Leaning over to Pixie, who’s standing in front of Axel, I whisper in her ear, as the men carry on, chatting guy shit. “How are they not surprised about the belly?” I ask. My daddy’s hand tightens around my hip, like he’s afraid to let go. My daddy’s not one for emotions or affection, so this is a lot for him. It’s his way of saying he missed me as much as I missed him.
“Gunz held a private church meeting this morning with us old ladies at Candy Cane’s house. Not all the brothers could make it, but most of ‘em did. That’s when he informed the brothers about you bringing Marshall and you being pregnant. He was quite adamant that they don’t treat Marshall rudely ‘cause it’ll drive you away and make ya mad. And he went scary Gunz on them when he talked about your baby. He said they better be careful around you, no smoking, no bumping into you. If somebody got out of hand, he’d expect them to remove the problem, since we all know you’ve got a temper, and, pregnant or not, you’d probably fight a fucker. His words not mine,” Pixie explains into my ear.
That last part makes me lightly chuckle and shake my head, amused. Gunz is right, I would fight a fucker. I remember this one time when I was in my early twenties; I had come to the clubhouse for something. My brother Brew was drunk and being a complete asshole to this whore he wanted to fuck, but she’d told him no. He wasn’t listening at all, and he shoved her to the ground, opened his fly, and smacked the crying club whore in the face with his hard, pierced dick. I saw the whole thing play out. One thing lead to another, and I got furious with his macho antics. Before I knew it, I was in his face, jabbing his chest with my finger and calling him a disgusting pig. I think I even spit in his face. He drunkenly swung on me. I ducked, saved by the grace of God. That just fueled me more, and I grabbed his dick that hung out of the front of his jeans and yanked. Brought him to his knees in an instant. I still didn’t stop.
It took Gunz to hold him back from kicking my ass and Big to keep me from doing the same. Big threw me over his shoulder, smacked my ass to calm down, and carried me from the common room. Once we got into my room where he dropped me like a sack of potatoes on my bed, I screamed at him, full of rage. I got off the bed to kick his ass too, seeing nothing but red. Looking back at it now, it’s kind of funny. A tiny Chihuahua trying to attack a massive Great Dane. He held my forehead as I swung at him, and tormented me by laughing.
“Yep, come on Muhammad Ali. You can do better than that.” I swung, missing him by a mile. Reaching up, I dug my nails into his hand for him to release my head and my hair, but he wouldn’t.
I growled, “Fuck off, Big. I’m going to pound you into the ground, you asshole.”
He laughed, mocking me, “K, keep tryin’.”
I even tried kicking, but his arms were too long, and I’m short everywhere. After about fifteen minutes I’d finally worn myself out, and he picked me up and tucked me into bed. With a kiss on my forehead and an amused snort, he said, “Good try,” and left the room. I passed out from exhaustion shortly thereafter.
Tugging from my memories into the present, I am thrown into a conversation where the men are discussing aftermarket motorcycle parts. This is something I am well versed in.
“So Deke, you think you could re-cover and customize my La Pera Silhouette Seat?” Jizz asks.
“What do you ride - a Fatboy?” Deke inquires.
Jizz nods, flicking a piece of his long blonde hair out of his face, and taking a sip of his Bud. “Yup, it’s a 2011, custom S.S. paintjob, matte black, chrome, and sleek as fuck.”
I’m too engrossed in listening to them shop talk that I don’t see Viper when he joins our group and shoves a paper plate of food to my chest. “Here. Eat,” he orders, stepping up next to me. I accept the plate with a closed mouth smile and a thanks. A cookie that resembles the ones that I bake is set next to a delectable brownie.
“What is this?” I point to the cookie.
“It’s a chocolate chip cookie, Bink. It’s edible, and I just ate three, so I’d say they are pretty good too,” Viper teases.
I roll my eyes at his sarcasm. “That’s not what I meant. Who made ‘em?”
“Marylou.”
My body jerks stiff as a board, and my eyes squeeze shut from the sudden pain. I drop the plate. The shredded chicken sandwich, cheese chunks, that horrific cookie, and carrots scatter across the floor.
