MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) (12 page)

Gunz: Yeah baby doll, I get it. They
are some stuck up prissy bitches. I don’t want ‘em here either. You bringin’
the stiff?

Me: Probably, seems he wants to come.
Must think it’s going to be all fun and games.

Gunz: Hahaha, that man is going to
run for the hills by the end of the weekend. There is no fuckin’ way he knows
what’s in store.

Me: You ain’t telling me somethin’ I
don’t already know. Where can we stay when we’re there? I don’t want us using
my room at the clubhouse, if I can avoid it. That will just makes things worse.

Gunz: I think that’s where you’ll be
stuck. Got the houses full with all the other guests coming in from outta town.
You know Prez would never let anyone use your room, so that’s gonna be empty.

Me: How many people are coming?

Gunz: No clue. My guess is at least a
hundred. Your bro was nice enough to hire the catering out though, so nobody is
forced to cook. Probably didn’t wanna rely on people, if you ain’t around to
supervise. You know, after the bullshit that went down when we last went on
lockdown.

I remember that -- food poisoning and
Big fucking Niki. Ugh! The twisting of my gut makes me want to hurl at the
thought. Why can’t I get past this? Thought distance would help separate my
feelings, but apparently I’ve been mistaken.

“Dinner’s ready,” Marshall announces,
setting the food on the dining room table that is right off the kitchen. I
slide off the stool and claim a seat at the table. Marshall sets a fork, spoon,
and plate in front of me before he slides into his seat across from me.

“Bon appetit,” he says, and we both
dive into the garlic bread and pasta dish he prepared. We sit and eat in
companionable silence, with only the sounds of Kenny G and our chewing to keep
us company.

Wiping my mouth with my napkin, I set
it on the table and fold my hands into my lap. Taking in a deep breath, I relax
my shoulders and prepare myself for what I am about to say. “You can go with me
to my brother’s wedding,” I explain evenly. I am not excited about this little
trip or bringing him along, but I know it’s only fair.

Marshall sets his fork on his plate
and grabs my hand from my lap. Squeezing it gently, he grins a tiny bit. “Good,
I am excited to meet your family.”

Poor delusional man doesn’t even know
what he’s in for.

Two Weeks Later- Friday: March
21, 2014

It’s show time!

Walking back into the bedroom, my
toiletries in hand, I glance at the stack of clothes Marshall has piled on the
end of the bed. I think it’s time we have a little talk about this weekend’s
expectations, and most importantly, his clothing choices.

“Marshall,” I call out, stuffing my
toiletries into my suitcase that’s resting on the mattress. I’ve already given
the heads up to the girls and Gunz about our arrival, so it won’t be that huge
of a shock for everybody present. Even though I have contemplated calling it
off a hundred different times, it boils down to being there for my brother,
even if my stomach is in knots. Two days ago, I found out from Gunz that Elise
and Elizabeth, my estranged sisters, are also attending. Elise is bringing her
fancy-smancy husband, Cliff, a leading obstetrician in New York City, where
they live with their two kids. Her children are not tagging along though. My
guess is, bitch Elise doesn’t want them to be exposed to the raw truths of
roughneck biker life. Tomorrow my brother gets hitched, and tonight they are
having a joint bachelor-bachelorette soiree at the clubhouse. It’s gonna be a
long, emotional, and tiring weekend.

“Yes, Darling,” Marshall strolls into
the bedroom from the hall with two sport coats draped over his forearms.

I give him a puzzled look, as I point
to the coats. “I hope you’re not bringing those along.”

“These?” He raises his arms and drops
the coats on the bed next to the pile of his business casual clothing.

This is not going to work.

“Yes, those.” I go to join him at the
opposite side of the bed, and I pick up one of the ugly coats. “This,” I shake
it out in front of me at arm’s length examining it, as my nose bunches into a
mild scowl, “is not to be worn at the club. There are standards, and we aren’t
talkin’ fancy dress. Leather, jeans, and cotton shirts - those are what you
have to work with.”

