Jizz: Steel, Brew, me, and some of the boys are headed on a run for two weeks. You gonna be chill? Need you to stop by the club, family gatherin’ coming up this weeken’. Do your bro a solid and do what you best. Oh… And follow the rules, Steel said.
Uh!!!!! I screamed in my head.
Could my brother be any more of a barbaric moron? And to think he’s three years younger than me. Follow the rules? Please. I always follow the rules. Have since I was a kid. I’ve never had sex with a brother. Not even once. Loser, wannabe bikers? Yes, lots of them, actually. But brothers in the club? Nope. My daddy, Gunz, or Big Dick would murder them on site. Since I was little, my daddy always told me he wanted more for me and my sisters. Well, those bitches I call sisters, they got out. I, however, wanted to stay and be a part the club that I grew up running around in. Where the man Big Dick carried me on his shoulders like a prized doll at all the family gatherings, since he’s never had any children himself. Or where Gunz would always have a special sucker stashed away in his cut for me. Sure, there was sex, drugs, alcohol, bitches, and all that in between. It was my life, and I loved it. Even the big gaping flaws.
“How’s your second week coming along?” Doctor Jagger asks, tugging me from my thoughts, with his calculated voice, standing opposite the counter in his usual pressed Dockers and long sleeved dress shirt. It’s September and it’s hot outside, and still he’s in a long sleeved shirt. Odd…
“It’s going well.” I try to appear as refined as I can.
“I saw you reformatted the scheduling system and files.”
“Is that okay?” I raise an apprehensive brow.
A smirk is all he offers me in retort.
“Hello, Ms. Cummings,” Doc Dane says, coming into my line of sight and standing beside his business partner and friend.
I curtly nod in his direction. “Afternoon, Doctor Dane.”
“Please call me Lawrence.”
When you spend your entire life calling people, Big Dick, Jizz, Brew, or Gunz, calling someone Lawrence, a normal name, becomes a foreign concept. But one I willingly take in, accepting this crisp, fresh air of normalcy.
“Thank you, Lawrence, and please call me Bink or Eva. Whichever you prefer.”
The dazzling, toothy smile he produces warms my skin, as a shot of pleasure shoots straight to my loins. “Which do you like better?” he asks.
Unable to look at him any longer without the slight flush of my cheeks becoming apparent. I look down. I’ve never allowed anyone to willingly call me Eva before. I don’t even like the name.
“Bink, I prefer Bink,” I express, speaking to my hands, not his face.
“Well, Bink it is then.” I hear the slightest fraction of amusement cloaking his tone.
My phone sitting next to me on the desk buzzes again, and I ignore it as I look up to see both of my bosses blatantly staring at me.
Do I have something on my face?
Swiping my hand across my mouth and cheeks, I feel nothing but the burn on them, as both of my boss’s stare, one set of deep ocean blue eyes wrapped in thick black lashes, and the other set a tawny honey color. Not knowing what to say or do, I stare right back at them and sink my teeth into my bottom lip, nervousness taking up residency in my stomach. My foot starts to shake.
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” The hardened tone from the only other male doctor in the office echoes. I see him once he enters into my line of sight, openly sneering at his colleagues.
“She is our bookkeeper, receptionist, and all of that. You can’t—” He continues walking toward the exit.
Can’t what?
“Says the man who hired her.” Doctor Jagger squints in frustration at Doctor Roman, the tallest of the three of them, who’s also the thinnest.
Doctor Roman shrugs. “She was the most qualified.”
Grunts and grumbles from all three of them permeate the air as they turn their attention away from me and head toward the exit. They stop at the door and all three simultaneously turn around, locking eyes with me from across the room.
“Lock up when you leave, and don’t come in until ten tomorrow,” Doc Jagger states, running a hand across the side of his neatly gelled hair.
“Ten, got it.” I jerk my head in an awkward nodding motion.
It’s not even closing time, and they are leaving for the day. What am I supposed to do?
They all offer me a wave and handsome smiles as they depart. As soon as the office door comes to a full close, I let out the breath I was holding. Could that have been any more awkward?
“And so it begins.” Kendrick makes a sudden appearance next to me with a sly smile.
“Meaning?”
“You’re in deep.”
“Deep with what?” I wrinkle my nose in confusion, pleading with my eyes for him to give up the goods and just tell me what he means.
Chuckling and shaking his head, he pats my shoulder and walks away.
Deep with what? What is he talking about? I’m not stupid; they probably want to bang me. You can’t be a biker chick and not have men tryin’ to bang your brains out around every damn corner.
Having completed my tasks for the day, I retrieve my phone and check my messages.
Jizz: You didn’t text back. You gonna be chill or not, Bink?
Me: I’m always chill, do what you gotta do. I’ll do my job.
My job meaning I’ll cook. I always cook. What does it matter if they are home or not? Who else is going to do it? Them? Not even my mother cooks for the club’s family gatherings. It’s me, Dixie, and Niki. Both of which are lifer club whores with zero need to be old ladies to any man. They are only allowed to help when children aren’t present. Then you’ve got Candy Cane and Debbie, who are old ladies, and both of them help, too. We all pile into the giant restaurant-equipped kitchen inside the clubhouse and cook up a shit storm to feed our giant family of hungry bikers and their women and children. What do I get out of it? Nothing. It’s just part of the job description. I’m glad to do it. Plus, most of the club regulars respect me. Note: I said most.