Gunz must see my reaction because a moment later he has his arms around me, carefully guiding me from the room into the kitchen. I wince as an unexpected flood of memories unfurl when I step inside. How many times have I cooked in here? She made chocolate chip cookies for my brother’s pre-wedding party. Marylou, Big’s woman, made them. I feel gutted; my heart’s twisting into wretched agony.
Gunz doesn’t say a word as he guides me to a stainless stool. Kicking it out from under the island with his boot and pushing me down onto it, he kneels in front of me, holds my hands, and looks up at my face.
I whimper, biting my bottom lip, my chin rests on my chest, as tears well in my eyes. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Just breathe,” he gently whispers, and I comply. Inhale slowly, exhale slowly, inhale slowly…. Oh dear god! She makes cookies! A fat tear drops down my cheek, and Gunz swipes it away with his thumb.
“Talk to me, Baby Doll,” Gunz squeezes my hands with reassuring love.
The sound of a woman cheerfully laughing outside the door blares into my ears as the door to the kitchen swings open. I don’t look up. I wallow in my own pity and release one of Gunz’s hands to rub my daughter. This helps me gather some reassurance to center myself. My daughter does that for me. The bond she and I share is beyond a words measure. I love her more than anything in this world, and she’s all that matters.
“Is she alright?” the female asks.
“Yeah, she’s gonna be,” Gunz replies.
“Can I help?” the woman sounds worried, which is sweet of her.
I look up to give my thanks. Instead I’m stunned with grief as I take in her form. It’s Marylou, Big’s woman. Fuck, she’s gorgeous! Short hair like Pixie’s, green-blue eyes, large breasts, not quite the size of mine, but more than a handful. She’s wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a Marilyn Monroe off-the-shoulder top, and black hooker heels. A biker’s wet dream—Big’s dream.
“Hey, babe.” The door swings open again and in strolls a happy, smiling Big. His eyes land on a kneeling Gunz, and then shift to me. He frowns and grimaces, like he’s just been smacked in the face with a mallet.
“Um, babe,” he grabs his woman’s waist, curling her against him. I look away because I can’t bear to see him touching her, showing her that much affection. I know I have no right to feel this way. None. But it doesn’t mean I can control it. It is what it is. I am a big girl, and I will get past this. I knew it was going to be hard, but I didn’t know it was going to be this hard. My heart is ripping apart as we speak. God, it hurts!
“She’s not okay,” Mary’s voice is sweet. “We need to make sure she’s alright. She’s pregnant, Big.”
Oh come on Marylou, you’re making it harder. Please leave, and let Gunz care for me. Shit, let me deal on my own for cryin’ out loud. These hormones will eventually level themselves out.
Gunz clears his throat, “I’ve got our girl, Prez. No worries.”
The word our steals my breath. I used to be their girl. Not anymore. Not since I walked away.
Big grumbles something menacing under this breath. “Come on, Mary. You can come in here later,” he sternly orders his woman.
“Oh, okay, sweetheart,” she gushes, and my stomach rolls. Yes, I am going to puke.
Jumping off the stool, I sprint to the nearest trashcan, shove my head inside, and painfully dry heave, cough, and dry heave again. Gripping my fingers over the lip of the oversized barrel, my lips quiver, as sweat beads on my forehead. I groan when another dry heave wracks my system. My daughter kicks her mommy.
Not now, Harley.
“Darling,” Marshall’s alarmed tone echoe
s in the kitchen. Then his warm hand meets my back, rubbing it in small soothing circles. My shoulders relax, and his hand combs through my hair. “Breathe, Darling.”
I breathe arduously, embarrassed and ashamed for being so weak. Pushing myself up using the sides of the barrel, I turn around to see I have an entire audience of worried family. All of my Sacred Sisters, Big, Marshall, Gunz, Viper, and Mary are all standing in the kitchen watching me. Great, this is just great. Nothing like dry heaving in front of a fucking group of nosy people.
Marshall continuously rubs my back, as I swipe the tears from eyes and wipe them on my pants. Then I run my fingers through my wild hair. I am sure I look like hell.
“You okay?” Candy Cane is the first to ask, with her arms loosely crossed over her chest.
Strolling over to the sink, I turn on the faucet and vigorously scrub my hands with soap to make the germs of the trashcan disappear. And maybe, just maybe, wash some of these unwelcomed feelings away too. Drying my hands with a towel, I wipe off my mouth and toss it in the garbage.
