The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 1 (MC Chronicles #1) (16 page)

The last voice rings out and the front doors instantly
bolt, locking into place. Only to be opened by a special key. Next, a thin
layer of metal shutters descends over the bullet-proof windows, bolting secure.

I glance across the expanse of the clubhouse. The
brothers are visibly ready for action, to take on the world, to protect what is
ours, just like they are supposed to. One of the many reasons I am proud to
call them my family. Debbie’s hand reaches out to hold mine, her other secured
in Dallas’s. We lock eyes for a moment, a silent passing of information. It’s
time for me to play my part. It’s time for me to stand front and center, the
pillar of strength and wisdom among the old ladies.

The door to the hall crashes open, and the women jump,
frightened. There stands a monstrous Big. Brothers don’t hesitate to leave the
comfort of their women with a kiss on the cheek or lips and join ranks behind
their stalwart president. Gunz, his equal, stands to his left.

“We are under lock down, until further notice,” Big
booms gruffly, shattering the club’s eerie silence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a topless whore
scurrying toward Big. I snap into action, hauling my drunken ass off the stool
and grabbing hold of her wrist. She immediately tries to yank it away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I chastise, tightening
my grip, and she winces.

“I—I—oh—Big…” She ignores me completely, her hazel
eyes pasted to him.

This is not happening, not when I’m around. I am in
charge.

Without thought, I slap her cheek. Not enough to hurt,
but enough to alert her obsessive self, to snap out of this haze and
acknowledge that I’m fuckin’ talkin’ to her.

It works! She steps forward in challenge, and I press
my free hand between her exposed breasts.

“Don’t,” I warn, and something apparently clicks. Once
her eyes go wide in realization, she disengages.

“Big—” she starts again. I feel him close in. The heat
of his body is intimately crowding my space. I don’t have to look to know he’s
here. I feel him. I smell him. It’s like a sixth sense. All of my nerve endings
spark to life. In hushed tones, he converses with the brothers, not addressing
the disrespectful whore, who’s huffing in frustration an arm’s length from us.

“Bi—” she starts.

“No,” I brashly cut her off, lightly shoving at her
chest. “We are on lockdown, you do not have the privilege of addressing the
President himself. What do you need?” I know I sound like a complete bitch, but
I don’t give a shit.

“But, I slept with him before. He should spe—”

I step forward, crowding her space, getting right in
her stupid face, my breasts pressed against her uncovered ones.

“I don’t care if you’ve fucked him. Most of the whores
here have fucked Big Dick. You are not some special piece of ass to him. If you
were, he wouldn’t be standing at my back. He would be holding you, and being a
man who takes care of his woman. You are not his old lady. You will respect me.
You will speak your business then you will… Back. The. Fuck. Off. Ya got me?
Because little girl, I will kick your ass, if you piss me off again,” I seethe
in a harsh whisper, allowing my venom to permeate the air between us. She best
take my advice.

“My son,” she takes a step back, “he’s with my mom. I
can’t stay for this lockdown.”

I nod, my understanding and release her wrist.

Raising my hands into the air to attract attention, I
loudly explain, “Those of you who wish to leave will be afforded safe passage.
But realize that once you are beyond these walls, we offer no further
protection. And you will not be allowed back until the lockdown is over.”

The whore sighs in relief, her shoulders relaxing. And
I search the room for Dixie, the club whores’ unofficial den mother, boss lady,
whatever you want to call her. Pinning her with a sharp gaze, I candidly point
to the disrespectful whore.

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Dixie mouths, and I curtly nod
my thanks, mouthing ‘Good’ in return.

Spinning around on my heel, I come face-to-face with a
massive wall of powerful, sexy, man. I guess he really was standing as close as
I thought.

“Big,” I whisper.

Engrossed in club talk, Big holds up a finger, telling
me to wait a moment. Then that same hand snakes out and wraps around the back
of my neck, tugging me to him. Trying to be respectful of club business being
discussed out in the open, I take this time to listen to the dominant pounding
of Big’s sturdy heart.

