Damn. That was harsh, even for Gunz.
“She seems nice,” I comment.
“She’s dumber than a box of hair. Fuck, her hair ain’t even real blonde. It’s brown. And the girl’s barely over twenty-one. What the hell a fifty year old man sees in a twenty year old girl is sick, even for me. Don’t get me wrong, she’s got a nice rack. Flat ass though. And couldn’t suck a dick to save her life.”
I raise a snarky brow, “And how would you know that, Grandpa?”
“Hush it,” he roughly demands, cracking a playful grin, with that naughty spark glittering in his eyes. “I’ve seen her suck Big’s dick, that’s how I know. And when she was new, we mighta shared her once.”
I can’t suppress a humorous gasp; it just comes barreling out. My hand goes to my mouth and I laugh behind it, “You did not.” I pause to calm my laughing. “And all this shit about her being too young yet you fucked her? For shame, Grandpa, for shame.”
I can’t help teasing him. Even if I don’t like the thought of Big having her as his girlfriend, I could care less about Gunz and Big tag teaming her. This isn’t the tenth or even the twentieth time I’ve heard about them sharing. They have over twenty years practice. From what I understand, they are like a well-oiled machine when they tag team. You can kind of appreciate the beauty of it, if you separate yourself from the participants and focus on the primal act of a hot threesome. Believe it or not, that is one thing I’ve yet to experience. Not that I’d ever consider a Gunz and Big sandwich as a viable option. Big, yes. Gunz, hell to the no. He’s a good-looking man and kinky as fuck. But he’s also like a father to me, and daughters don’t bang their fathers.
“It was the first one we’ve done in about a year. It fuckin’ sucked. I don’t even know why I waste my time sleeping with anyone ‘cept Niki anymore. That dirty whore is the only one to get my motor runnin’ full fuckin’ speed,” Gunz explains.
“Takes a kinky fucker to know a kinky bitch,” I retort.
Gunz tugs the sucker from his mouth and shakes it at me, “Now that’s the damn truth.”
I lose it at his serious expression and start to laugh.
Slapping my leg, I muse, “I can’t… believe… you… said… that...,” between laughs.
Remaining impassive, he shrugs indifferently. “Ain’t no secret we’re both freaks in the bedroom. Never gonna deny that shit. Neither is she,” he states deadpan.
“Um… okay, gramps. What do you want us to do? It’s not even midnight, and the party is still in full swing. Do you think I’d be a horrible girlfriend if I left him in here to sleep off the drugs and returned to the party?”
“No, he wasn’t havin’ fun anyhow. Just behave, and let’s try to avoid Big for the rest of the night, shall we?”
I stand up, “We shall.”
“Don’t look,” Jezebel covers my eyes with her hand.
We’ve been sitting here for the past two hours on the couch with chairs pulled into a semicircle around us. I love having family time. All my Sacred Sisters are having a late night with me. The wedding doesn’t start till three tomorrow, so we’ve got plenty of time to recover. Or they do; I’m not drinking anything except water that is specifically bottled and opened on my own. I can’t trust anyone. The place has turned into a fuck zone, just like I knew it would. Gunz has gone and drug Niki off to his bedroom. Runner is at the bar fucking some super thin, brunette chick, doggy style while pulling her hair. Don’t think she likes it though because she keeps slapping his hand to let go. He’s not listening one iota; if anything, his hand is wrapping tighter around her hair.
Blimp’s in the corner with the window cracked open, smoking a fatty with a whore on her knees between his legs, deep-throating his dick. A shit ton of brothers are making out or fondling half-naked whores. Dallas has Debbie sitting on his lap across from me on a chair with his hand up her skirt, fingering her pussy. I can’t see her girl bits, but I see his hand working its magic. She can’t sit still; she’s squirming all over the place and attempting to keep quiet. The talented Jez is next to me on the couch fondling Bulk over his jeans. Such a cock tease. The music is loud enough that it drowns out most of the moans and grunts. Just another party night in the land of the Scared Sinners.
“Would you like to tell me what I can’t look at?” I play into her warning. It’s not a funny ha-ha one. She’s dead serious, I can tell.
“You sure you want to know?”
My hand grips the arm of the couch with eerie anticipation. “Y—e—s,” I drawl.
