The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 3 (MC Chronicles #3)

by Bink Cummings

  A chair creaks. “Whenever you’re ready, I have some stuff I need to tell you about.”

  Will she quit this already? Either come out with it or shut up. How many times does she have to repeat herself? It’s annoying as fuck.

  “Did you hear me? I need to tell you some stuff, before this gets underway,” she whispers.

  First it needs ironed out, and now it’s underway? What’s underway? My kidnapping? Well that happened a while ago, hours, or maybe even days, not sure.

  “Eva,” she pleads, desperate.

  That name and her mouth saying it is like icing on the cake of hell. Being kidnapped and tied down is the proverbial cake. And I don’t like it one bit.

  “Eva,” her desperation persists, and I can’t take it anymore.

  “Shut up, will ya?” I snap bitterly. “I’m not Eva. If you’re gonna kidnap me and tie me down,” I yank on my arm and leg restraints for effect, “Then I suggest ya use my name. Stop fucking callin’ me Eva; I’m not gonna respond to it. At least show me that ounce of respect. Are you even capable of that?” I laugh humorlessly. Of course she’s not capable. That’s a joke even thinking otherwise. Once a backstabbing thunder-cunt always a backstabbing thunder-cunt. Write that bit of wisdom in your diary boys and girls; it’ll do ya some good.

  “I don’t like your tone,” she admonishes.

  Melodramatically, I scoff, “And I don’t like that my mother’s a fucking bitch who kidnapped me either. We can’t get everything we want.” This time I pry my eyes fully open. With a bit of effort, I keep them that way.

  Tied to a bed, a stiff pillow under my head, I have a small blanket strewn over my legs. Glancing down at my body, my eyes widen in horror. My clothes have been changed! What the hell happened to my clothes? And why am I wearing a men’s light blue t-shirt that’s stretched over my huge belly? I can’t even see my bottoms; they’re hidden under the thin burgundy blanket. My toes are covered in socks, I can feel the plushness when I wiggle my toes.

  The room has a single window across from the bed, and it’s barred like a prison cell. Not like I could climb through it anyhow, not with a belly like mine. I wouldn’t fit. The walls are made up of stained logs. Must be a rural cabin. Inhaling deeply, the scent of pine and evergreen invade my senses, confirming my assumption.

  Still dark outside, across the small bedroom, my mother sits on a wooden rocking chair, next to a small nightstand and lamp with a burgundy shade, which is turned on creating a soft glow in the sparse room.

  Devoid of all personal touches, it’s clear this cabin isn’t a family place. There are no pictures hanging on the walls. No knickknacks on the small antique dresser. Not even curtains covering the window. Even the bed feels too new. The pillow too firm.

  “Are you done yet?” my mother retorts, grandstanding her flagrant attitude.

  She’s just darling, ain’t she?

  “If you call me Bink, then I’ll attempt to act civil. Although I must admit being knocked out and brought here against my will isn’t really boding well for this tea’s and crumpets mother-daughter bonding time you’ve concocted.” Sarcasm drips like maple syrup from my every word.

  The Cunt sighs, “Alright…Bink…Let’s act civil, and I’ll explain.”

  Yanking on the ropes around my wrist, I jiggle them above my head, “Do these have to stay? I’d really like to sit up, and maybe pee.”

  “Are you going to behave and not try to escape?”

  “What the fuck do you think I’m gonna do? Run barefoot and very pregnant outside in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere? Without shoes, a coat, or any way of knowing where the fuck I am? Get real,” I try to sound as convincing as possible, even though I am lying straight through my teeth. Of course I’d run barefoot and pregnant into the wilderness to get away from her. If I had to pick between wolves or my mother, I’d choose wolves every time.

  “Alright,” my mother stands from her chair, crosses the room, and opens the bedroom door, leaving it cracked after she exits. Moments later, she returns holding a hunting knife.

  “Be careful,” a man cautions from just outside the bedroom. It’s the same deep southern accented man who kidnapped me. I’d know that voice anywhere. If only I’d gotten a better look at him.

