is that you? Sorry, babe,” he rattles off, and the gate magically opens.

  “See, that’s how you get shit done ‘round here,” I smugly explain to Marshall, and all he can seem to do is gape at me. “What?” I shrug.

  Driving through the gate, we stop by the guard station, as White Boy waves us down and steps up to Marshall’s window. Bending at the waist to peer inside, his grimace at the sight of Marshall is to be expected.

  He ignores him completely, deciding to address me firsthand. “Hey, Bink. Listen, I’m sorry, didn’t know you’d be in this thing,” he taps the windowsill of the BMW. “We cool? I don’t want Big or Gunz killin’ me for this shit. I already fucked up once last week.”

  I perk up a brow. “What’d ya do?” I tease with a big smile.

  White Boy’s pale face flushes bright red. Oh, this is going to be good. “There was a new club whore.” Marshall deliberately clears his throat, noticeably uncomfortable with those words. White Boy flashes Marshall a disgusted look and keeps on talking, “who I’m sweet on, and I was watchin’ Pretzel for Prez.”

  “Who’s Pretzel?” Marshall rudely interrupts, and I frown at him. Two hits of disrespect in less than five minutes. It’s going to be a long ass day.

  “He’s Bink’s pit,” White Boy snaps, refusing to make eye contact with Marshall, and he continues. “So yeah, I kind of used him as bait to get this new chick to fuck me. Told her he was my pup. Prez found out and laid into me good.”

  “Did you get laid though?” I smirk, raising a quizzical brow, the naughty part of me thrilled to hear this story. It’s way better than anything I’ve been subjected to in a long time. It makes me feel like I’m finally home, and that feels great!

  The sly grin that curls from the corners of his twitching mouth says it all.

  “You did! You dirty dog, you.”

  “Yup, she’ll be here tonight too,” he smiles. It’s obvious he is excited to see the girl again. Well, good for him.

  I return his smile, making eye contact. “What’s her name? I wanna meet her.”

  He immediately pales, eyes widen, and his cheery complexion washes over with horror. “Yo—you,” he stutters, swallowing hard, Adams apple bobbing in his throat. “You want to meet her?” He runs a hand through his messy hair.

  I don’t understand his sudden mood change, so I shrug nonchalantly and remain friendly. “Yes, why wouldn’t I? She sounds nice.”

  My admission rinses some of the horror from his face, and his color returns to normal. “You sure? She’ll be real nervous to meet you, Bink. I mean, real nervous.”

  “Why?” I ask, confused.

  “Umm… because… you’re Bink. You’re a legend ‘round here. Women, all women, old ladies, whores, all of ‘em, they idolize you. They want to be you. And frankly, a bunch of ‘em are scared as fuck of you.”

  I snort a laugh, like it’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. “Why would they be afraid of me?” This is news to me…kinda cool though.

  “You kicked the shit out of a woman and nearly killed her with your bare hands. Plus, all the brothers… well you know how they are with you.”

  I think I get his point. Inside I am jumping up and down in triumph, yet on the outside I remain cool and impassive.

  “Well, that’s nonsense.” I flip my hand as if pushing the thought away, then use it to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “I’m just like the rest of the girls. But we need to head in. I really do have to pee. Bring your girl by tonight. I wanna meet her.” I wink at him, smiling sincerely.

  “Okay, great, thanks, bye.” He’s frazzled, and I love that.

  Holding no real reputation in Chicago, it’s nice to see the one here supersedes any expectations I ever had.

  We exchange two finger waves, and Marshall pulls the car forward. “Nice kid,” I comment, pointing to a parking space in front of the clubhouse. The place is fairly busy, but not as much as I assumed it would be for three in the afternoon the day before my bro’s nuptials. Only fifteen or so bikes are lining the side of the clubhouse, along with a couple cars and trucks.

  Gunz shoves the front door of the clubhouse open as we come to a stop and saunters to the car with purpose. Opening up my passenger side door, he reaches inside, takes my hand, and pulls me to my feet, engulfing me in a warm bear hug.

  “Missed you too.” I hug hi
m back with an amused chuckle, pressing my nose to his chest and savoring the scent of this amazing man.

  “Don’t touch those.” Gunz grumbles over my shoulder to Marshall. “I’ll get someone to bring ‘em in. You’re a guest here,” he explains and kisses the top of my head. His hand is rubbing my back and keeping a tight hold on my body, but he is careful enough to not squish Harley. See, I really like that name for her. It’s perfect.

  “Um… okay,” Marshall mutters, totally out of his element. I made him wear jeans here, and he’s got his Chucks on too, along with a black long sleeved t-shirt. Not quite the biker look, but better than he planned to wear.

  “Yo, Mick, get your ass out here and bring in these fuckin’ bags!” Gunz gruffly yells.

  The door of the clubhouse slams open. “What the fuck?! Am I your little errand boy or somethin’, asshole?” he grumbles. I smolder a laugh. I’ve missed this place.

  I listen to the sound of his boots crunching on the ground, as Mickey walks toward us. “Who da fuck is this?”

  I can’t see, but I know he’s talking about Marshall.

  “I’m Marshall.”

  I push away from Gunz’s bear hug, standing close enough that he drapes his arm over my shoulder, keeping me wrapped in his love. Tucking my arm around his lower back, I rest my head on the side of his chest, my hip touching his thigh.

  Marshall has his hand extended to shake Mickey’s, and Mickey looks at the damn thing like it’s infected with some sort of incurable disease. Then he turns enough to notice me standing here.

  His eyes widen, “Oh shit, Bink? That you? What the fuck?!” he jerks a nod toward my belly.

  Gunz reaches across and rubs my bump with his free hand. “I gots me a grandbaby on the way.” The pride in his voice makes my heart swell with love and acceptance. God, I love this man. Turning my head into his chest, I kiss his cut, nuzzling my nose into the leather with affection. Gunz presses a quick kiss to my hair.