Taking the jacket from my grasp, he
drops it back on the pile. “But it’s a wedding,” he argues.

“A
biker
wedding,” I emphasize, “Which means men are going to be wearing leather cuts,
jeans, or leather chaps, drinking alcohol like it’s a sport, and showing off
their women like they are trophies at a redneck biker beauty pageant. The more
cleavage and pasted on trashy makeup the better...” I sigh. “These,” I heft up
the neatly lain clothes at all once, overflowing my arms, “are not suitable,
unless you want to be picked on and stick out like a sore thumb.”

Shoving the pile of clothes at
Marshall’s chest, he takes them from me, and I head to his closet. Inside it is
like an OCD fashion designer threw up. All of his shirts, ties, shoes, even
suits are categorized by color and then by style. Only his briefs and argyle
socks are folded in drawers. Not a white pair of socks in sight, which is the
polar opposite of what I grew up with. Most of the bikers wear white Hanes crew
socks. I think Mickey might be the only brother that I know of that strictly
wears black crew socks. Not that any of this really matters… just an
observation is all.

Honing in on his sparse jeans
section, I tug three pairs from their designated hangers and drape them over my
shoulder. Then I head over to the t-shirt area, which is also lacking in
choices, and I shuffle through them, picking four that would be the most
presentable. On the wall is a rack for shoes, and I scan the length up and down
to find anything that resembles boots. Looks like we are S.O.L. Maybe we should
go shopping before we go?

At the bottom of the shelves tucked
behind a dusty pair of pristine house slippers, I find a pair of black Chucks.
Bingo! Those will fit in nicely. Maybe not as well as say a pair of boots or
steel toed shoes, but better than a pair of polished dress shoes that cost
Marshall a few hundred dollars a pair, which will only get ruined when we’re
outside, or dancing in the clubhouse.

I exit the closet to see Marshall
packing his small suitcase with the business crap he already laid out. With a
faint grunt, I drop the clothes I have on my shoulder and in my arms onto the
bed, and bump him out of the way with my hip.

“No,” I chastise, reaching into his
suitcase and throwing all his folded clothes into a heap on the floor.

“Hey,” he whines, bending over to
pick up his shit. “I was going to wear those.”

“No, you’re not.” I shove the other
clothes into his open suitcase and toss the flap closed, leaving it unzipped
and washing my hands of this argument. “Those are what you are wearing unless
you want to be subjected to a hundred bikers picking on you. They aren’t nice.
This isn’t like high school where the bully might be an asshole, and you get to
go home and shrug it off. No, this is real life where outlaw bikers exist, as
do their colorful ways of telling you that they don’t like you.”

I’m trying to be nice, looking out
for him. Doesn’t he fucking see that?

I’d hate to scare Marshall, but I
already know it’s going to happen because he’s my boyfriend and even more so
because he’s a clean cut lawyer. Gunz and I talked about this, and he has
reassured me he would do his best to keep the tormenting down to a minimum. But
I know Jizz and Mickey, and Marshall is already screwed. And that’s assuming
Big is on his very best behavior, which is highly unlikely. I’m realistic, and
as much as I wish this was a fairytale where all my family loves my boyfriend
and gushes over him, it’s not going to be that way. I know it, and I can handle
their wrath. The real question is - can Marshall? I don’t think this man has
ever been bullied his entire life, and these men could very well make him cry,
or worse. Good thing Gunz is there as a backup because we’re going to need it.

I don’t wait for Marshall to respond
to my brash, unyielding clothing decision. I go straight to packing my own bag.
I throw in some maternity bottoms, a few oversized t-shirts, a couple dress
shirts, a dress or two, and my combat boots. I’ll be damned if these cankles
keep me from wearing my boots at least one day while I’m there.

Twenty minutes later, I am ready,
Marshall is packed, and we are rolling our bags out the front door and locking
up.

“You got everything?” I ask, slinging
my oversized purse over my shoulder with my custom gun secured inside. You can
never be too careful.

“Yup.”

