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

by Bink Cummings

  Big glances around the room, but he doesn’t say a single word.

  “You gotta history, you two. Doesn’t mean you can’t hash it out in private where you aren’t putting her health in jeopardy. I’ve done my research, and I know stress, especially the kind she has to be feeling because of you, ain’t healthy. If anything, Prez, and I mean anything happens to her or my granddaughter because of your fucked up retaliation, I won’t stop until you are put in the ground. You got me?”

  Holy shit! Gunz just openly threatened his president.

  “He didn’t mean that,” I speak up, stepping forward to close the gap. I can’t let him get in deep shit for this.

  “I did too. Now hush,” Gunz gently orders, raising his hand for me to be quiet, still facing Big, as his cut covered shoulders bunch with tension and bald head glistens with a sheer layer of sweat.

  Big takes another step forward, coming toe-to-toe with his Sargent of Arms and friend. Glowering down at Gunz, their eyes connect. The obvious height difference between the two almost makes you fear for Gunz’s life. Almost.

  A guttural grumble rattles in Big’s brawny chest. I want to speak and stop this, but I can’t. They are brothers. I’m not.

  “What did you say to me?” Big snarls lowly in Gunz’s face.

  “You heard what I said, Prez, and I stand by it. You want to take me outside for threatenin’ you? Then fuckin’ do what you gotta do,” Gunz shrugs indifferently. “I’m only doing what you would be doin’ if you had the fuckin’ balls to let your personal vendetta go and see this for what it really is.”

  Gunz’s voice lowers, “Our girl….our girl, Big, that’s who you just spoke to like that. Get that shit into your head, man. Our girl. Not some club whore, not some two-bit bitch who ain’t worth shit. Naw, it’s our girl. Don’t you think she’s worth more than your disrespect in front of the club? She didn’t start this fight. You did by throwing your weight around. You gotta make a choice, brother,” Gunz reaches out, clasps his hand on Big’s shoulder, and gives it a brotherly squeeze.

  “You stop talkin’ to her like she means nothin’ and leave her be. Or you do what you know you want to do. Both won’t work here, boss. It’s time to let the past go and make a serious decision. Ya feel me?” Gunz explains.

  Big remains still, unmoving for nearly a minute. Then he shakes his head, his hardened face softens, and he steps back from Gunz, slumping his shoulders in defeat.

  “I feel ya,” he mutters dejectedly under his breath. Turning on his heel, he grabs a panicked, wide-eyed Marylou by the elbow and swiftly exits the room, by way of the hall. Everybody turns and watches him powerfully stride away, the heels of his heavy boots scuffling the floor along the way. Now that was weird as hell.

  Gunz swiftly comes to me and wraps me into his protective arms. I feel my entire resolve wash away in an instant, and I can’t help it as I start to sob into his chest, my arms clinging to him for strength. All the emotions that have been bottled up come pouring out. The anguish of Big now hating me. The wanting to claim me. Finding out I was pregnant. Moving to a new city with nobody but myself to count on. Being scared out of my mind, all the time, without having my family to back me up. I may make is sound easier than it was, but it hurt every day when I couldn’t just ride over on Black Betty to see my family.

  Marshall is a nice guy, he’s a sweet man, and he treats me so well. But I could never love him. Not like I love the brash, hardcore biker who just tore me apart, shattered my heart, and spit on it, like it was yesterday’s trash. I can’t say I blame him. I don’t. I can’t imagine how hurt he felt waking up in an empty bed, believing that maybe things were headed into a good place, where I would willingly accept his claim of taking me as an old lady. I ran though. Like a coward, I bolted. I can’t stand here wrapped in Gunz’s arms and say I regret it. I don’t. I met some amazing people. I became independent, and I stood on my own two feet. And I met a man who I will selfishly hurt in the end because I am not equipped to love. A man I should have let go many months ago. But once again, a man I am too cowardice to say goodbye to. He makes me happy, and he is a good person, who deserves all happiness and love in the world. I am such a horrible person. I know it. How can I even look at myself in the mirror? I am like Big said, a fucking fucked up mess. God! How did life become so complicated?

  I need to go to bed and forget today ever happened. Fucking Big! Fucking family! Fucking fucked up life.

