MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings Vol 5
Bink Cummings
Copyright © 2018 by: Bink Cummings
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.
Proofreader/Editor: Mary Bevinger
Proofreader/Beta: Heather Hendrickson, Judy Zweifel
Cover Artist: Bink Cummings
Image Provided by: BigStock
Ebook Edition, License Notes
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(Note: This book/series is a work of fiction with aspects based in truth.)
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Letter to the Reader
Sample of the first chapter of—Hopelessly Shattered- Sacred Sinners MC- Texas Chapter
Saturday, November 29, 2014
Flipping the lock and deadbolt on the front door, I shuffle to the side so Gunz can shove a chair back underneath the handle for added security.
“Did you lock the screen door?” he asks, double checking the chair legs will catch on the floor, preventing any intrusion.
I nod, dusting my hands on my thighs. “Yep. Did you secure the back door?”
“Of course, what do you take me for, a novice?” He winks, pulling a Dum Dum from the inside pocket of his cut. Peeling off the wrapper, he presses its sugary goodness to my lips. I grin before popping it inside my mouth. Gunz does the same for himself, opting for a festive holiday flavor—gingerbread, I think.
The song on Pandora’s Christmas station, which blasts through a wireless speaker in the living room courtesy of Gunz, swaps to Jingle Bell Rock as we get back to work. It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving and I paid off four of the brothers to take my big ole Grinch out tonight, as far away from the house as humanly possible. Ya see, the old man is not a fan of the holidays. And when I say he doesn’t like Christmas, this isn’t an exaggeration. We’re talking, he shits on all things holly or jolly this time of the year. When I was a kid he once tore down all the decorations I made from the walls in the clubhouse. A week later, he spent an entire day taking me shopping to make up for his Ebenezer ways. Yet, he never fails in ruining something or other.
Unboxing the new garland I bought last week and hid, I hand it up to Gunz who’s standing on a chair in the kitchen. Using Command strips, he secures the berry-filled awesomeness to the top edge of the cedar cupboards. I want every square inch of Big’s house—our house—covered in Christmas flair. I opted for a simple silver and red theme, not wanting it to be too gaudy. Honestly, I was tempted to decorate in bright variants of pink, when a responsible Jez stepped in and talked me out of it. Something about gender neutral and not giving Big a fucking coronary. Little does she know this is enough to make him shit asteroid-sized bricks.
Have I mentioned my man has never decorated his house before?
No?
Well, he hasn’t. Not once. However, he might have told me I could put a small tree in our daughter’s bedroom, as a compromise. Ha. Laughable, right? But, I wasn’t allowed to do anything else. You think I listened? Fuck no. That’s why Gunz is here as backup. We’re on decorating duty. I was even tempted to invite the sisters to help. Then again, I didn’t think they should be subjected to Big whenever he comes home. Nobody deserves that. Not even me, or our kid. That’s why Harley’s in bed. Plus, it’s past her bedtime. Grandpa Gunz gave her a lavender-scented bath and rocked her to sleep while I set up the nine-foot pre-lit tree in the corner of the living room, close to the stone fireplace. I’ve already swagged it out with ribbon and loaded on expensive ornaments; courtesy of the devil that is Pinterest and its endless ideas.
Swaying my hips to the music, clad in a pair of Frosty pajamas and my red-and-white candy striped socks, I unbox the bulb shaped candles for the center of the table.
This is the life. When I lived by myself, I never cared much for holiday decor. I did a small tree and a few knickknacks. Now that it’s Harley’s first Christmas, I’ll be damned if our house doesn’t kick ass. Christmas spirit is in full force ’round here. Jez has an entire Nativity scene on her lawn. Big has a habit of kicking the Three Wise Men down any chance he can get. See, I told you he’s an asshole. Even Mickey and Gypsy have those white wire reindeer in their yard, and Pixie’s got a blow-up Mickey Mouse wearing a Santa costume.
Finished with the garland, Gunz hops off the chair humming to Little Drummer Boy now playing on the radio. He saunters into the living room, digs out his pocket knife and flips it open with his thumb. Kicking the second of three tree boxes away from the wall, he slices the tape in one smooth motion. Before I’m done arranging the centerpiece, he has half of the box’s guts on the floor.
“Whoa,” I call out, plucking my sucker stick from my mouth. “Hold up. That’s the basement tree.”
Gunz’s brows furrow deep in thought, lifting another piece and fanning it out on the floor. “I thought this was the bedroom tree.”
Damn. Maybe he’s right.
Tossing the empty candle box in a giant, black bag along with my Dum Dum trash, I kneel beside the opened tree box to read the label, trying to recall what my plan was. I purchased three new trees for our place. Now I can’t remember if I got this one for the basement or not. One is white and the other black. I know what you’re thinking… A black Christmas tree, really, Bink?
Yes. Really.
It’s only seven foot. A full foot shorter than the white with clear lights. I’ve never been a fan of colored lights on trees. Too much clashing with their ornament counterparts. I know, you’re rolling your eyes because I’m that kind of decorator. Maybe in a few years I won’t care about matchy-matchy shit. This year isn’t that year. Harley isn’t old enough to make her own ornaments, and Big would’ve trashed any bulbs he was gifted before… He’s an asshole, remember?
