MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings Vols 1-5 Complete Series Set Page 6

  Arg!!!! I roll my eyes. I can’t help it.

  “Big, you are such an asshole!” I yell aloud, glaring at my phone, gripping it in my hands with the force I’d love to use to squeeze the shit outta Big’s throat. If my hands were large enough to do that.

  Me to Big: Then tell him to stop talking to me about his dick.

  My phone instantly starts to ring. It’s Big.

  Should I answer it or not?

  I take a deep breath and center myself.

  “Ye—”

  Oh shit!

  A ferocious demon growl interrupts my train of thought. In fear of losing my hearing, I yank the phone from my ear, holding it out a few feet from my head.

  “Bink!” Big snarls into the phone loud enough that I can still hear him and I cringe. Maybe I should just hang up.

  Kill him with kindness. I need to steel my emotions and kill the bastard with some kindness. I can do this. I can be nice.

  “Yes, Big Dick. How may I help you on this glorious evening?” I transform my voice into something so sickeningly sweet I nearly gag.

  “Cut the bullshit,” he barks harshly, loudly huffing into the phone.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

  The bile rises in my throat; the vomit is going to come. This is the purest form of torture.

  The timer dings in the kitchen. The cookies are done. I have been saved by the motherfucking bell. Thank you, Jesus!

  I’m greeted with more grumbling and heavy breathing into the receiver as I stand and slump my way into the kitchen. Grabbing a pot holder and opening the old stove door, a wave of moist heat blows into my face, and I quickly squint, my eyes watering, as I mutter colorful obscenities under my breath. Reaching into the oven, through eye slits, I crane my neck to the side, pushing my ear to my shoulder, holding my phone in place.

  “What—”

  “Son of a bitch!” I screech in pain, cutting him off, burning my wrist on the edge of the cookie sheet. Unable to control my bodies’ reaction, I accidentally drop the phone to the ground and the sheet onto the lid of the oven with an echoing bang.

  Fuckin’ A, I have another burn. This is just great!

  “You stupid fuckin’ bitch,” I admonish myself, carefully picking up the tray of unharmed cookies and heavily dropping it on the stove top. Beyond agitated I use my foot and kick the oven door closed, then walk to the sink, turn on the water and run my seared flesh under the cold tap for a mild sense of relief. On closer inspection of my reddened burn, I see that it’s already started to bubble into a nasty blister.

  Sighing, I dry my hands on a kitchen towel and lay in on the counter. Lying face down on my tiled floor is my cell so I pick it up.

  “Bink! Hello, answer me, goddammit! Bink! Bink!” Big is frantically yelling through the phone.

  “Yeah?” I hold it to my ear.

  “What the hell happened? You whole?” he demands, the sound of wind blowing into the phone makes it difficult to hear him clearly.

  “What are you doing? I can hardly hear you,” I ask, walking out of my kitchen and back into my living room where I drop down into my couch, totally over this baking bullshit.

  “That better?” he queries, as the phone goes silent except for his breath, that’s surging through the phone, almost like it can touch me.

  “Yeah, what are you doing?”

  “Coming over to check on you. I’m pulling out of the gate now,” he replies.

  What?!

  “I thought you were in church.” I level my tone. “I don’t need you to check on me. I only burnt my wrist. It’s nothing.” Resting wrist up on my knee, I gander at the inflamed flesh. It hurts - a lot. I don’t want him here, and I surely don’t need someone checking on me for something as stupid as this. I’m a grown ass woman for cryin’ out loud.

  “I could bring you an Italian Ice. Those always help,” he offers in a curious tone.

  What in the hell? Grumpy, rude Big, has done a one-eighty, and his voice is soft and deep, like a silky caress gliding romantically over my most sensitive areas. If I didn’t know any better, this man almost sounds sweet. Almost.

  “I’m fine. You’ll see me tomorrow, and if it makes you feel any better, I’ll even let you put a rainbow Band-Aid on my burn when I arrive.”

  “You remember those?” he asks in a husky whisper.

