MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings Vols 1-5 Complete Series Set Page 5

  I nodded my response, and that was it. Big Dick, Gunz, and Tripper rode with me to a Sears department store, where the sales lady helped me pick out my very first bras. Big, of course, being the control freak that he is, had final say in what I did or didn’t get. I ended up with everything I needed, and when we left, Big sent me on the back of Gunz’s hog as he and Tripper went to handle club business. For the rest of the day, Gunz was my constant companion, dishing me out a generous helping of ice cream at the clubhouse and helping me pack away my clothes in my new room at the club. I no longer slept at home after that day. I was given my own nine-by-nine room at the clubhouse. The only room that has ever been given to a female. A room that is still mine, but one I’ve hardly slept in for the past eight years or so.

  Marcy and the kids in my class were never a problem again, and it was months before I saw my mother. Not sure what happened or how Big took care of things like he had promised. I just know that my life from that day forward changed significantly. I was surrounded by the brothers’ day in and day out. I rode the bus to school and was picked up from school by one of the brothers or my daddy. The only females I encountered regularly were half-dressed club whores, some of which I took a liking to, regardless of their sexual tendencies that I was privy to viewing on a regular basis.

  By the time I was in sixth grade, I had seen more women suck cock than most adults have in their lifetimes. I learned to shoot a gun and clean it, to cook a decent meal, and polish boots like a pro. By high school, I no longer flinched when a brother came home with blood on his hands. Often times, I found myself helping clean the wounds that needed tending to. I became indifferent, almost numb, to seeing men take a bitch over the bar in the main room or drunken testosterone-filled men needing to resolve their issues by use of violence instead of talking it out. The polar opposite of everything I was taught in school.

  Most parents teach their children to never solve disputes with violence and to only have sex when you’re in love. The theory of those parental notions isn’t lost on me; they just don’t compute in my way of life. Just say no to drugs; also common knowledge among adults and children alike. Well, those adults and children who weren’t raised in an outlaw motorcycle club around brothers who proudly wear a one percent patch. Sex is yet another outlet for the brothers. Living with the barbaric old age belief that all men have the need to spread their seed, being clouded by society’s ideals of to love and be loved, to only share yourself with the one you are meant for—your soul mate, if you will. The fictional romance novels paint a prettier picture of what romance looks like. When in the reality of the world, my world, is that romance and true love is a myth. Fucking is the only real way of showing raw love-like emotions for those not connected by blood or brotherhood.

  Sure, my belief in love sounds like the bitter rantings of a cynical woman. Which, in part, might hold some validity. What can I say? I’m exhausted, my life, once again, has been emotionally jolted by the club, and I’m ready to catch a bit of shut-eye. The popcorn ceiling in my bedroom is beginning to blur as I stare upon it. And my mind can’t take any more mental deconstruction of my life or shit that’s happened in it.

  Goodnight, see you bright and early tomorrow. Peace.

  3

  Friday, September 5, 2013

  Friday, TGIF. No work, just cooking—the motto surrounding my day.

  Yesterday, walking into work, my nerves were shot. My insomnia kept me from getting more than three good hours of sleep the night before. Well, it was probably more due to stress than my insomnia, although I can’t be sure. I woke up to my phone buzzing next to my head; I’d fallen asleep with it clutched in my hand.

  It was from Brew, my older brother.

  Brew: Don’t know why four brothers got bruised up cuz of you. Dad’s pissed.

  I rolled out of bed, way sooner than I needed to. And because I don’t drink coffee or tea in the morning, I settled for a can of pop as I sat on the couch, debating if I should get into it with Brew or not. I hate when he knows shit that I don’t. Claiming I’d caused harm to the brothers seemed like a huge leap, but then I thought about it and realized it’s the club. Nothing surprises me anymore.

  After I showered and combed through my hair, put on a minimal amount of makeup, and dressed in business casual, per usual, I texted him back.

  Me: Dunno how any of it’s my fault or what happened to them. Just blame me. Black sheep will take the blame once again.

  Immediately, my phone rang. It was Daddy.

  “How’s my girl?”