“Big has Mary on the pool table, and he’s balls deep in her pussy.”
Well fuck! Maybe I didn’t want to know that shit. Change of plans -- I can’t sit here, the pool table is way too close, and my wandering eye will glance if I don’t remain in control of myself. I can’t let this affect me. I just can’t. I’ve grown accustomed to them being in this room. I’ve seen him holding her half the night— his chest to her back and arms cradling around her stomach. I hate to admit it, but they look good together, and fit well. He’s exceptionally tall, and she’s much taller than I am. They make a pretty nice couple. At first, it hurt like a son of a bitch to see them together. Now, I’ve willed it down to a dull ache. A dull ache I can handle. What I can’t handle is a full on meltdown. I’m a mature adult most of the time. All I need to do is change my scenery.
Pushing up from the couch while cradling my belly, I explain, “I’m going to go dance.”
Dancing will keep me occupied. I can do it with my eyes closed, and it’s a nice change of pace. The party has already dwindled some, so there is more room to move about. The pool table is in the far corner of the room, and the dance floor is closer to the front, making it opposite of each other in the rectangular room. I refuse to run out of here like a pussy. That would show my weakness, and I can’t do that again. Once is an oopsie, but twice is nonnegotiable, it ain’t fuckin’ happening. Sometimes you have to face your biggest fears, and suck it the fuck up. Rub some dirt on it. Except this wound is the size of the damn Grand Canyon in my chest. There’s not enough dirt in the world to fill this idiotic, unwanted void.
Slowly, as to not draw attention to myself, I saunter over to the dance floor and start dancing. I shut everything and everyone else out and focus on my body’s movements and the rock music. The vibrations operate the sway of my hips and the bounce in my step.
When we got back to the party after the Mickey incident, Gunz saw to it that I was alright before he left with Niki to get his fill. White Boy brought over his curly redheaded date that he’d told me about this morning and introduced us. Her name’s Jessy, and I spent half an hour conversing with her. She is sweet as a button, and I had no idea how she got roped into frequenting a place this rough, until she told me Niki is her older cousin. Then it all seemed to fall into place. After that, I sat on the couch, and the sex proclivities started to jump into full swing. Alcohol plus willing women equals lots and lots of sex. And there’s an abundance of alcohol here.
Four songs down, and I’m glistening with a thin layer of sweat. A hand taps me on my shoulder. Spinning on my heel, I open my eyes.
“May I have this dance?” Deke offers his hand with an unexpected bow.
I accept it into mine, threading our fingers together. “You may.”
We dance to the end of an old rock song, which switches into a song I love and know by heart –Metallica’s Turn the Page. Deke and I sway like teenagers who have two left feet, and I relish in it. Lip-syncing and resting my head on his chest, I listen to the gentle lub-lub of his heart as his arms engulf me, holding me close. My arms loosely drape over his shoulders.
I feel like I can breathe now. Deke’s warmth and comfort somehow extracts all the bad energy and pain I’ve been withholding and washes it all away. My muscles loosen, and the vice that is on my heart slackens. Until I hear it. A demented growl erupts, slicing the serenity in the drunken lust-filled room like a dull blade. I try to ignore it by tightening my arms around Deke.
> He stops our lazy dance. Pressing his lips to the top of my head, he whispers, “We’ve got a problem.”
“What?” I mutter into his chest, my lips grazing the cotton of his t-shirt.
“There’s a red-faced president leaning against the jukebox, staring at me like he wants to eat me for dinner,” Deke explains, as his heart rate quickens and the muscles in his chest and abs contract. He’s on guard.
“Ignore the asshole. He’ll go away,” I mutter.
“Um… I don’t think so. He’s pointing to me and mouthing for me to let you go.”
No he didn’t, that’s not Big’s style. “What did he really mouth?” I sternly ask.
“Let her go now, or I’ll cut your balls off. He’s mimicking his threats,” Deke stiffens, “oh… and he just opened his cut to show me he’s packin’.”
Son of a bitch! One friggin’ dance. I can’t even get one friggin’ dance? Big, why in the hell do you make my life so damn difficult? I pull away from Deke, grab his face, and tug it down so I can kiss his cheek. Big growls louder as I do this.
