MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) (15 page)

“So Deke, you think you could re-cover and customize
my La Pera Silhouette Seat?” Jizz asks.

“What do you ride - a Fatboy?” Deke inquires.

Jizz nods, flicking a piece of his long blonde hair
out of his face, and taking a sip of his Bud. “Yup, it’s a 2011, custom S.S.
paintjob, matte black, chrome, and sleek as fuck.”

I’m too engrossed in listening to them shop talk that
I don’t see Viper when he joins our group and shoves a paper plate of food to
my chest. “Here. Eat,” he orders, stepping up next to me. I accept the plate
with a closed mouth smile and a thanks. A cookie that resembles the ones that I
bake is set next to a delectable brownie.

“What is this?” I point to the cookie.

“It’s a chocolate chip cookie, Bink. It’s edible, and
I just ate three, so I’d say they are pretty good too,” Viper teases.

I roll my eyes at his sarcasm. “That’s not what I
meant. Who made ‘em?”

“Marylou.”

My body jerks stiff as a board, and my eyes squeeze
shut from the sudden pain. I drop the plate. The shredded chicken sandwich,
cheese chunks, that horrific cookie, and carrots scatter across the floor.

Gunz must see my reaction because a
moment later he has his arms around me, carefully guiding me from the room into
the kitchen. I wince as an unexpected flood of memories unfurl when I step
inside. How many times have I cooked in here? She made chocolate chip cookies
for my brother’s pre-wedding party. Marylou, Big’s woman, made them. I feel
gutted; my heart’s twisting into wretched agony.

Gunz doesn’t say a word as he guides
me to a stainless stool. Kicking it out from under the island with his boot and
pushing me down onto it, he kneels in front of me, holds my hands, and looks up
at my face.

I whimper, biting my bottom lip, my chin rests on my
chest, as tears well in my eyes. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

“Just breathe,” he gently whispers, and I comply.
Inhale slowly, exhale slowly, inhale slowly…. Oh dear god! She makes cookies! A
fat tear drops down my cheek, and Gunz swipes it away with his thumb.

“Talk to me, Baby Doll,” Gunz squeezes my hands with
reassuring love.

The sound of a woman cheerfully laughing outside the
door blares into my ears as the door to the kitchen swings open. I don’t look
up. I wallow in my own pity and release one of Gunz’s hands to rub my daughter.
This helps me gather some reassurance to center myself. My daughter does that
for me. The bond she and I share is beyond a words measure. I love her more
than anything in this world, and she’s all that matters.

“Is she alright?” the female asks.

“Yeah, she’s gonna be,” Gunz replies.

“Can I help?” the woman sounds worried, which is sweet
of her.

I look up to give my thanks. Instead I’m stunned with
grief as I take in her form. It’s Marylou, Big’s woman. Fuck, she’s gorgeous!
Short hair like Pixie’s, green-blue eyes, large breasts, not quite the size of
mine, but more than a handful. She’s wearing a pair of skinny jeans, a Marilyn
Monroe off-the-shoulder top, and black hooker heels. A biker’s wet dream—
Big’s
dream.

“Hey, babe.” The door swings open again and in strolls
a happy, smiling Big. His eyes land on a kneeling Gunz, and then shift to me.
He frowns and grimaces, like he’s just been smacked in the face with a mallet.

“Um, babe,” he grabs his woman’s waist, curling her
against him. I look away because I can’t bear to see him touching her, showing
her that much affection. I know I have no right to feel this way. None. But it
doesn’t mean I can control it. It is what it is. I am a big girl, and I will
get past this. I knew it was going to be hard, but I didn’t know it was going
to be
this
hard. My heart is
ripping apart as we speak.
God, it hurts!

“She’s not okay,” Mary’s voice is sweet. “We need to
make sure she’s alright. She’s pregnant, Big.”

Oh come on Marylou, you’re making it harder. Please
leave, and let Gunz care for me. Shit, let me deal on my own for cryin’ out
loud. These hormones will eventually level themselves out.

Gunz clears his throat, “I’ve got our girl, Prez. No
worries.”

The word
our
steals my breath. I
used
to be
their girl. Not anymore. Not since I walked away.

Big grumbles something menacing under
this breath. “Come on, Mary. You can come in here later,” he sternly orders his
woman.