“The black might clash with the red walls in the basement,” Gunz notes, shrugging off his cut and draping it over the arm of the nearest couch.
Has he lost his mind at his advanced age? The Sacred Sinners are red and black.
I look up at him from the floor, brows knitting together. “What do you mean it clashes? Red and black look fine together. It would clash more in our bedroom.” Around my birthday this year I bought new bedding, repainted the walls, and styled our bedrooms. As in plural. We have two. One upstairs and the other in the basement. Or have you forgotten already?
Gunz taps a red and black tat on his forearm then rolls his eyes and smirks fondly, like he wants to wrap me in a giant hug ’cause he adores the hell outta me. “I know. I was bein’ sarcastic. Does my sarcasm not register with this music playing?”
<
br /> Butthead.
I stick out my tongue and snort at his dry humor. “I’ll have you know, Christmas music is ah-mazing.” It really is.
“If you say so.” The smirk grows to a full on grin. A flash of white teeth peeks through those lips surrounded in a gray goatee.
Covering my mouth, I mock gasp, eyes flying wide. “You did not just insult Christmas music in this house.”
He chuckles. It’s jolly like Santa himself. “Pretty sure Big has never had a lick of fuckin’ Christmas music playin’ in this place ever.”
Another fake gasp from me, playing up my shock to the next level as I clutch a branch of the tree. “You sayin’ I popped its Christmas cherry?”
“In all ways, yeah. So let’s keep takin’ its virginity. Make it goood.” A short laugh and charming smile is delivered from my second favorite guy in the world. Okay, perhaps he’s my favorite favorite. Big can come in second. He hates Christmas after all. Gunz can win. Not like I have to tell the old man that. Don’t wanna make his grumpy ass jealous.
“Let’s take it nice and slow so the house can savor our fancy fucking,” I suggest.
Gunz’s head cocks to the side, eyes on mine. “What the hell is fancy fucking, Baby Doll?”
I shrug, both shoulders inches from touching earlobes. “I dunno. When you decorate it in pretty stuff ultimately bringing it closer to orgasm?”
“Whatever you—” Pausing mid-sentence, Gunz extracts the phone from his back pocket and reads a text. As he does this, I get back to work. This black tree isn’t gonna set itself up.
Scooping the pieces back inside the box, I shove the tree toward the basement door. Skirting around the long rectangle, I open said door and grip the lip of the cardboard flap, yanking it closer to the steps. Poised on the top stair, I position the tree at the right angle and let the bitch slide its way to the basement. What? Don’t look at me like that. I’m improvising. Who wants to carry a heavy box down a flight of stairs? Crazy people, that’s who. I’m not that crazy. Are you?
Following the tree down, I kick the last bit when it gets stuck, and nudge it further with my socked toe once it’s cleared the steps. The living space down here isn’t as large as upstairs, but it has plenty of room for a festive tree. Knowing exactly where it goes, I maneuver the box closer to the corner where it will fit and not obstruct the walkways, couch, or the kitchen area. I crouch and tear open the box. It doesn’t take long to have the pieces spread out, ready to assemble. Isn’t it weird how much tree designs have changed over the past decades? When I was a kid, we had all these individual branches you had to hook into the stand by color. If the paint they dipped the metal tip in wore off you had to hope you got them right by size. They were abrasive and left rashes on your forearms when you fanned them out before stringing lights. These pre-lit babies are genius. Easy out, easy up, easy takedown. No muss, little fuss. I wish they’d had these when I was a child. My parents didn’t do much for the holidays. Mom was too caught up in her own crap, but we did always have a tree. Sometimes it was real. Most of the time it was fake. I’ve never cared one way or the other. A tree is a tree. And real ones can be messy. Big would hate that more than he’s going to hate this. That’s why I opted for artificial. It’s less hassle. We also have a little one and Pretzel to consider. He hasn’t experienced a real tree either. The last thing I want is him or Harley eating the needles.
“We’ve got company!” Gunz hollers down the stairs.
Shit.
“What kind of company?!” On a mission, I quickly assemble the four-legged tree stand and stack the bottom layer of black branches on by sliding them into the post to lock them in place.
Please say it’s Jez. Please say it’s Jez.
“He’s back.”
Dammit!
Those jerks, they didn’t keep him out long enough. I’ve got two trees left to decorate and our stockings to hang. I’m gonna kill Viper. He knew how important this was. This is why I should’ve sent Gunz. He would’ve stolen Big’s bike keys, if necessary. Fuckin’ pussies. Gah!
Not letting my man win, I piece the black tree together row by row without stopping. “I’m not done.”
“I know.”
“Stall him. Please.”
The doorbell rings. When nobody answers in less than a second, Big pounds on the door. Mighty, impatient blows that don’t let up.
Gunz shuts down the music, and I abandon my work with an exhausted sigh to deal with a pissed-off old man. This should be fun.
As soon as I reach the top step I hear him bellowing, “Bink!”