  “Not good. But I’ll live another day.” I knew I sounded whiny, I didn’t care a damn bit.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  The loud clearing of my father’s throat told me he was getting agitated with me already. The older he gets, the more his patience wanes, to the point of it now hanging on by a mere thread. “I know better than that, Bink. I got a call from Runner last night sayin’ you’d pissed Prez off, and he went apeshit. Tore up the office, left two prospects to clean up the mess. Ended up shitfaced, thanks to a bottle of Jack, and fought with the brothers, took four of them to calm the beast down.”

  Not knowing a damn thing about why Big flipped his shit, but being blamed for his actions grated on my nerves. A lovely start to a day I already knew wasn’t going to be peachy anyhow. I wasn’t taking responsibility for a grown adult’s choices. I had my own I had to live with. Like the fact I gave that same beast of a man the go-ahead to basically kill my dog. Now that, I would never recover from.

  “First, Daddy, I didn’t know about any of it. Second, Runner called you, not Big or Gunz. So I wouldn’t believe him. He’s sketchy. Third, how am I to blame for what a grown ass man does? Not only a man who’s grown, but also the president of a club I’m not a member of, and old enough to be my father,” I said, exasperated that I was having this conversation so early in the morning. It was only an hour before I had to ride to work.

  “You were born into the club. Nothin’ you can do about that. You’re right, though; you can’t control Big. But if I find out you did something to push him to this, when he’s already tightly wound because of this run me and your brothers are on, then you and I are going to have some choice words, little girl,” he expressed. I could hear a group of the brothers in the background talking, the word guns, bullshit, and Florida being the only words I could make out clearly.

  I sighed, running my hands through my hair, pacing my living room. Big was wound? What about me? What about my life? What about my job? Apparently, none of that mattered. The club, the club, and more about the club. That’s all he’s ever cared about. Now he’s worried about what I did to Big? What about what he did to me or my boss? Nope, their precious Prez could never be at fault for a goddamn thing.

  We hung up after I listened to him rattle on about a little bit of this and that. To be honest, I barely paid a lick of attention to the shit he was spouting off. I was cranked a little too tight; my muscles ached from tension. I couldn’t yell at my daddy, as much as I wanted to. The fact that Big was anxious about this run clued me in enough to know that my daddy had plenty of shit already stacked on his plate. Me attacking him wouldn’t do any of us any good.

  I rode Black Betty to work shortly thereafter, and not a single orgasm came. I had no sex drive, no desire to come—zilch. I just wanted to get to work and get the horrible face-to-face with my bosses over with. I needed to gain some sort of footing back in my life.

  Walking into the office was seemingly normal. I sat at the front desk, did paperwork, and sent out bills. The day passed like any other day. I didn’t even see any of the doctors until an hour before closing time when Doctor Jagger casually strolled into my part of the office, his usual smile glowing on his flawless face. How he and the rest of his colleagues are doctors and not models is beyond me.

  “Mrs. Jenkens can be taken off the schedule. I just got a call from her children telling me they’ve put her on hospice and that’ll she
’ll no longer be coming in,” he said, leaning next to me, looking at my computer screen. The scent of his cologne surrounded me. It was intoxicating, and my hidden sex drive suddenly made an appearance. I couldn’t be sure if it was him, my high level of emotions that I was nearly bursting at the seams from, or the fact I hadn’t gotten laid in almost a month. My pussy didn’t care the reason. She was wide awake and wet, and the more he lingered, the wetter I became. The thrumming in my clit turning from a mild sensation to indescribably over-alert and ready to shatter. I was willing to hump his leg if the opportunity presented itself.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” I found myself saying, the guilt eating me alive.

  He turned his attention to look at me and stood up. That’s when I saw it. The hardness in his Dockers was apparent. Was he feeling the same spark of sexual chemistry like I was? His dick sure was. I didn’t try to hide my flushed cheeks or the fact that my eyes had glued themselves to the crotch of his pants.

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he muttered with a darkened voice, reaching down and adjusting the bulge without an ounce of shame.

  “Are you going to fire me?” I pleadingly glanced up into his eyes.