“I’m fine, nothing to see here.” I wave them off. They don’t budge. Not even Big or Mary. The worried tension in the air is so thick it could be cut with a dull spoon. I flicker a pleading gaze to Gunz for help, and try to ignore the pink elephant in the room, or more accurately, the giant man who can’t stop staring at me. I can feel his eyes burning a hole through me from across room, even though I refuse to acknowledge it directly. This is not the time or the place to make a scene. Sometimes I hate those eyes; they are so intense and all-knowing… it’s eerie.
As if on cue or a gift from God, a song I love blasts over the speakers. It’s as good of time as ever to get out of here. I point to Gunz, then give him the ‘come-hither’ finger. “Time to dance, grandpa.” I fake a cheery grin.
“Alright, let’s show these fools how it’s done.” He must be stressed too, because as soon as he offers his arm to me, I link mine through, and he yanks a sucker from his cut, popping it into his mouth. “You want one?” he asks, gesturing to his.
“No thanks.”
Big and Mary shuffle to the side allowing us to pass, as Gunz escorts me through the swinging kitchen door and into the crowded bar. He guides me over to the small dance floor by the refurbished jukebox he rewired, and spruced up for times just like this.
“Come ‘ere,” Gunz waves me forward, assuming the two-step position. Aligning my body with his, we fall in sync, my right hand in his, my left hand on his shoulder blade. It’s as simple as breathing as Gunz leads me around the floor, to the beat of Take it Easy; by the Eagles. People slide out of the way as he leads, like we’ve been doing this for years. In reality, we have been.
“You ready?” he winks.
I nod firmly, “Bring it on… work this pregnant lady out.”
Twirling me in a single spin, without missing a step, he transitions me into a quick two spin. At the corner, he moves us so he’s now two stepping backward, until the next corner where he evens us back out. I laugh, light as air on my feet. I’ve forgotten how much I love to dance with Gunz.
“You want to, sweetheart?” he asks.
“Of course!” Like that’s a question he really needs to ask.
Gunz whirls me around, my hip to his, as we two-step beside one another. Then he quickly returns me back to regular stance. My thumb hooks back into his armpit, holding dance frame.
“You’re still my best dance partner,” he compliments. I blush, and he spins me two more times, giving my stomach that fun thrill. This is the perfect way to take my mind off Big and the kitchen fiasco.
The song finishes, and we part, me curtsying to him and he bows. The club hoots and hollers at our performance, whistling and acting like a bunch of drunken imbeciles. I know I’ve said this already, but it’s great to be home.
I kiss Gunz on the cheek and thank him for the dance before I join my Sacred Sisters who are standing all giddy at the edge of the dance floor, clapping.
“That was awesome! Where’d you learn to dance like that?!” Jezebel eagerly inquires, the kitchen episode a thing of the past.
Out of breath, I hold my chest to catch it and raise my finger for her to wait a moment. “Gunz…,” breath, “and Big,” breath, “taught me how to dance as a,” breath, “kid.”
“If you think they’re good, you should see Big and Bink,” Debbie explains. I scowl at her for mentioning his name, and she flashes me a cocky know-it-all smile. Bitch. “They do this country swing dance. It’s almost scary to watch.”
Like I’ve mentioned before, they taught me to dance. At first, it was basic slow dancing. I was eager to learn more, so we watched these VCR tapes on how to line dance, two-step, swing, and all sorts of cool dances and tricks. Because I needed a partner to practice all these dances with, I coerced Big, Gunz, and occasionally daddy to be my guinea pigs. Over the years, we accomplished quite a bit, and that’s when we ended up teaching my brothers too. My sisters were too prissy to hang at the clubhouse, so they never learned. Stupid bitches.
We stand and chat a few more minutes about dancing. I glance around my friends and try to spot Marshall, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Hey guys, where’s my boyfriend?” I ask, lifting to my tippy toes, trying to see over the crowd. Nothing.
“Mickey pulled him to the side when we came back from the kitchen. Said he wanted to have a drink with him.” Candy Cane explains, and my eyes nearly bug out of my head.
“What!?” I screech. “You left him with Mickey? Why… why would you do that?”