“Oh, okay, sweetheart,” she gushes,
and my stomach rolls. Yes, I am going to puke.

Jumping off the stool, I sprint to
the nearest trashcan, shove my head inside, and painfully dry heave, cough, and
dry heave again. Gripping my fingers over the lip of the oversized barrel, my
lips quiver, as sweat beads on my forehead. I groan when another dry heave
wracks my system. My daughter kicks her mommy.

Not now, Harley.

“Darling,” Marshall’s alarmed tone
echoes in the kitchen. Then his warm hand meets my back, rubbing it in small
soothing circles. My shoulders relax, and his hand combs through my hair.
“Breathe, Darling.”

I breathe arduously, embarrassed and
ashamed for being so weak. Pushing myself up using the sides of the barrel, I
turn around to see I have an entire audience of worried family. All of my
Sacred Sisters, Big, Marshall, Gunz, Viper, and Mary are all standing in the
kitchen watching me. Great, this is just great. Nothing like dry heaving in
front of a fucking group of nosy people.

Marshall continuously rubs my back,
as I swipe the tears from eyes and wipe them on my pants. Then I run my fingers
through my wild hair. I am sure I look like hell.

“You okay?” Candy Cane is the first
to ask, with her arms loosely crossed over her chest.

Strolling over to the sink, I turn on
the faucet and vigorously scrub my hands with soap to make the germs of the
trashcan disappear. And maybe, just maybe, wash some of these unwelcomed
feelings away too. Drying my hands with a towel, I wipe off my mouth and toss
it in the garbage.

“I’m fine, nothing to see here.” I
wave them off. They don’t budge. Not even Big or Mary. The worried tension in
the air is so thick it could be cut with a dull spoon. I flicker a pleading
gaze to Gunz for help, and try to ignore the pink elephant in the room, or more
accurately, the giant man who can’t stop staring at me. I can feel his eyes
burning a hole through me from across room, even though I refuse to acknowledge
it directly. This is not the time or the place to make a scene. Sometimes I
hate those eyes; they are so intense and all-knowing… it’s eerie.

As if on cue or a gift from God, a
song I love blasts over the speakers. It’s as good of time as ever to get out
of here. I point to Gunz, then give him the ‘come-hither’ finger. “Time to
dance, grandpa.” I fake a cheery grin.

“Alright, let’s show these fools how
it’s done.” He must be stressed too, because as soon as he offers his arm to
me, I link mine through, and he yanks a sucker from his cut, popping it into
his mouth. “You want one?” he asks, gesturing to his.

“No thanks.”

Big and Mary shuffle to the side
allowing us to pass, as Gunz escorts me through the swinging kitchen door and
into the crowded bar. He guides me over to the small dance floor by the
refurbished jukebox he rewired, and spruced up for times just like this.

“Come ‘ere,” Gunz waves me forward,
assuming the two-step position. Aligning my body with his, we fall in sync, my
right hand in his, my left hand on his shoulder blade. It’s as simple as
breathing as Gunz leads me around the floor, to the beat of
Take it Easy;
by the Eagles. People slide
out of the way as he leads, like we’ve been doing this for years. In reality,
we have been.

“You ready?” he winks.

I nod firmly, “Bring it on… work this
pregnant lady out.”

Twirling me in a single spin, without
missing a step, he transitions me into a quick two spin. At the corner, he
moves us so he’s now two stepping backward, until the next corner where he evens
us back out. I laugh, light as air on my feet. I’ve forgotten how much I love
to dance with Gunz.

“You want to, sweetheart?” he asks.

“Of course!” Like that’s a question
he really needs to ask.

Gunz whirls me around, my hip to his,
as we two-step beside one another. Then he quickly returns me back to regular
stance. My thumb hooks back into his armpit, holding dance frame.

“You’re still my best dance partner,”
he compliments. I blush, and he spins me two more times, giving my stomach that
fun thrill. This is the perfect way to take my mind off Big and the kitchen
fiasco.

The song finishes, and we part, me
curtsying to him and he bows. The club hoots and hollers at our performance,
whistling and acting like a bunch of drunken imbeciles. I know I’ve said this
already, but it’s great to be home.