“Hold your horses!” Irritated to the nth degree, I stomp to the front door refusing to open it before I’m done. He can come back later like he was supposed to in the first place.
Gunz leans his shoulder against the wall watching the entry and me, as I approach. The windowpanes in the door are rattling. Could he knock any freaking louder? Doesn’t he know we have a sleeping baby here?
“Bink! Open this fucking door!”
“No! You need to calm down.”
“What’re you doin’ in there? Why is this door locked? Why aren’t you answering my texts?” he rattles off, impatient with my lack of follow through.
“I’m busy. Come back later.”
“What the fu— Busy doin’ what?”
“None of your business.”
“It’s my damn house.”
“No. It’s our house,” I snark.
“Fine. Our. House. What is goin’ on in our house?”
Smartass.
“I said I’m busy. You weren’t supposed to be home yet.”
“Well excuse me for missin’ my old lady.”
Whatever.
“That’s not why you’re here, Big. Don’t pretend like it is.”
“The hell it ain’t.” He has the audacity to sound offended.
I roll my eyes.
When I don’t comment he starts in again. “Sugar Tits.”
“Who diss?” I act dumb.
Yes, I realize I’m a total butthole. I could stop this entire thing by opening the door and letting him inside. But I don’t want to. Nothing good will come of it. He’s already angry, and I’m not finished with my Christmas decorating extravaganza.
“Christ, woman! What’re you doin’ in there?”
“Who diss?” I glance over my shoulder to look at Gunz who’s smirking at my idiocy. Whoever said picking on Big wasn’t fun? It’s a blast.
“We’re not playin’ a game. I asked you a question,” he growls, not amused in the least.
I trace the edge of the cold windowpane with my finger. “And I said come back later. You’re home too early. I’m not finished.” There, I toned it down a notch. I can play nice… sometimes.
An eerie silence descends, and I start to wonder if he’s left. Too bad I know him better than that. Nothing is ever that easy with Big.
There’s a crash at the back door and thundering footfalls as my damn man breaks into our house. I turn around and deliver a withering glare to Gunz who was supposed to secure the rear door.
“What the hell?” I hiss.
Gunz shrugs a shoulder, not the least bit upset as he pulls a sucker from his jeans pocket and pops it into his maw. He’s lucky I adore him because this is about to be one epic showdown. Grab your front row seats boys and girls.
Big stomps through the kitchen hard enough that the leftover dishes in the sink rattle. “What the fuck!” he booms when he notices the decorations. Screeching to a growly halt by the cupboards he glares at the offending garland. A breath later he reaches up and rips the entire strip of greenery down. Then chucks it onto the floor where he stomps on it like an overgrown child. This is ridiculous.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I approach him, stopping a few feet short on the threshold of the living room.
Big scans my body up and down, noticing my Christmas jammies. “You decorated.” His upper lip snarls the words.
Hip cocked to the side, a
rms crossed over my chest, I jerk a nod. “I decorated.”
“I said no.” To cement this declaration Big grinds his boot heel into the once beautiful garland. He’s gonna pay for that later. That greenery wasn’t cheap. I picked it specifically for our kitchen. He’s gonna rue the day he pissed me off. Ebenezer Scrooge won’t win this one.
“Well, I’m in this relationship, too. And I said yes,” I snap.
Leaning his own hip against the counter, Big crosses those massive arms over his pecs, trying to appear intimidating. If only that worked on me. It doesn’t. I’m immune. “We compromised.”
I shake my head violently, lips pursed. “No. You dictated. You. There was no compromise.”
“I gave you a tree in Leech’s room. That’s a compromise.”
“No. That’s a load of controlling bullshit, is what that is.”
Big two-finger points to the ornamented tree in our living room, appalled. “That is not staying here.”
“Then neither am I.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He glares.
“That means… I understand that you hate Christmas. But I will not let you ruin our daughter’s first one because of your issues. Not hers, Big. Yours. Last time I checked, we’re not Jehovah’s Witnesses. We’re allowed to celebrate holidays however we see fit. If that means I move me and our daughter out of this house for December, then so be it.”
“You can’t mean that.” The wind’s been knocked from his sails as he frowns.
“Oh. I do.” His bedroom at the clubhouse is a fine alternative.
Big scrubs a hand over his head. “You can’t leave me. You’re mine.”
I sigh, not wanting to make this worse than it already is. “I’m not leaving you, silly. I’m respecting your stupid fucking wishes and staying elsewhere for the holidays.”
“Without me,” he mumbles, frown deepening into sullen baby territory.
“Yes. Without you.” This guy does seasonal bike runs for Toys for Tots to collect Christmas presents, but he can’t stand the holiday. He’s a conundrum, my man.
“’Cause I hate Christmas?”
“I don’t care what you hate. But I don’t like when it affects our daughter’s future happiness. She isn’t gonna be the kid who doesn’t get to have decorations in the house or celebrate Christmas because you can’t stand it. That’s unfair. It’s my duty to protect her, even if it’s from her own father’s ridiculousness.”
MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 5 Page 1