Yeah, I know, asshole, you have possessive control problems. If I wanted to risk Deke’s life, I’d kiss him straight on the mouth. However, I like him too much to make him endure that sort of punishment.
“Alright, alright, already, he’s leaving me alone, you fucking control freak,” I gruffly yell, snapping to face the asshole himself. If people hadn’t stopped what they were doing before my outburst, they have now. It’s the Big and Bink show. Grab your popcorn and candy and take a seat, the fight is about to begin.
Big is leaning his shoulder on the side of the jukebox like Deke had said. His arms are angrily tucked over his chest, ankles crossed, as he glares at me with a brutal sneer; he looks like he wants to tear me limb from limb on the spot. Or he’s trying to will my slow, agonizing death into reality. News flash, I can handle this shit. Been there, done that a hundred million times before, or so it seems. He doesn’t scare me. Not anymore.
I glare the asshole down, while grinding my jaw and defiantly throwing my own arms across my chest. I loudly tap my foot in agitation on the floor. It’s a standoff. Bring it on you behemoth motherfucker.
He bends forward and yanks the power cord out of the wall, dropping it to the floor with an echoing clunk. The music ceases to exist, and the hostility in the air thickens tenfold.
Cue the cutesy girlfriend. “What’s going on, Big?” She magically appears at his side, her hand gliding over his thick bicep and across his deliciously broad chest in a comforting gesture, as her hefty breasts brush his bent elbow. I want to look away. I don’t want to see this. It makes things worse, much worse. But I suck it up. If I drop my vicious glare, he’ll have won. Not happening. This shit-stain can eat my dust.
“Big,” she whines for attention. Maybe Gunz was right; she is kind of stupid. Still hot though. Hot trumps smart nine times out of ten for a biker and for most men, if you really want to get technical. “Big,” she repeats, patting his leather clad chest. He doesn’t move a muscle except maybe his jaw as it locks itself into place while our eyes collide, battling like two powerful lasers.
No one makes a peep for what feels like hours. In reality, it’s only a minute or two. My breathing accelerates, as my heart pounds in my chest, punching my ribs like a piston. Every muscle in my body is taut, my teeth ache as my jaw clenches, teeth shifting over teeth like tectonic plates. My tongue swipes the back my teeth, and my nostrils flare with aggression. Big’s flare in silent retaliation. I shift, moving to bounce my other foot. He shifts, uncrossing his ankles. My eye twitches as they shrink into tiny slits. His eyes pinch near shut, following by example. I can see the line of sweat wetting his forehead, as errant strands of his gorgeous long hair clings to his dampened flesh. Harley kicks me hard, yet I remain still and unaffected. Big wets his lips with a long languid stroke of his tongue. My breath hitches. I yearn to squirm as my clit sparks to life, and a wave of goose flesh sweeps down my body, forcing my nipples to harden into sharp points. The sex magician has done it again. I’m wet because of him. Dammit.
Ramming my hormones into a tiny indestructible mental box through sheer will, I lock it up tighter than Fort Knox. Swallowing hard, I flex my toes in my shoes to help shake this uncomfortable sensation. There is a microscopically thin line between love and hate, and at this point, we are dancing on it. I hate to love this man, and I sure love to hate him.
“You,” he growls, so deep and potent my body feels its resonating presence in every cell. My spine tingles, fingers contract, and my heart deceptively flutters without logic. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I muster the internal strength to dominate this blowout. The boiling point is breaking the surface. It’s dog eat dog, and I’m going to prevail.
I swallow hard. It’s show time.
“You,” I blurt weakly.
Straightening my spine, I try again. “You,” it comes out fiercer. Thank fuck! “You’re an asshole and a chauvinistic, sanctimonious pig. You stop me from dancing with my boss and friend, even before one song can play. Yet you can wet your filthy overrated cock in some over-fucked adolescent in the middle of my brother’s pre-wedding party on top of the club’s pool table, no less.” I cock my head to the side. “Don’t forget to use bleach. God only knows what kind of dissssgusting filth you’ve left behind.” I fake a sardonic, over-the-top shudder to cement my cruel and unrelenting speech into its proper place—under his impenetrable skin. It might be a low blow. But, not for nothing, I am one of the few who can push the right buttons to creep undetected under that beast’s thick flesh. One of the many bonuses I have from being raised in the clubhouse by the ruggedly handsome president himself.