Minutes tick by, and I fall into a trance listening to
Big’s lub-lub. Another warm arm curls around me, snapping me from my fog.

“Hey,” Big finally speaks to me, way calmer than I
ever expected.

“Hey.” I glance up, resting my chin on his chest, my
eyes locking into his intense ones. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”

I know asking him is going to warrant me a nasty
response that’ll go something like, ‘
It’s
club business. Be a good little girl and let the boys handle this.’
Oh, yeah, I know Big like the back of my hand. Sexiest control freak of the
year, but still the same man I’ve known forever. Can’t blame a girl for trying
though.

“Prez…” Runner skittishly interrupts.

Saved by the dipshit.

Big connects eyes with his fellow brother. Well, one
eye. Runner’s other one is still swollen shut.

“Water under the bridge, brother,” Big huskily states,
and Runner exhales in relief, loosening up. Evidently he was concerned about
their brawl that went down this morning. Not that I blame him, it wasn’t his
finest moment.

“Go help Dallas with the K-9’s.”

Runner pats his President on the shoulder, an
affirmation of appreciation and jogs into the hall. Big turns his full
attention back to me and genuinely smiles. “I can’t tell you now. Not until I
know more.”

What? What did he just say?

I crinkle my nose at this, my brows furrowing with age
lines. This is way beyond puzzling.

He grins, adorable single dimple and all. “What?”

“You’re—you’re actually…” I shake my head. “Actually
going to tell me?”

That warrants me a full on mocking laugh, fine creases
by his eyes smiling and bright humor sparked irises…the whole shebang.

What a ridiculing asshole!

“Yes,” he blurts, his laughter smoldering to a grumble
rumbling in his chest.

“Okay, so what do you want me to do? Families stay
here? Or in their houses? Do I need to arm the women? Pull out the cots? Head
for the cellar?” I rattle off everything in a single breath, getting down to
business. No more horsing around.

Big smirks, both of his hands cupping my hips. I can’t
figure out why, but this man has some kind of hip fetish.

“You’re something else.” He shakes his amused head,
tone light. Under the circumstances, I am shocked by it, along with the way
he’s been acting. We are supposed to on lockdown. Although in the past five
minutes, you’d swear it’s just another Sunday. Minus the hip holding. This is
sort of new.

“What?”

“You’re good at this.”

A flash of confusion washes over my features. “Huh?”

“You’re a fuckin’ amazin’ club queen.”

“I—”

“And,” he speaks over me. “Houses are acceptable.
Whores in the clubhouse, ladies shackin’ up for support in the houses. You and
the two new old ladies at my house, in the basement; it’s furnished and it’s
safer than the clubhouse. You’re in charge of the estates. I’ll cover the rest.
Oh…and,” he licks his dry lips, “Axel, Bulk, or I will be takin’ a rotation in
guarding the house.”

“Are the other brothers on guard duty for the other
old ladies?”

“No.” He’s firm. Unrelenting.

“Then what about Debbie and Candy Cane?” I know I
should probably be worried about the other group of old ladies present, but
they are not sisters. They are outsiders, and like I said, I’m kind of a
stickler for my close-knit family. That may sound like I’m a bitch. So be it.

“What about ‘em?” he asks nonchalantly.

“
Hell-O
,
they’re old ladies too. And my friends. It makes sense to protect us all, if
we’re in that much danger to need guard duty.” I throw out my attitude in
spades.

“Bink.” Big runs the back of his knuckle across my
cheek and down to my chin, where he holds it sweetly between his thumb and
forefinger. I swallow hard when he bends down. His warm, minty breath wafts
sensuously over my skin, flaring tiny goose flesh in its enticing wake.