  His same, light, heartwarming laugh from yesterday hit me like a Mac truck, straight between my thighs, and I shuddered. The innocent smile he held was Oscar worthy, all the while he watched me squirm in my seat. I hated being affected so intensely, but my hormones were blazing through me like a wildfire. I couldn’t control them.

  “No way. We have big plans for you. Take tomorrow off work, come in ready for a meeting bright and early Monday. Okay?” His hand clasped my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. The heat from his palm radiated into my flesh. I nearly came.

  “Okay,” I muttered in retort. And that was it. He left me to resolve my own sexual frustration, which was quickly solved once I left work for the day. I came three times riding my Harley home and spent the rest of the night watching junk TV and wishing I had Pretzel to curl up next to.

  Which leads me to today.

  I woke up this morning, threw on some yoga pants and a Harley tee, and then I hopped in my grocery-getter to go shopping. Which isn’t anything you’d consider a ‘grocery-getter.' I guess you can say I’m a bit of a vintage car and bike whore. The club owning and running a legit auto repair shop doesn’t help my whoring ways. I blame it on Big and Gunz. They forced this obsession on me as a child. Black Betty is a customized and fully rebuilt 1967 Harley Electra Glide Sport. My car is a 1969 black and pink Chevelle. Or should I rephrase that? It’s a custom hot pink Chevelle with black racing stripes, and a black S.S patch painted on the roof; Dukes of Hazard style. I paid a small fortune to fix her up. She’d originally been Gunz’s car, and he’d had every intention of restoring her. But, after he forked out heavy dough to customize and restore his prized 1947 Ford pickup, he decided he didn’t want to sink that kind of cash into another beauty. Sold her bare bones to me for a steal. Lots of man hours later, I am the proud owner of a car I’ve rightfully named Kitty. A car that none of the brothers would be caught dead driving. One of the many bonuses of driving hot pink bitch mobile—as my brothers call her.

  Today at the grocery store, I broke down and purchased the biggest box of Bisquick they manufacture. You know the ones that are the size of a poodle? With as often as I’m asked or in some cases told to bake these cookies, I decided buying in bulk would be the right way to go.

  If you haven’t gathered the gist quite yet, the base for these ‘famous’ cookies of mine is Bisquick. The recipe goes as follows for a single batch, which I always multiply times ten.

  • ½ cup Real Unsalted Butter, softened

  • 1 ½ cup Dark Brown Sugar, packed firmly

  • 2 large Eggs

  • 2 ½ cups Bisquick

  • ½ tsp Vanilla

  • Pinch of Salt

  • 12oz bag Chocolate Chips

  Fluff the softened butter and sugar together. Then add all other ingredients until mixed thoroughly. It will be a sticky mess when done, so I do the spoon dropping method onto a lightly greased pan and bake them at 325 to 350 degrees for ten to fourteen minutes, or until golden brown. The result is a yummy cookie that rocks the brothers’ socks off.

  I’m on my sixth batch in the oven as of right now, only four more to go. Then on to the meatballs that I’ve already rolled out and have covered in the fridge, ready to pop in the oven at any time.

  Strolling into my small living room, I plop down on my tan couch until the timer dings. Kicking my feet up on my coffee table, I grab the remote and flick on the TV. Buzzing through the channels on my flat screen, I settle on a rerun of the Sons of Anarchy. Yup, I know it’s an angst-ridden TV drama that attempts to embody the MC lifestyle. I find it highly entertaining. Even if it’s not quite true to life. What show on TV really is? If you get to thinking about it.

  My phone goes off in my jeans pocket for the third time in the past two damn minutes. Gee-fricken-whiz, my phone has literally been buzzing nonstop all day with various party planning shit. Between Gunz and Candy Cane, who’s Tripper’s old lady, I’m tapped the hell out.

  Tugging the annoying thing from my pocket, I drop it into my lap and slide on its Bisquick-caked screen. Every single time I bake, an atomic bomb explodes in my kitchen, and I’m forced to spend the next three days trying to recover. I know I could do all the baking at the clubhouse and it would take me a fifth of the time. Plus, I could insist a prospect or club whore to redd up after me. But as tempting and convenient that may sound, the idea of being in the same building with the six foot eight, control freak himself, is not on my to-do list. Especially after the mild scolding I received from my daddy, just yesterday.