My phone buzzes again.
Big: Hey, little shit, somebody found Pretzel makin’ a break for it. Got a call and he’s at the club now. If you want him, come and claim him. If not, I’m keeping the cute fucker.
Cute. That word and Big still don’t mesh. I chuckle, shaking my head, amused.
Me: Thanks, Big, I’ll be right over. Getting off work now. Is that alright? Or am I not allowed over because it’s not visiting hours.
Big: Are you fuckin with me?
Me: Is that a trick question?
Is it bad that I’m texting him and the whole time that I am, I’m picturing that big dick of his? That’s awful, isn’t it? How awful? It seems downright dirty. I’ve only seen it once, and it’s forever imprinted in my brain. This is the same man who, when I was a tiny kid of like five and my dad, his VP, was out on a run, would sit on the couch in the common room and read me Rainbow Brite and Care Bear stories. The same man who knows how much I love Italian Ices, which he keeps the clubhouse fridge permanently stocked with. Okay, he doesn’t, but he has someone do it.
Big: Visiting hours is to limit club whores and old ladies from bein’ here. You either of those?
Me: No. Couldn’t be if I wanted.
Big: Damn fuckin’ straight you ain’t. You’re too good for this shit. Now come get ‘em, or I’m going to lock the doors and your ass is shit outta luck.
Me: The club? Not your house… Right?
Big: Shut your trap and get on that hog I know you’ve got parked out front of your new job. Then get your ass here.
Me: How’s he gonna get home on my bike?
Big: I’ll worry about it. Just get your fuckin’ dog.
Sheesh! Alright!
Already walking out of the office building, I lock up, walk outside, and there standing next to Black Betty is that giant motherfucker and Pretzel, on a leash, sprawled out on the pavement next to him.
I toss my a
rms over my chest and give him the stink eye.
Come to the club? He’s already here.
“So this is the club now?” I sarcastically raise a brow in question.
“Do you want the fucker or not?” He flicks his gaze down to my pup and back up to me.
“What happened?” I ask, walking toward them and my bike. Upon closer inspection, I see Big is dirty as hell; his hands are caked with mud, his face dusted in dirt and sweat. The white t-shirt under his cut is one hot mess, as are the worn jeans hugging his thick thighs and the shit-kickers he’s sportin’ on his feet.
“I got a call from your neighbor that he’d dug under that damn fence, which I kept tellin’ Steel to fix so this didn’t happen. Now, this little shit…” He glares down at Pretzel, and I almost feel sorry for him. Big Dick is frightening; I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that menacing ice-blue glare. “He was on his way under the fence when I got there. Got to him before he could run.”
“Why are you so dirty?” I rake my gaze the length of his massive stature, skipping over the crotch portion of his pants. God knows it has its own zip code.
“I got tired of waitin’ on your fuckin’ old man to do this job, so I took care of it. There won’t be any problems with this little runt diggin’ out again.”
The satisfied look on his face says he’s rather proud of himself. If he was at my house, why didn’t he just leave my dog at home? That makes zero sense. But I’m not asking any more questions.
“Thank you.” I blurt sincerely.
He sharply nods once, accepting my gratitude.
“Wait.” I place my purse into my saddlebag and turn to my dog, where I kneel and stroke one hand down his back. “Why did my neighbor call you? And what neighbor?” I glance up at him. He’s quietly watching me pet Pretzel.
“Linda.”
Linda? Linda? Who’s Linda?
Oh…no…not…her!
Immediately, I have to reel in my urge to let off some steam. I. Can’t. Stand. That. Bitch.
“Linda? You mean...” I trail off, unable to speak about it, much less want to think about it. Linda isn’t my neighbor; she lives two blocks from my house. How’d that whore know about Pretzel?
Suddenly, I don’t want anything to do with Big or look at his face. Linda? Seriously?! He had to have been at her house, pounding that disgusting pussy. A roll of revulsion waves through me. I abruptly stand and try to tug my pup’s leash from Big’s hand. No such luck.
“Let go of him. I’ll ride with him on my bike.”
“The hell you will.”
“Why did you bring him here anyway? How did Linda know about him? What aren’t you telling me?” I fiercely question, growing more agitated by the second.
Silence, stupid ass silence, is his reply.
I tug on the leash again. His grip tightens, and I see his muscled forearms constrict, the veins bulging to the surface.
“Give me my dog, Big.” I try to stay calm, but I’m losing my patience. I don’t care if he is the club president. I’m not part of the club, not in the official capacity anyhow.