I kiss Gunz on the cheek and thank
him for the dance before I join my Sacred Sisters who are standing all giddy at
the edge of the dance floor, clapping.

“That was awesome! Where’d you learn
to dance like that?!” Jezebel eagerly inquires, the kitchen episode a thing of
the past.

Out of breath, I hold my chest to
catch it and raise my finger for her to wait a moment. “Gunz…,”
breath
, “and Big,”
breath
, “taught me how to dance as a,”
breath
, “kid.”

“If you think they’re good, you
should see Big and Bink,” Debbie explains. I scowl at her for mentioning his
name, and she flashes me a cocky know-it-all smile. Bitch. “They do this
country swing dance. It’s almost scary to watch.”

Like I’ve mentioned before, they
taught me to dance. At first, it was basic slow dancing. I was eager to learn
more, so we watched these VCR tapes on how to line dance, two-step, swing, and
all sorts of cool dances and tricks. Because I needed a partner to practice all
these dances with, I coerced Big, Gunz, and occasionally daddy to be my guinea
pigs. Over the years, we accomplished quite a bit, and that’s when we ended up
teaching my brothers too. My sisters were too prissy to hang at the clubhouse,
so they never learned. Stupid bitches.

We stand and chat a few more minutes
about dancing. I glance around my friends and try to spot Marshall, but he’s
nowhere to be found.

“Hey guys, where’s my boyfriend?” I
ask, lifting to my tippy toes, trying to see over the crowd.
Nothing.

“Mickey pulled him to the side when
we came back from the kitchen. Said he wanted to have a drink with him.” Candy
Cane explains, and my eyes nearly bug out of my head.

“What!?” I screech. “You left him
with Mickey? Why… why would you do that?”

They all shrug simultaneously,
looking at each other for an answer. “It seemed harmless. It’s just Mickey,”
Debbie innocently explains.

Anxiously scrubbing my face with my
hands, I peer around and spot Gunz and Tripper off to the side talking to a
bunch of out of town bikers. Waving my hands in the air, I catch Tripper’s
attention first, and he nudges Gunz. I wave them over.

Patting the bikers on the shoulder,
they turn and head our way. “What’s up?” Tripper asks, throwing his arm over
Candy Cane’s shoulder and kissing her hair.

“Um… we have a problem. These here,
dumb bunnies,” I thumb point to my friends, “left my boyfriend with Mickey.”

“Fuck,” Gunz grunts. “Let’s go find
him.”

Gunz parts the sea of leather as we
navigate through the throng of bikers. My finger slips into the back belt loop
of his jeans so I don’t get lost in the crowd. Jezebel and Pixie have decided
to join our quest. Headed toward the bar, Gunz suddenly stops and shakes his
head with a curse. I glance around him to see Marshall, head down on the bar
top like he’s asleep with two shot glasses next to him.
Motherfucker!
I am going to kill Mickey.

Gunz grabs the shot glasses as I
smack Marshall’s face, trying to wake the man up.
Nothing
. He’s out cold. At least his breathing is steady.

Stupid… stupid… stupid…Mickey!

“What’s wrong with him?” Pixie asks,
full of concern.

I look over my shoulder at her and
Jezebel standing back; they are close enough we can shout over the blaring
music.

“He was drugged,” Gunz answers for
me, examining the residue on the bottom of the near empty shot glass.

“How?” Jezebel asks. Apparently
nobody has informed those two how Mickey got his name.

“You know Mickey?” They bob their
heads in unison. “You know how Mickey got his name?”

They shake their heads at the same
time, oblivious.

“Mickey
micks
,
also
known as drugs
,
women, so he can
sleep with them.” I leave out the tying down and anal raping, that’s a bit too
much for a simple bar conversation.

“Why? He’s good looking.” Pixie
explains, and she’s not wrong there. The reason why, is none of their business;
all that matters is what is.

I shrug off her question, “Doesn’t matter. But that’s
the only way he fucks. Guess he wasn’t real fond of me bringing Marshall. I
knew he wouldn’t be. Guess this was his own retaliation,” I point to Marshall
slumped on the bar, dead to the world.
Shit.

Turning around, I catch Gunz yelling into his phone.
“Get your fuckin’ ass here now, or I am pullin’ Steel and Big in on this shit, and
you’re fucked.”

Mickey
.
Dumbass!