  “I will,” she makes her way to me, and the man pulls the door shut until I hear the distinct click. Climbing on the side of the bed by my head, she instructs, “Don’t move. I don’t want to cut you.”

  Complying, I remain still as she makes quick work of my ropes and discards the trash over the side of the bed. It thumps hitting the floor. Being smart, I don’t move until she slides back off the bed, knife in hand.

  Sitting up, I rub my sore wrists, and she returns to her rocking chair, laying the knife on the stand beside her. Crossing her legs, hands in her lap, she says, “I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.”

  That has to be a rhetorical question. If it’s not, she’s an even bigger moron than I ever presumed.

  Nodding without my cocky attitude flaring, I continue to rub my wrists and remain quiet. Better not to talk if all I have to say is going to make things worse. Not even sure if I could remain civil when all I want to do is beat her to death with my bare hands.

  Keeping myself occupied, I lift the edge of the blanket and peer down at my legs. They’re clothed in a pair of men’s striped pajama pants.

  “I changed you when you arrived. You were dirty,” my mother explains. I don’t reply so she continues talking, “Malcolm knocked you out using pressure points, and he laid you on the floor of the van. That’s how you ended up here.”

  I want to ask whose clothes I’m wearing except I won’t. I cup my hands around my belly instead and keep my eyes downcast, looking at my belly and my colorfully striped pj bottoms.

  “I know this isn’t ideal, Ev—Bink,” she recovers quickly, “But I can tell you what is going on, should you wish it.” She pauses for an answer, only she doesn’t get one. “Fine, don’t talk to me. I’ll tell you anyhow.” Her snobby attitude resurfaces.

  “I’m going to tell you a story about a young girl,” she starts, and the rocking chair begins to move, lightly creaking with each motion. Forward—creak. Backward—creak. Forward—creak. Backward—creak. Slow and peacefully the chair rocks, it’s almost a hypnotic sound of comfort. Almost.

  “Your father grew up with Richard on the compound,” she sighs, nostalgically lost to her thoughts. “We all did…. actually.”

  This is something I already knew. Mom is nine years older than daddy, and they married as soon as he turned eighteen. Mom was already pregnant then. Both of them grew up on the compound, along with Big. My grandfathers were both founding Sacred Sinner members. Boss Man, Big’s father, was the first president of the club. He’s where everything started.

  “What you don’t know,” my mother draws me from my thoughts, “is that my mother groomed me from childhood to be a proper old lady. To serve my biker like a good old lady should. She wanted me to be the president’s old lady someday.” She rocks faster in her chair.

  “She wanted me to marry Richard…and shamefully I wanted that too. But he never wanted me. Never looked at me. Never seemed interested. I tried many times to get him to like me… This was well before he grew to be six eight. He was a shrimp back then but still handsome as can be.”

  My mother had a thing for Big? Hmm… interesting.

  “Unfortunately, the boy was clueless. Even after I’d started seeing Rodney, I tried to flirt with Richard and continued to do so until I got pregnant and married your father.” The loud thump of her feet hit the ground, and the rocker abruptly stills.

  “Are you listening to me?” she growls, irritated.

  Without looking up, I nod and smooth my hands over my belly to distract myself from blowing up on her dumbass. Chewing my inner cheek, I breathe in an audible breath.

  How dare she do this to me. How dare she expect me to listen to her lunacy. This bitch is lucky I’m tied to th
e bed, or I would kill her slowly. Here she is talking about Big like he’s a fucking trophy to be won. I don’t think so. Then saying my father was the consolation prize? Well fuck her and the broomstick she rode in on.

  The rocking resumes its steady creaking, and her voice turns sentimental. “I’m not saying I never loved your father. I did.”

  Did, that word hangs heavy in the air as she carries on. “He was a good man. Treated me well. Loved me. Everything was great. He patched in at eighteen. We got our own place on the compound next to your grandma and pa….”

  She sighs, “It all started to go downhill when Boss Man suddenly died. Everybody knew Richard was going to take his father’s place and run the club when the time came. Boss Man had been preparing Richard since he was little. That’s what he wanted. Except some of the old timers didn’t see it that way. They didn’t want a kid running the club. Push came to shove, and there was a vote. Those who didn’t want Richard to be their president were booted out, and Richard became the club’s president, bringing your father in as his second. Young, inexperienced boys running a clubhouse meant a lot more parties, and with those parties came the booze and loose women.”