Linda, that sick bitch he’s spouting off about. She’s part of the club alright or was. She’s a whore, his whore, to be exact. The whore he’s used for the past ten years. The whore who’s been digging her claws into him since I can remember, trying to become his old lady. Big Dick, doesn’t do love; he only fucks, and sure as shit doesn’t want to settle down with some two-bit club whore. But for whatever jacked up reason, he keeps going back to her, year after year after year. It makes me sick. And I’m sure you are wondering why I even care. I’ll tell you why. Because we hate each other. She hates me; I don’t actually hate-hate her. We got in a drag out, knockout, fistfight about a month after I got my pup. Even though she’s about five feet nine, which is seven inches taller than me, and probably double my size. I’m scrappy, and I grew up in this lifestyle. Plus, I have two biker brothers and a biker for a father. So I know how to box. In turn, I fucked her shit up - broke her nose, busted open her lip, and bruised her up something fierce. It’s been years since I’ve even heard her name spoken aloud. She’s not allowed at the club anymore. But that never stopped Big Dick from sliding into home plate wherever she willingly spreads her legs. What a sick son of a bitch.
“Were you at her house, Big?”
His response, nothing but a straight up, scary as hell glare. I’m not going to wilt under his intimidation tactics. I stare back with just as much intensity, my eyes turning into two slits of anger and disgust.
“Were you?” I grind my jaw, the hairs on the back of my neck standing attention, my agitation at an all-time high.
Silence.
Fuck. Him.
“You know what? Keep him!” I snarl, release the leash and pat Pretzel’s head while I wink at him. Then, with a stern face, I sling my leg over my bike, turn her over and not once do I look at him. Not once, do I register any of the words that keep flying from his pissed off mouth as I peel out of the parking lot, heading not home but to the bar. The bar I go to when I don’t want to be found.
“Bink, what’ll it be? Another?” Manny, my favorite bartender, asks, leaning his elbows on the bar in front of me. A whoosh of air from the front door blows my way, thanks to the storm that has suddenly settled in the sky. From the looks of the radar, it’s not going anywhere fast.
Grreeeaaatttt.
It’s eight, and I’ve been here for hours, drinking, eating, chatting, drinking some more, getting hit on, and the list rattles so on and so forth. See, I told you my life was in utter disarray. I don’t even have my fuckin’ dog anymore. What a stupid bitch am I? Do I think Big Dick will put pups in the ground? No, not at all; he called him cute.
A snicker follows that thought. Fuckin Big. Uhh!!! I can’t stand that sexy, infuriating man.
“What’s wrong, princess?” A man in a blue business suit glides onto the bar stool next to mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him bang my brains out, with a determined expression on his face. Big tits, that’s all he sees. My mom was right. ‘One big tit.’
I ignore him.
“What’s wrong?” His hand lands on mine, which is sprawled unladylike on the bar, and I jerk it away.
“Men,” I incoherently grumble, down another shot of whiskey, and slam my empty glass back on the bar with a loud thud.
Ahhh…yes…that good belly burn… Just what I needed.
Tapping my finger on the edge of the shot glass, Manny doesn’t ask; he just pours and keeps the whiskey within arm’s reach for my next refill.
“We’re not all bad, princess.”
Does this doofus really think the princess line is sexy? I’d rather be called a bitch. That would surely make me wetter than some depiction of being a princess, like the fuckin’ Little Mermaid. Note: Women do not, I repeat, do NOT like to be called princess. The whole tiara, prissy bitch thing. Nope, not sexy. It comes off as weak and needy. I’m the furthest from both.
My phone buzzes for the umpteenth time. I roll my eyes, exasperated, and pull it from between my legs, dropping it onto the bar. Sliding open the screen, I’m assaulted with message after message. Fuck. Me. Sideways. I don’t wanna hear all this shit. I’m a grown ass woman. I don’t need some dudes barking orders at me. The dickwad already took my goddamn dog. What the fuck else could he possibly want?
Big: You crazy bitch! What the fuck are you thinkin’? Rollin up outta here on your Prez like that. You know that’s a punishable offense, right? Punishable by lockin’ your ass up at the club and whipping your ass kinda punishment. Hit me up now, or I’m pullin’ rank.
Big: I’m not fuckin’ tellin’ you again. I’ll kill this dog just to spite your mouthy good for nothin’ ass.
Big: Bye-bye, Fido. Dumpin’ his dead ass in the river now. You did this shit to yourself.
Tears… Big hot tears well in my eyes, coating the world in watery bleariness.
Big: I’ve got his collar if you want it. If not, I’ll burn it.
The tears fall, streaming rapidly down my cheeks. He killed my dog! He killed Pretzel, and it’s all my fault!
Manny slides a tissue box in front of me, and I solemnly grin my appreciation.
“It’s on the house.” Another fill to my shot glass, I down it, and he refills. Then another goes down the hatchet.
Me: I don’t want his collar. I don’t want to see you. I’m not comin’ round the club no more. I’m out. Peace.
I sit, staring into the empty shot glass, running my finger slowly around the rim, drowning in my own sorrows, crying like the bitch I am.
Big: Where you at?
Why does it matter? I turn off my phone, and I lay my head on the bar. The cool varnished wood helps numb the pain that has curled itself into my soul and locked itself there. My. Life. Sucks!
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Hopeful Whispers Page 31