  “Of course I do.” Laying down on the couch, I tuck my hand under my head for support and cross my ankles, closing my eyes in attempt to relax. And somehow with his voice seeping into my soul, I retreat back to all those feelings as a child when Big would care for me, making me feel safe. Like nobody could hurt me, and if they did, he’d be the one to scare the monsters away. Even if that monster happened to be my mother or girls from school.

  He breathes into the receiver for what feels like forever, and I just listen to him inhale and exhale, wondering if he hears me the same way I do him.

  “When you were three and Steel had me watch you, I took you to the park,” he explains, breaking the silence and sighs, pausing for a moment before he continues. “I was so scared I’d fuck up, so I became your shadow. Always two steps behind your every move. Up the jungle gyms and down the slides.”

  The thought of his massive size on jungle gyms forces a wide smile to slide across my face.

  “You turned around on your way over to the big kid swings with this innocent smile on your face. ‘I want to swing, Big,’ you said. All the swings were taken, but we made our way over to them anyway. Do you remember that?” Big asks, his tone taking on an air-like quality.

  “No.” And I don’t. I don’t have a lot of fond memories of my childhood before I moved into the clubhouse. Even afterward, my life wasn’t a typical childs.

  “Go on, please,” I whisper, eager to hear the rest.

  “You stood watching the big kids, mesmerized. And then you reached out and held my hand. Like it was the most natural fuckin’ thing for you to do. And to refrain from sounding like a complete bitch boy, I’ll just say that moment touched me. You, touched me.”

  The sound of his gentle breathing filters into my ears once again as silence envelopes us. I somehow feel like we’re sharing a special moment and as much as I want to, I can’t ignore the gooey mushy sensation that has me feeling weird, yet, eerily calm inside.

  “Go…on,” I stumble breathlessly, not having realized I am almost panting. He prolongs a rich sigh.

  “I held onto your tiny hand, Bink, and had to keep my shit together so I didn’t toss one of those damn kids off a swing. I wanted to give you the goddamned world at that moment. Something about your innocent face and your miniature hand gripping mine…” He clears his throat.

  Sharpening his tone, he continues, “Yeah, well, you swung, and I pushed you. Every time you laughed, demanding I push you higher, my heart seized, petrified you’d fall off. You didn’t though. Afterward, on the way back to my truck, you tripped over a rock and skinned your knee. You didn’t cry, but I freaked the fuck out and tore my bandana from my head and wrapped your knee with it, then I threw you in the truck and tore out of that damn parking lot like a bat outta hell, headed to the nearest drug store. Where I carried you inside and purchased ten times more shit than I needed to, just to clean your boo-boo.”

  Softly, I chuckle.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ laugh,” he growls, half-seriously.

  I laugh louder. “I hope your boys don’t hear big bad Prez sayin’ boo-boo’, they might yank your patch,” I tease.

  “Can you stop bein’ a bitch for ten minutes? Is that too much to ask?”

  I sigh, deflated. He’s right.

  “Sorry,” I murmur, rubbing the fresh crease between my eyes.

  “Like, I was saying before some pain in my fuckin’ ass opened her trap, that day I bought four different kinds of Band-Aids. When I carried you back out to my truck, I sat you in the passenger side seat and stood next to you with the door wide-open. I cleaned your boo-boo and let you pick out the ban
dage. The only one you wanted was the rainbow kind. That’s why I’ve had a pack of them in my glove box, my medicine cabinet at the clubhouse, at home, and in the clubhouse kitchen all your life.”

  I think I just melted. Melted into a puddle of sappy, pink girly goo all over my damn apartment. What in the world is wrong with me?

  “That’s one of the sweetest things I’ve ever heard,” I admit honestly.

  “Yeah…well… It’s Steel’s fault,” he states matter-of-factly, with a grunt.

  “How?”

  “He’s the one who knocked up that disgraceful cunt you call mom, and she popped out the cutest fuckin’ blonde haired, blue-eyed kid. I was a goner from day one.”