Marylou, who is standing to the wayside, gasps at my rudeness. Shame she has to be caught in the crossfire, but all is fair in love and war, right?
“She’s my girlfriend,” he emphasizes harshly, with an uptight, over exaggerated grunt.
Yes, it’s official, I have made it under his skin. Good. He hasn’t reduced himself to yelling quite yet. Shifting his weight to his other boot reveals his internal itch to do just that. If only he knew how much I know his body and all of his tells, even the subtlest ones nobody else would pick up on.
Time to go in for the kill.
“You would think being the president of the club with all of these guests,” I gesture toward the awestruck bikers, who are fixatedly staring at our pathetic show, “That you, of all people, would show some restraint not to fuck a child in front of them. Or disrespect a pregnant lady, who happens to be the VP’s daughter and groom-to-be’s sister. That’s rather disappointing, and here I thought they should look up to you. Pity.” I force my tone to remain smooth the entire way. It’s difficult. I know this isn’t my typical technique that I use to attack him. But in this case, it’s the smartest tactical choice. It shows that I am unaffected by his sad, sexual display and that I am merely pointing out his decorum, or lack thereof. Hitting him where it really hurts — his club rank and sexual proclivities.
I’m not going to pretend and hang onto that immature notion that he still has these suppressed, romantic feelings towards me, like he did all those months ago. I’m not some delusional child. I am merely a pawn in his clubhouse that he itches to hold dominion over. Simple as that, except I refuse to partake in his power trip game. Surprisingly, I feel better right now than I have all day. Releasing this pent up tension through words is a natural opiate in itself. Damn, this feels amazing.
“You know what?” he takes a bountiful step forward. I don’t move an inch. “Who I fuck and where I fuck them is none of your business, bitch,” he hisses.
Ouch, that stung.
“You show up here with that,” he points to my belly, a repulsive expression twisting his handsome features.
“That,” I annunciate, rudely speaking over him, and uncrossing my arms to rub my belly, “is my daughter. She is not an it or a that. She’s a baby.” Now I am about to lose it; I am pissed. Especially since I am th
e only fucking person in this room besides Candy Cane and Deke who knows the baby that resides in my belly that Big is giving a repugnant glare at is his very own flesh and blood. That alone hurts more than everything combined. Damn it all to hell.
“Whatever the fuck it is, is your own fucking fucked up mess. Not mine. So don’t come in here acting like you matter. You left and took your high horse with you,” he takes another step in my direction. My throat constricts.
He’s not finished, “And you show up here at my club thinking you can just waltz right in and have a say? No, bitch. You don’t get a fuckin’ word. This is my motherfuckin’ club where you are no longer wanted. So tomorrow after you get prissied up into the fake bitch you’ve become and sit at your brother’s wedding with your sissy boy, you can get into his high priced junk, and go back to where you belong, with all the other slutty self-righteous bitches,” he snarls.
Stab, maim, gut, sploosh…my heart has been dissected and sliced wide-open. My quivering entrails are poured at my feet. He’s just killed a part of me. A part of me has died. Maybe I’m not cut out for this badass routine.
Sucking back a sniffle, I blink rapidly to rid my eyes of the tears that are threatening to wash down my cheeks in a waterfall of heartbreak and agony. I knew he was angry; I just didn’t realize how much. I deserve it. I know I do. I brought this on myself for showing up pregnant and with Marshall. It doesn’t change the gut twisting it’s caused. How could he say those things to me? God it hurts.
“You fuckin’ asshole!” a deep, savage voice roars, and Gunz strides across the common room heaving for breath as he stops in the middle between Big and I.
“You do not fuckin’ talk to Bink like that,” he forcefully shakes his finger and head at Big, like he’s scolding an insolent child. “She is pregnant. I don’t give a shit what kind of baggage you’ve got over her leavin’. This is not the place and it sure as fuck isn’t right time to take it out on her, pregnant, in front of the whole fucking brotherhood. You better take a good look around, Prez.” Gunz is past the pissed off stage; he’s into murderous territory, as he faces off with his President.
MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) Page 12