  I don’t know what the hell she’s leading to…. not sure I want to know.

  “I pulled back from the club to raise your brother and sister. I didn’t want them anywhere near that life….Then I got pregnant with you…”

  And what a fucking mistake she thinks that was. Here we go, the story of how Eva Louise Cummings is such a disappointment. Gee… I can hardly contain my enthusiasm.

  “Rodney and I had always said we wanted a big biker family. I still wanted the big family, but I was tired of the bikers. Tired of boys revving their engines at two in the morning and waking your brother and sister up, which left them restless and me dog tired. It was past the point of fun brotherly games when I couldn’t even leave the compound without fear of driving over a bottle of beer and busting a tire,” she mumbles something under her breath that I can’t make out before continuing.

  “With most of the old timers gone, Richard was patching in new members after three to six months of prospecting. I was sick of it all. Sick of the noise, the nightly parties, the trashy compound, and the pointless runs that left me taking care of two kids by myself while pregnant with you,” she takes a deep breath.

  “Things got much worse when I’d taken a bad fall down the front steps when I was five months along. The doctor put me on strict bed rest. I couldn’t do a thing, including have sex with your father anymore.”

  That hits too close to home. My hands that are touching my belly stop, and my chin drops to my chest. I take a cleansing breath. I can’t believe mother went through what I’m going through. Maybe not exactly, but it’s similar. Talk about the fucking twilight zone.

  “Your grandma, even though we never liked each other, ended up helping me when I was bedridden, because Rodney was useless. He was always doing club business and coming home drunk, ready to have sex….And like a good wife I always gave it to him. But then…. then… I couldn’t anymore…. because of you,” she emphasizes, like the word leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

  “By the time I was close to my due date, I’d heard rumors circulating the compound that Rodney had found himself another woman to have relations with. She was some young whore named Amanda…”she makes a disgusted sound in her throat. “After that he stopped coming home altogether. There were times when I wouldn’t see him for five or six days straight. But money would always make it into our account for bills and food…” she pauses for a beat, and the rocking slows.

  “The day I went into labor with you, I hadn’t seen your father for six days. Your grandfather was the one who got in touch with Richard to tell him I was in labor, while your grandma drove me to the hospital in the pouring rain...” she pauses again, as if she’s drawing from memory.

  “By the time Rodney got to the hospital, you’d already been born. Richard scolded him right in front of me for his preposterous behavior. I remember it all like it was yesterday…There I sat in the hospital bed crying, unable to look at you because of what you being inside of me had caused, while Richard yelled at your father, ‘You’ve got an old lady at home and three kids, brother. It’s time to get your shit together and let go of the easy pussy.’ Richard had stuck up for me, and all Rodney did was defended his relationship with Amanda… A month later I found out Amanda was pregnant and beginning to show.”

  “What!?” I blurt, unable to control my outburst.

  If this Amanda chick was pregnant then that means….. Oh my God… I have a brother or a sister! I have another fucking sibling!

  A tidal wave of rampant thoughts consume me…

  Where is she or he? Does this person know about us? About my father?

  Shaking my head, I throw those thoughts to the side, and my brain takes a detour to replay my mother’s story. If all she said happens to be true, then my father is most definitely not the man I thought. He’s an asshole. There is no other word for it. He’s a deceitful bastard. Not only for putting my mother, the Cunt, through the seven levels of hell by cheating on her and forcing her to be a single mother. He’s an even worse asshole for hiding a brother or sister from me. Who does that? I mean… fuck! That’s really messed up. Why would she have even put up with his shit in the first place? I wouldn’t have. And more importantly why is him cheating on her my fault? I didn’t put her on bed rest; she did that to herself. And even if I had done that, that’s the lamest excuse imaginable as to why you hate your offspring. L-A-M-E-S-T.

  Glancing up, I meet my mother’s misty eyes. She smiles sadly and sighs with palpable relief. “I’ve wanted to tell you that for so long.”