  What does that even mean? A goner from day one? I know Big’s known me since I was born because my daddy and he grew up club brats together. That’s why Big became the president, younger than any president before him. His pops died on a routine run; drunk driver ran a stop sign, and Big was immediately handed the gavel. Big’s dad had groomed him to be club president since he was a kid. I’ve heard the stories; Big Dick’s pop, Boss Man, was a hard-ass prick with no heart and a deep seeded hatred for anything with a pussy. Probably has a lot to do with why Big has never claimed an old lady. Although, from what I hear, Big’s nicer to women than his father ever was.

  “Bink,” Big says, breaking me from my musings.

  “Uh?”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Go?”

  “In your head.”

  “Ah… I was just thinking about how much you drive me crazy…”

  “I drive you crazy?” he harshly interrupts. Apparently I’ve just insulted him.

  “Yes, now please let me finish.”

  He grunts, twice.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I lightheartedly chuckle and smile. “So yeah, you drive me crazy a lot of the time. But, sometimes I forget how much you’ve helped me, and the shit you’ve been through in your life. I wanna say thanks for being there.”

  The line goes dead silent.

  “Big?”

  “Yeah?” he answers in a low husky tone.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “What time is it?”

  I glance over to the oversized clock hanging on my wall. “A quarter past eight, why?”

  “I’m marking the date and time in the calendar. That Bink, the most important and infuriating woman of my existence, said something that was sweet and said thank you. I want to remember this day forever.”

  I roll my eyes. What a sarcastic asshole. Back to the Big Dick I know, go figure.

  “I’m hanging up now,” I warn, seriously.

  “Alright…but no more texting Gunz during church and no more cock talk with Gunz…ever. Ya got me?”

  “Yes, sir.” I roll my eyes again like an errant child, and mock salute him, even though I know he can’t see me. He’s lucky I’m refraining myself from unleashing a rather juicy retort. I keep them bottled up, and one of these days they are all going to explode out of me like a ticking time bomb, and I won’t be able to control the disastrous word vomit or the devastation it may cause in its wake.

  “This is killing you, ain’t it?”

  Of course, it is.

  “What is?” I play stupid.

  “Not yelling at me, and tellin’ me that Gunz was the one who texted first and that he was the one who started the cock talk. You don’t think I already know that shit? I do. And trust me, he and I will have a gentleman’s talk once we’re through here. I’ll see ya in the mornin’. I got to get outta this truck and handle my shit. Now be careful this time and finish baking me those delicious cookies. You got a long-ass day tomorrow. I’m countin’ on the Sacred Sisters to corral the new old ladies. Later.”

  “Peace.”

  Once I hear his truck door open, and a blast of wind hit the phone, I hang up.

  It’s back to cooking in my small apartment, and this time I swear won’t burn myself.

  4

  Saturday, September 6, 2013

  Being of a world, within a world, I lie here in my plush bed, contemplating whether I should roll out of it and shower, shave, and start my day before the birds themselves waken or if I should continue to stare at the ceiling I’ve grown accustomed to. The ceiling that keeps me company when my insomnia awakens me far too early for any normal person.

  It’s four a.m., just another morning that I slept very little. And today I will be entertaining a group of foul-mouthed, leather-clad bikers, and more specifically the women they’ve claimed as their old ladies. Not sure how in the hell I get roped into these sorts of jobs. I just do. When considering the alternatives to help accommodate and educate woman from all over the country to learn our own chapter’s customs, I guess I’m the perfect woman for the job. Candy Cane having been claimed as an old lady for many years easily qualifies her as my copilot. Helping me navigate these often times experienced old ladies into a different chapter and the rules that many of the other Sacred Sinners MC’s aren’t accustomed to.

  We are the original, the chapter that all other S.S chapters look to for inspiration, leadership, and ultimately a brotherhood that offers protection and alliances when those smaller and less developed come calling. This means we are unremittingly strict, with little to no wiggle room to bend the rules. Big Dick and the club’s ten-man committee vet and hand pick each member that we patch in our chapter. For many of the brothers, it is a year-long process with many trials and tribulations along the bumpy road. Only one in five prospects ever make it into the brotherhood. The rest drop out, are kicked out, or a mixture of the two.