  I glance down at the first message that pops up on my screen. Unable to make out all the words clearly, I grab the corner of my black t-shirt and wipe down the display.

  Gunz: Heads up. Five brothers traveling in for the weekend from other chapters to scope out the clubhouse.

  Me: Scouting?

  Candy Cane: Gunz texted, said we’ve got three old ladies to entertain both Saturday and Sunday, hope you’re up for the task. I can’t do it alone.

  Gunz: It’s club business, baby doll. Three brothers are bringing their old ladies along. The pussy crew has some extra hosting duties.

  Me to Gunz: I really wish you’d come up with a better name for us. Considering your asses wouldn’t have anything to eat ‘cept beer and pretzels if it wasn’t for us.

  Gunz: I’ll get right on that.

  Me to Gunz: Sarcasm is not the best form of flattery.

  Gunz: Neither is sass, but that’s never stopped ya.

  Well…well…well…looks like someone is extra spicy today. I can hang. Just hope he can keep up.

  Me: I rarely sass you. I don’t have enough energy to do that when I have to use it slaving away for a group of leather wearing cavemen and their King, Sir Controlling Big Dick.

  Gunz: Ha-ha, you’re a funny girl. I’ll have you know the king isn’t the only one with a big dick.

  Me: Are we seriously having this conversation? Because I’m telling you right now, I’m well aware of what each and every one of you brothers are packing between your legs.

  Gunz: You’ve never seen mine.

  Me: I’m saying goodbye now.

  Gunz: What? It’s true.

  Me: No, no it’s not.

  Gunz: Fuck, Bink! How is it not?!

  I can almost hear him yelling at me through the screen, that pissed-off line in his forehead red and angry as it pulses with the beat of his heart. That’s how you know Gunz is furious. The vein that bulges in the middle of his forehead, it’s like its own continent.

  Me: New Year’s Eve five years ago, kitchen, chubby redhead, fishnet stockings. You, Blimp, and a red Solo cup.

  Gunz: No way!

  Me: Yes way… How else would I know that you have a skull tattooed right above your dick? And a Prince Albert piercing.

  Gunz: Jesus fucki
ng Christ!!

  Serves him right for thinking he knew better. Blimp, who by definition lives up to his name in size, is like a silver-backed gorilla with more hair on his body than his head and looks about seven months pregnant. Not a pretty picture, is it? Anyhow… he and Blimp took turns eating this curvy, plump, and rather slutty redhead out, as she sat on the kitchen counter. While the one ate her, the other jacked off into a red Solo cup. Empty or not? I dunno, I didn’t catch the whole show. I saw a few snippets when I walked in and out of the kitchen, cleaning and storing leftovers in the fridge. I do know the girl ended up drinking both of their jizz from the cup after they’d finished in it and got her off a few times. She grunted her orgasms like a dude. It wasn’t pretty, and that is probably one of the main reasons I remember it.

  I’d need a brain bleaching to rid my mind of half of the shit that is stored in there. Men are pigs, they are horny, they are foul, and they don’t take kindly to the word No. Gunz that night was sloppy drunk out of his ever-lovin' mind. Probably why he doesn’t remember a damn thing. Or the fact that I was the one who tucked him into bed at the clubhouse, removing his boots and socks beforehand. It was just another party night at the S.S clubhouse. One of many where I’ve played babysitter for the drunken fucktards and let’s see who cops a feel first. For obvious reasons, my tits seem to be the private area of choice. Although, through all my years helping scrape a sloppily drunk Gunz from the clubhouse floor, not once has he crossed a line, which would be a record. Most men when you add excessive amounts of booze and big tits, it’s like a fly to shit. They can’t get enough. Sad but true. Well, I guess me being the proverbial shit wasn’t my smartest analogy, but you catch my drift.

  Gunz: I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say here.

  Big: Why are you texting Gunz? We’re in church. Cut it off, you’re fuckin’ distractin’ him.