They all shrug simultaneously, looking at each other for an answer. “It seemed harmless. It’s just Mickey,” Debbie innocently explains.
Anxiously scrubbing my face with my hands, I peer around and spot Gunz and Tripper off to the side talking to a bunch of out of town bikers. Waving my hands in the air, I catch Tripper’s attention first, and he nudges Gunz. I wave them over.
Patting the bikers on the shoulder, they turn and head our way. “What’s up?” Tripper asks, throwing his arm over Candy Cane’s shoulder and kissing her hair.
“Um… we have a problem. These here, dumb bunnies,” I thumb point to my friends, “left my boyfriend with Mickey.”
“Fuck,” Gunz grunts. “Let’s go find him.”
Gunz parts the sea of leather as we navigate through the throng of bikers. My finger slips into the back belt loop of his jeans so I don’t get lost in the crowd. Jezebel and Pixie have decided to join our quest. Headed toward the bar, Gunz suddenly stops and shakes his head with a curse. I glance around him to see Marshall, head down on the bar top like he’s asleep with two shot glasses next to him. Motherfucker! I am going to kill Mickey.
Gunz grabs the shot glasses as I smack Marshall’s face, trying to wake the man up. Nothing. He’s out cold. At least his breathing is steady.
Stupid… stupid… stupid…Mickey!
“What’s wrong with him?” Pixie asks, full of concern.
I look over my shoulder at her and Jezebel standing back; they are close enough we can shout over the blaring music.
“He was drugged,” Gunz answers for me, examining the residue on the bottom of the near empty shot glass.
“How?” Jezebel asks. Apparently nobody has informed those two how Mickey got his name.
“You know Mickey?” They bob their heads in unison. “You know how Mickey got his name?”
They shake their heads at the same time, oblivious.
“Mickey micks, also known as drugs, women, so he can sleep with them.” I leave out the tying down and anal raping, that’s a bit too much for a simple bar conversation.
“Why? He’s good looking.” Pixie explains, and she’s not wrong there. The reason why, is none of their business; all that matters is what is.
I shrug off her question, “Doesn’t matter. But that’s the only way he fucks. Guess he wasn’t real fond of me bringing Marshall. I knew he wouldn’t be. Guess this was his own retaliation,” I point to Marshall slumped on the
bar, dead to the world. Shit.
Turning around, I catch Gunz yelling into his phone. “Get your fuckin’ ass here now, or I am pullin’ Steel and Big in on this shit, and you’re fucked.”
Mickey. Dumbass!
“Now you can leave and no more partying for you tonight. Go home, alone,” I snap begrudgingly at Mickey. Tucking Marshall into my bed, I tilt his head to the side just in case he vomits in his sleep.
“You can’t tell me what I—,” Mickey starts.
Gunz grabs the back of his neck, shoving his head down, and shutting him up in the process. “You really want to finish that sentence? That woman tells you to jump, you fuckin’ ask how high. She says she wants a pink pony with a sparkly saddle, you say yes ma’am, and you get it for her. If she tells you to go the fuck home, alone, and no more partying, what the fuck do you do, brother?”
Woo wee, Gunz is such a badass.
I rub my tummy, look down at it, and whisper to Harley, “You hear that, Grandpa Gunz is a hardass.”
Mickey lowly grumbles his dejected answer, “I go home alone.”
“That’s right. Now get the hell outta here, and we’ll see you at the wedding tomorrow.” Gunz releases his neck and shoves him toward the door.
I sigh, “What a night,” shutting the door in Mickey’s wake.
“Tell me about it. For a minute, I thought you were gonna kill him. And before that, in the kitchen, I thought you were about to have a panic attack. What the hell happened back there anyhow?” Gunz points to the door.
I sit on the edge of the bed, curling my arms around my belly as Gunz leans his back against my wall, slipping another sucker from his cut.
“Viper told me the chocolate chip cookies were made by Marylou.” I hate saying her name aloud and worse I hate admitting that it affected me like it did. It shouldn’t, I know that. Doesn’t change a thing though, now does it?
Gunz bobs his head in understanding, twirling his lollypop. “I get that. If it helps, I refused to eat one. I know where my loyalty lies, and it ain’t with that bimbo.”
MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) Page 11