  “Tell me what exactly?” I need her to be more specific.

  “About everything.”

  She’s being too vague. I hate vague. But seeing as though I now have a sibling and my mother is spilling her guts to me, I muster up the strength to keep my attitude under wraps. It won’t do me any good in this stressful situation.

  “Why didn’t you?” My tone is light.

  “They wouldn’t let me,” she states matter-of-factly.

  That doesn’t make a lick of sense to me.

  Furrowing my brows, I probe, “What do you mean they wouldn’t let you?”

  She ignores my question. “After I found out about Amanda being pregnant, I wanted to leave your father. He begged me to stay. So I did. Even though it was wrong, I couldn’t look at you. Every time I touched you, all I felt was pain. Every time I saw your face, all I saw was loss. I didn’t want to hate you, Eva. I really didn’t. But I couldn’t control those feelings. What kind of mother hates her innocent daughter?” A tear escapes her eye and rolls down her cheek. She wipes it away.

  Although I shouldn’t feel any relief listening to her morbid confession, I do. At least she admits to hating me and acknowledges it’s morally wrong. Sure, it doesn’t fix thirty years of neglect, but it does solidify the truth for me. And that’s something.

  Watching my mother work through a slew of emotions alongside me, I remain speechless. Because…what can I really say? Thanks for telling me that you hate me? Thanks for telling me I have a brother or a sister? Or revealing that my daddy is a complete jerkoff? Or thanks for telling me you had a thing for my man? Nothing sounds appropriate, does it?

  Swiping another stray tear, she solemnly carries on, “I stayed with Rodney because I loved him. And with Richard’s motivation, Rodney became a better husband again. He helped with you kids. We had two more…Overall we were fairly happy until I realized how foolish I’d become….. Those monthly runs where Rodney would leave for a week at a time were a rouse. I’d thought Amanda was out of the picture, that he’d finally gotten over her. Sadly, I was mistaken…What a stupid woman I was thinking my loving husband was faithful to me,” she sighs, exhausted, and licks her dry aged lips.

  “It took me years to catch the pattern. Then one day he’d left to go on a run,” she empha
sizes, chuckling bitterly under her breath, “I followed him to Amanda’s house only an hour away. I sat in the car and watched my husband greet his blonde mistress with a kiss on the porch of her quaint home. Then I watched in horror as their daughter came out of the house dressed in a pink dress. They took her hands and walked her down the steps with smiles on their faces. They buckled her into the backseat of Amanda’s car, got in, pulled out of her driveway, and took off down the street…” Choked up, she shakes her head like it will wash the painful memories away, as she wipes away the tears that are trailing down her ashen cheeks.

  A daughter? Did she just say daughter? Does that mean I have a sister? Fuck! It does. I have a sister! Another sister! Holy shit!

  My sudden excitement is short-lived as she keeps talking, “I died a little that day as I cried all the way home.” A whimper escapes her lips as more tears begin to descend.

  Unexpectedly, my heart goes out to her. Even though I don’t want it to my heart aches a little for her. I can’t even imagine what that must have felt like to experience. Nobody deserves that kind of heartache and pain. Nobody.

  “That was the first day I’d ever hit you,” she tacks on.

  Now, that day, I vividly remember. I had to have been five or maybe six at the time. I’d just finished playing at Debbie’s house when my mother came home angry. To spare you and myself the gory details, let’s just say a switch was pulled from the ornamental apple tree in my parents’ side yard, and I was dragged by my long blonde hair to the back of the house. That’s where she pushed me to the ground and with tears hysterically pouring down her cheeks she began wailing on me with the inflexible branch. Over and over, I remember the ‘swish’ through the air, and the ‘crack’ as a fire of blinding pain struck my back, my ass, and the backs my legs. I remember curling into a small ball, hands covering my head, preparing for the next blow that would steal my breath and rob me of my tears. Seconds felt like hours as the pain radiated, consuming me in its entirety, so that I could no longer speak, no longer move, and no longer feel anything but the red-hot brand of each impending, swish, crack, burn. Time became meaningless as prolonged moments of debilitating agony felt like they lasted a thousand lifetimes.