  Chapter Eight

  Saturday: March 22, 2014

  “Come on, Bink. You look great,” Debbie calls from the other side of the bathroom door. I’ve been in here for the past twenty minutes refusing to come out until my makeup is perfect. The photographer wants family photos with my sisters, Lindy Sue, my daddy, and brothers. I have to look perfect. Okay, so that’s not why I am really in here. I don’t want to face Big or Marylou in her hot new dress that Big helped pick out for her. I’m most dreading the fact that I can’t escape my bitch ass mother or her two angels—my sisters, Elise and Elizabeth, that I haven’t seen or spoken to in years.

  My Sacred Sisters have already stolen Marshall and dragged him to the ceremony site, which happens to be behind the clubhouse. They got lucky today; the temperature is pushing mid-fifties. Who decides to get married in March outside when you live in the Midwest? That is just dumb. Half the damn time, it’s still snowing in March. Leave it to my brother to want a shotgun wedding outdoors. Idiot.

  I slide my hands down the sides of my black wrap dress that clings to my every curve, complete with a plunging V-neckline. It’s subtly sexy and hits me just above the knee. I’ve opted not to wear the ugly maternity pantyhose I bought; they are a hideous contraption, and with how much I always seem to have to pee, they could be considered a hazard. So freezing bare legs it is.

  Dabbing a bit more concealer under my puffy, cried out eyes, I massage it into my skin, and, voila, I am complete. Hair’s slightly curled, in a messy, fuck-me way. I opted for smoky eyes and red lipstick. I’m going for a biker meets pinup look. Not quite there with this belly and all, but it’ll have to do.

  Opening the bathroom door, I come face to face with a smiling Debbie, Jezebel, and Pixie, all dressed to kill.

  “Candy Cane has Marshall,” Pixie explains, looking mighty sexy in her retro blue halter dress and matte black fuck-me heels. Now, she’s the epitome of a tiny pinup model, tattoos and all.

  “You all look so beautiful,” I compliment, surveying Jezebel in her black, modest pant suit. Well it would be considered modest, if her boobs weren’t heaving out of the top of the blood red corset that’s under her suit jacket. Debbie went biker classic, with a simple black halter dress and spiked black heels. They all look fucking awesome.

  “So do you, hot stuff,” Jezebel whistles.

  I blush and spin around, with my dress flaring.

  “Well, thank ya.” I stop and curtsy, acting all prim and proper and shit.

  Debbie heads for the door. “Let’s do this thing,” she says, taking the words right outta my mouth.

  Pixie feeds her arm through mine, and we walk arm in arm out of my bedroom, down the hall, and out the back metal door of the clubhouse to be greeted by an usher. Which in our neck of the woods is a biker, wearing his cut and a charcoal gray long-sleeved dress shirt underneath it, with the collar neatly folded over the top.

  “Bink.” The usher I’ve never met before bows, offering his arm to me, so I release Pixie’s and take his. Up the center aisle dusted with white and red rose petals he escorts me, like a perfect gentleman. The fragrant flowers flatten beneath my feet in the freshly budded grass. We stop at the end of Marshall’s row. He’s busy…..Dammit! My breath catches, lodging a boulder of tension in my chest…. he’s talking to Lindy Sue, my sisters, and…. I internally gasp… my sister’s husband, the obstetrician. This is definitely not where I want to sit.

  Marshall turns on his seat. Noticing me, he stands and gestures for me to sit beside him, genuinely smiling. Jesus H. Christ, he looks s
ublimely happy and right at home with those God-awful people. A wave of revulsion crashes through me, and I don’t realize that I am stalling, with my friends waiting behind me, until Pixie taps me on the shoulder and I flinch. I can’t stop assessing this horrendous position I am faced with. My mother and sisters have turned around from the row in front of us to animatedly talk with Marshall. Most people want their boyfriend to like their family. I do want that from Marshall, but not this uptight faction of my blood relatives. I don’t even like them.

  I take a hesitant step forward in the right, yet feels so wrong, direction. Pixie files in behind, followed by the rest of my real friends and family, not these blood related imposters. My mother warmly looks up at me with a too bright smile, with her fake teeth, her fake hair, and her fake everything. Even her fake manners. Ugh! I hate this woman. Why does she always make me feel like a second-class citizen in her hoity-toity presence? How she was ever an MC brat is beyond me. Immediately I have to swallow hard to mash down the nausea she rises in me. It’s sad that a woman you are supposed to love and should love you back does nothing but make you feel ill.