“You are my only priority. Not Candy. Not Deb. Not
Jezebel and not Pixie. I only offered the other two so you’d have some company,
and they’ve yet to get a house. But if you’d rather all of ‘em stay, then
they’ll stay. If that’s what
you
want. But Debbie’s kids will be taggin’ along, yeah?”

Why is he being so nice and strangely accommodating?

A jolt to my inebriated memory has me forgetting my
manners.

“Not Lindy Sue,” I blurt. I don’t care if we are on
lockdown or not. I’m not staying with my mother. No way, no fucking how.

Big cocks a partial grin. “Not a problem, Sugar Tits.
The cunt ain’t even here. She’s vistin’ your sisters.”

Good to know. Dodged that bullet.

We speak for a few more moments tidying up any loose
ends. When we’re finished, I have my duties laid out.

Big jams a hand into his jeans pocket. “Here.” He
places the suspiciously pink and black zebra printed key into my outstretched
palm. “It’s to my house.”

“Thanks.” I wrap my hand around the cool metal.
“But…um…why is it pink?” I have to ask.

“It just is… See ya, be careful, and call if you need
anything,” Big sweetly says, kissing my forehead and quickly strolling back
into the hall, headed toward his office.

This is going to be a long night.

“Home sweet home,” I attempt to sound enthusiastic to
the group of Sacred Sisters behind me, luggage clutched in their hands. We’re
standing on Big’s wraparound front porch, which is complete with a swing, two
wooden whitewash rockers, and empty Bud bottles. Definitely a man’s house.

Unlocking the front door and pushing it open, it
breaks the seal with a whoosh of air, and the pleasant aroma of cedar, leather,
and fresh outdoors blasts us hard in the face.

“Hot damn,” Jezebel blurts, crossing the threshold
into Big’s house. I’ve only ever been inside a handful of times in my adult life.
The last time was probably on my twenty-first birthday.

Inside, I’m the last to enter, and I make sure I bolt
the door before I join the ‘Oooo’s and Ahh’s’ coming from the living room.

“Holy fuckin’ shit!” I exclaim, entering into a man’s
paradise.

The living room is a great room with vaulted ceilings.
It’s attached to a modern kitchen and dining room. It’s like a masculine mesh
of outdoorsman meets classy biker meets romance novel.

The couches are a black buttery leather; yes, there
are two. They both face a stone, gas-burning fireplace. Black bookshelves line
one wall, bursting at the seams with books. I realize most people think a biker
and books don’t typically go hand-in-hand; however, those don’t surprise me one
bit.

The kitchen cupboards are a smooth cedar with
spectacular, truly awe-inspiring, black, brown, and golden granite countertops,
complete with matching island. A state-of-the-art double wall oven and six
burner gas stovetop wrap together the whole, I’ve-died-and-gone-to-heaven
cooking package. Even the dining room is magnificent from the rustic chandelier
to the long, thick, solid walnut table that seats ten.

Each of us wanders the single story ranch at our own
leisurely pace. Not that I’ve forgotten we are on lockdown, but for a moment I
feel transported into my dream home, complete with three bedrooms, attached en suite
baths, and a tiny sunroom off of the kitchen that overlooks a well-maintained
flower garden.

How did I never
know about this?
I’ve been asking myself repeatedly, drinking
in my new surroundings.

Once we’ve all sort of gathered our composure and
washed away the initial shock, we meet back in the living room.

“He said we’re to stay in the basement for safety
reasons.” I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m following strict orders.

Grumbles and whines are light but ever present with
this newfound knowledge. Walking into the hall, I open the basement door, and
the women and the two boys ascend the stairs behind me, luggage in hand. At the
bottom, we are greeted by a massive steel door. I turn the knob. It’s unlocked.
One forceful shove swings the door wide.

My eyes nearly bug out of my head, and the ladies
behind me gasp at the sight. The basement is gorgeous. Possibly even more so
than the upstairs. It’s dimly lit, almost romantic, as can lights illuminate us
from above, casting whimsical shadows upon the walls; that could only be
described as a deep blood red color.