  Checking my phone for the time, I see that I’ve been awake for twenty minutes. The Sandman has abandoned his post, and I’m wide awake. Turning over, I roll off the side of my queen-sized mattress and land on my feet. Standing up tall, I stretch my arms high above my head and moan, allowing my inner porn star to surface. As I lower my hands, I rub the sleep out of my eyes to culminate my morning ritual and pad my bare feet into my attached bath, where I adjust the shower temperature before undressing and finally climb under the hot spray. I wash, shave, exfoliate, and accomplish all the needed girly bullshit, finishing my shower unnaturally slow due to the absurd hour.

  Drying off is quick, as my hair is short and dries within minutes. One of the bonuses to having short hair. I finish and stagger back into my bedroom to rummage through my disastrous closet, where more clean clothes are piled on the floor, then hung on those annoying things they call hangers. I’ve never understood the need for them anyhow when half the damn time my clothes fall off.

  Crouching, I grab my black Harley t-shirt with pink lettering to wear, and a pair of cut-off jean shorts to accompany it. I always wear modest attire for work, even though I hate every bit of it. It’s club time now, and that’s the one place I will never be judged on my outfits. Unless of course it was frilly or some shit.

  I dress quickly, foregoing my panties and opting for a black lace bra. Stepping into my mid-calf combat boots that sit against the wall outside of my closet, I leave them loose and head back into the bathroom, where my makeup is applied in an understated, less is more fashion, and my hair gets a quick blow out to straighten any wildness.

  Once finished, I stride fully awake and raring to go out of my bedroom, and I hit the kitchen to pull together all the crap I need to bring with me. As much as I’d love to ride Black Betty to the compound to show her off to all the old ladies and cocky bikers who believe women only belong riding bitch, I’m stuck driving my kick ass grocery getter, Kitty, but that’s no consolation prize. She’ll be sure to drop a few jaws.

  Pulling to a stop at the compound’s tall wrought-iron entrance gate, I slip my keycard into the slot, and the gate swings open. Normally when I arrive, there is a prospect manning the gate, but it’s five in the morning, and they don’t take their posts until closer to eight. Driving onto the compound is almost like its own little village. The clubhouse takes up residency at the front right portio
n of the property. Since I am carrying in a few armloads of supplies, I opt to park out front by the double door main entrance.

  Getting out of my car is a breeze, and I pop the trunk to gather my belongings. Reaching inside, I am halted when a voice breaks the serene sounds of the birds singing their lovely morning melodies.

  “Can I help you with that?” Candy Cane asks, sidling up beside me and reaching into the trunk.

  “Here,” a male voice adds, flanking my other side and dipping into the trunk as well. It’s one of the prospects, and I can’t remember his name. Although, he should be rightfully named stinky because his cologne is way too strong. A spritz is good, but this boy smells like he’s doused himself in the entire bottle of cheap, dollar store stench.

  “Um…thanks.” I fill my arms full of cookies, as the other two gather up bags of chips, the meatballs, and other things I purchased for the family gathering. There is never such a thing as too much food. Not at events like this anyhow.

  Debbie, Dallas’s old lady, holds the door open as we enter, and I’m sure to thank her as I pass and head into the industrial sized clubhouse kitchen. Now before you go putting two and two together or wonder how in the hell a biker named Dallas ended up with an old lady named Debbie, let’s just say that Debbie’s real name isn’t Debbie. She was given the name to compliment his when they were caught many, many, many, years ago, making a rather explicit porn video in one of the clubhouse bathrooms. Like most road names, they are given for a reason, and she’s no exception.

  “What are you all doing here so early?” I ask while lining the cookies up, on the nearly full stainless steel island, and clearly giving Candy Cane the once over to be sure I didn’t under or over dress. She seems to have gone with her usual getup of bejeweled jeans, ‘property of’ cut, and a black fitted tee. Her hair is its everyday bright red bob, with a white streak framing the left side of her face. It’s not a dye job, it’s natural, and the reason she was named Candy Cane. Well, that, and the fact that she wears peppermint scented lotion. Not sure if that came before or after she was road named.