  I take the seat next to Marshall’s. He leans over, kisses my cheek, and rests his hand on my exposed thigh before returning to some imperative conversation with my modernized sisters, with their perfectly shaped and liposuctioned bodies, their perky neck-high breasts, waxed eyebrows, five hundred dollar outfits, and diamond wedding rings the size of Wisconsin. See, there is something I never understood; why in the world would you spend ten thousand dollars on a ring? It’s a ring. Yeah, I get it’s supposed to last forever, but a five hundred dollar ring is more reasonable and you could spend the rest of that money on something like… oh… I dunno… a motorcycle or something less pretentious.

  I didn’t realize until right now how much I truly am the black sheep of this family. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it a hundred more times. Whether it is my appearance that doesn’t match theirs or my attitude, it all clashes. My dress cost me thirty dollars; theirs are designer. I can’t even begin to guess the cost. I have my hair down and slightly curvy, and all three of them have their hair in prissy bitch up-do’s.

  Attempting to ignore the creepy feeling of insects crawling all over my body from being too close to them, I shift so I’m facing away, yet still remaining in my seat. My legs nearly bump Pixie’s but she doesn’t seem to mind, as she’s too busy conversing with Jezebel. I hear Lindy Sue speak my name, not sure if she’s trying to draw my attention to enter into whatever conversation they are having or not. I’m not falling for any of it. I refuse to look at her in her teal cashmere sweater and gray pinned up hair for another second.

  I take this time to glance at the ceremony space. It’s rather basic, with a small stage at the front of the aisle and a pergola draped with ivy and red roses atop it. You wouldn’t think roses were much of a biker thing, but they are. Each of the brothers has a Sacred Sinner’s tattoo on their body somewhere, and roses are just a part of the club’s symbol. Big has an interwoven skull and roses piece, which wraps around his entire upper thigh and screams hardcore all the way.

  Anyhow, back to the ceremony. My butt is sitting on a white, wooden chair. There seem to be enough chairs to fit a little over a hundred guests. There are big black bows at the end of each aisle. That’s the full extent of décor; like I said, pretty simple.

  Leaning over into Pixie’s personal space and interrupting her and Jezebel’s conversation, I whisper, “Is the reception in the clubhouse afterward?”

  Simultaneously, they turn their heads to look at me. “Yeah, the caterer is already in there to set up. The ceremony is going to be short,” Pixie explains with a smile.

  “Okay, thanks,” I mutter, sliding back into my chair.

  Marshall squeezes my thigh. “Darling.”

  “Huh?” I respond, keeping my eyes locked on the rose covered pergola.

  “Elise was just asking if you’re taking folic acid, along with your prenatal vitamin.”

  Great, now he’s on a first name basis with them. I nod my reply, and he goes back to conversing with my enemies.

  How does he not feel the tightness of my thigh under his warming hand? Or the hostility that percolates in the air surrounding me? How is he so oblivious? It’s like he doesn’t even know me at all. I realize I’ve not explained the extent of my family friction, just like I wasn’t forthcoming with the rest of my past. You’d think he would be able to appraise my lack of talking as a sign to confront. Apparently not. Not that I want to have it out with him for the second time today.

  This morning after he awoke from his drug-induced blackout, he was livid. I tried apologizing for Mickey. I even tried smoothing over his anger by pacifying him using sexual favors. Nothing worked. He wouldn’t let me touch him, just like he hasn’t allowed since the night he drunkenly tried to get into my pants. I can’t tell if it’s because I am no longer sexually attractive to him or if his guilt prevents him from taking the leap. Either way, I have been left sexually frustrated for what feels like a lifetime.

  Lost in my thoughts, I am jolted into the present when the ceremony begins. The groomsmen, all twelve of them, line up in the grass on one side of the stage. They look so handsome, wearing their gray dress shirts under their black cuts. My brother Brew, the groom, has his blonde hair tied back into a low sleek ponytail.

  The processional music begins, and I watch all twelve of Dixie’s bridesmaids in their tight black dresses (that would usually be considered unbefitting for a typical wedding,) promenade down the center aisle.