We get on the elevator in silence,
and I can feel the palpable tension floating between us. Not sure if it’s the
clothes or the family wedding that is making matters so difficult. At the
bottom floor, we roll the bags out the back of the building and into the
underground parking garage where Marshall parks his BMW. He takes our luggage
and stuffs it into the trunk, as I slide into the passenger seat and pull out
my sunglasses for the ride. I’m so nervous my stomach is close to purging the
contents of this morning’s granola bar all over the black leather interior.

Marshall slams the trunk closed and
hops in. Turning the engine over, he pulls out of the garage, and I take this
as my cue to enter the compound’s address into the onboard GPS. The woman
instantly starts barking directions with her annoying as hell, monotone voice.
The traffic is mild as we navigate out of Chicago proper and into the suburbs,
where it thins out even further. On the highway we cruise, listening to soft
rock on the satellite radio. Neither of us has spoken much since the clothing
incident. Marshall seems too deep in thought, as his eyes stare at the open
road ahead of us. I can’t help but wonder if he’s as nervous about this as I
am.

Thirty miles from our destination,
Marshall reaches across the center console, threading his fingers through mine.
“It’s going to be alright,” he squeezes my hand reassuringly.

“I sure hope so,” I sigh, tilting my
head back against the headrest. I can’t believe we are doing this.

“Stop at the gate,” I order, sitting
up in the seat and unbuckling my seatbelt. My feet have been bouncing in
anticipation for the last ten miles. I can’t believe we are here!

Oh my god, oh my god, what was I
thinking? This is fucking crazy!

Marshall stops the BMW at the closed
wrought iron gate and rolls down his window. White Boy is manning the
bulletproof guard station on the other side.

“Sorry, but I think you’re at the
wrong place, man,” White Boy explains through the silver intercom speaker that
is on a post outside of Marshall’s car window.

“No sir, we’re here for the Cummings
wedding,” Marshall speaks dignified, and I can’t help it, I roll my eyes. He
has got a lot to learn.

White Boy laughs, “Naw, Man, you are
definitely at the wrong place. Ain’t no Cummings wedding here. Move along.”

I lean over the console. I know White
Boy can’t see me because Marshall’s windows are tinted too dark or he would
have already buzzed us through. Time to pull out the big guns.

“Listen you little shit, my fuckin’
brother is getting hitched, and I gotta pee. Now open this damn gate before I
sick Gunz on you for making me wait,” I lightheartedly scold the prospect and
finish with a chuckle so he knows I’m not actually angry.

“Oh fuck, Bink, is that you? Sorry,
babe,” he rattles off, and the gate magically opens.

“See, that’s how you get shit done
‘round here,” I smugly explain to Marshall, and all he can seem to do is gape
at me. “What?” I shrug.

Driving through the gate, we stop by the
guard station, as White Boy waves us down and steps up to Marshall’s window.
Bending at the waist to peer inside, his grimace at the sight of Marshall is to
be expected.

He ignores him completely, deciding
to address me firsthand. “Hey, Bink. Listen, I’m sorry, didn’t know you’d be in
this thing,” he taps the windowsill of the BMW. “We cool? I don’t want Big or
Gunz killin’ me for this shit. I already fucked up once last week.”

I perk up a brow. “What’d ya do?” I
tease with a big smile.

White Boy’s pale face flushes bright red. Oh, this is
going to be good. “There was a new club whore.” Marshall deliberately clears
his throat, noticeably uncomfortable with those words. White Boy flashes
Marshall a disgusted look and keeps on talking, “who I’m sweet on, and I was
watchin’ Pretzel for Prez.”

“Who’s Pretzel?” Marshall rudely interrupts, and I
frown at him. Two hits of disrespect in less than five minutes. It’s going to
be a long ass day.

“He’s Bink’s pit,” White Boy snaps, refusing to make
eye contact with Marshall, and he continues. “So yeah, I kind of used him as
bait to get this new chick to fuck me. Told her he was my pup. Prez found out
and laid into me good.”