  We stand as the bride’s music blasts over the outdoor sound system, compliments of Gunz. Dixie ambles down the aisle attached to Big’s arm. Her brilliant smile radiates, somehow serving double duty to lessen my internal struggle and enhancing her natural beauty.

  A heartwarming grin curls from my lips, and my eyes dampen with happiness to see my brother getting hitched to a good woman. Big hands her off, pats my brother on the back, and sits down in the front row. I get a tiny glimpse of Marylou as he drops to sit beside her, throwing his arm over the back of her chair. She’s wearing a powder-blue dress. Although I can’t see it fully, I can see the back of Big’s head. His hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail like Brew’s, wearing the same dress shirt and cut as the rest of the men.

  The ceremony is quick; they speak in biker vows, the rings are exchanged, and they devour each other’s mouths in a spicy kiss. Turning toward the guests, Brew raises his bride’s hand clasped in his, and we all hoot and holler, giving our rowdy blessing. Then Brew escorts his blushing bride up the aisle, stops at the end, turns around, and yells, “Hey fuckers, go eat. I’ve got some consummating to do.” The men grunt and whistle their approval, and I throw my head back, laughing. My brother is such a horny devil.

  With his hand on the small of my back, Marshall filters out of the row behind me. My mother bumps into me as we enter the aisle; at one point in time, the aisle seemed wide enough, but with her here, it’s growing smaller by the second. I try to scurry ahead away from her and my sisters, who have decided to take up even more of Marshall’s time. Apparently their husbands can’t provide enough stimulating conversation so they have to steal my date as well. Go figure, nothing’s changed. They had to steal my childhood away by being bratty bitches and treating me like garbage.

  Once, before I moved into the compound, my sisters pushed me down in front of our house while my mother stood on the porch and watched. They threw mulch from our flowerbeds at me. It might look pretty, but it smells like cow shit, and it hurts when it’s thrown in your face. My eyes ached for days, and by day three it had developed into a painful, swollen infection.

  Wanna guess who took me to the doctors? Gunz and Big. Wonder why I needed two big bad bikers to take me? Because they fought over it. That’s why. So instead of one admitting defeat to the other, we all went. Showing up to a normal everyday pediatrician’s office with two gun-toting bikers, who were already pissed off because of my eye then
add their argument into the mix and it became intolerable. We sat in the waiting room for what felt like a lifetime, both of them huffing in frustration under their breath. I sat between the two of them, with my tiny legs dangling off the end of the rough plastic chair. At one point Big growled in his chest so loud, it scared a little girl to the point of tears. Big didn’t even care.

  The doctor finally came to my rescue a short while later; he brought all three of us back into the sterile, clown painted, exam room. What should have taken three minutes to check my eye and all the normal things, like my lungs and blood pressure, turned into an hour. Big was adamant the doctor checked my eyeball for scratches and this and that. After that appointment though, I never saw that doctor again because Big declared him an incompetent sissy. Needless to say in my younger years, I went through five pediatricians until Big and Gunz were finally happy. Want to guess why Doctor Julia Swartz was the winner? She was young, hot, great with kids, had a backbone, and most of all, a giant rack. And I don’t mean of medical supplies, if ya catch what I’m puttin’ down.

  The common room is dazzling. It has been transformed into a biker-wedding oasis. The shabby tables and threadbare couches have been slid into a corner and concealed behind a faux wall. New round tables are now lining the room, covered with black linens. Silver pillar candles in tall hurricane centerpieces are situated in the middle of each table, flickering a subtle romantic ambiance. I never thought I’d see the day this place actually resembled something other than a bachelor watering hole, lacking in all things feminine. Now, though, it’s like a real wedding erupted amongst the leather, booze, and bikes. And I love it. They did a great job. The entire joint smells of delicious food as its being set up on the buffet station near the back of the room. There is an actual waiter dressed in leather chaps manning the bar. Kegs are lining the back of the bar, along with extra bottles of both Jack and Beam. You won’t see toasting glasses here. Nope, just a room full of black Solo cups. The chatter and constantly raucous laughter is loud; however, the radiant happiness is nearly palpable. Everybody is mingling and getting along.