MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) (11 page)

Exhaling a hard breath from my mouth,
I shake my head once more to clear it. I can’t be thinking about any of this. I
made the choice, I put myself in this position, I made my bed, and now I am
lying in it, fat belly, cankles, and all. Even if I can’t get this damn knot in
my chest to go away, I will survive. Horniness is just a mental state with a
physical repercussion. I can do this.

Clicking up a file on the computer, I
get back to my job. It’s time to drown myself in work, and forget about the
rest of my life. Wish me luck.

The door to the elevator pings opens
to Marshall’s fifth floor apartment. I’m running late to get home. There was an
accident, which delayed traffic, and my phone died. Needless to say, my
afternoon has been filled with shit, shit, and more shit.

Walking up to our white apartment
door, I can already smell the fragrant aroma of garlic, and I know Marshall’s
made us dinner. I pray he’s not pissed that I’m three hours late. Unlocking the
door with my key, I push the door open, and my eyes go wide. The entire
apartment is littered with ivory candles in all shapes and sizes. Bright red
roses are set on nearly every surface, and the smell of garlic dancing with the
scents of unscented burning candles and roses fill my nose, as the sounds of
Kenny G play in the background.

What the hell is this man up to?

I set my bag by the marble entry way
and slip off my black flats. Since the cankles have arrived, I’ve had to give
up the combat boots for a while. It really sucks because I miss them terribly.
After Gunz made his rough introduction, I have worn whatever I wanted to work.
No longer having to keep up appearances for Marshall. If I step out the front
door in a pair of holey jeans and a Metallica t-shirt, he looks at me no
differently than if I was wearing a designer blouse.
This
has made me like him even more.

“Honey, I’m home,” I call into our
spacious apartment. It’s a nice place, a little too contemporary minimalistic
for my tastes. However, it’s not my place to nitpick.

“In the kitchen,” he yells, and I
follow the smells and his voice to the island. Standing in the modern, black
cupboard kitchen wearing a pair of gray, loose knit bottoms and a white linen
shirt untucked with the sleeves rolled up his forearms is my Marshall slaving
away at the stove, whistling. Now I am seriously wondering if I have wandered
into the twilight zone. Cooking is one thing… but… I glance around the corner…
dear God the man is barefoot. Is there anything sexier than a hot older man,
barefoot, cooking you dinner? Ummm… well maybe… but this is such a turn on.
Mental turn on….thought I might need to clarify. Considering the wind can blow
just right, and I am physically ready to fuck for twelve hours straight.

Pulling out a high back stool, I hike
up my leg and slide on, my hand strangely cradles my baby bump the entire way.
It’s odd how you naturally do those simple involuntary actions.

Turning from the stove, spaghetti
fork prongy thingy in his hand, he smiles at me, with his butterscotch eyes
glistening with love.

“Here,” Marshall places a wine glass
full of an amber liquid in front of me. “It’s sparkling apple cider,” he
announces.

“Thanks,” I take a sip, enjoying the
bubbles and bright flavor, bursting over my taste buds. It feels like forever
since I’ve drank anything other than water. “What’s the occasion?”

Without speaking, Marshall fast walks
to the side of the kitchen and retrieves a white envelope from the counter.
Walking back, he drops it in front of me and leans back against the kitchen
counter, loosely crossing his arms across his chest, in a relaxed
non-threatening way.

Suspiciously, I pick up the envelope.
It has been opened, and on the front it’s addressed to both Marshall and me.

I retract the navy blue invitation
from inside the envelope, and it reads:

Rev up your engines and ride over to witness the wedding of
Brock ‘Brew’ Cummings and Dixie Luanne East. On…..

My eyes get huge, centering in on the
date. “It’s in two weeks!” I screech. “My brother is getting married to Dixie
in two weeks? Since when are he and Dixie even an item? Holy shit, my brother
is getting married in two weeks!” I squawk to myself.

“I already called into work, taking
that Friday off so we can make a long weekend of it.”

Huh?

I glance up, bug eyed, and pin
Marshall, wondering what the hell he is meaning.
Make a long weekend of what?
Who in the fuck said I was
going? And who in the hell said he was going with me if I did go? Oh… this day
just got worse….much, much, worse….This can’t be happening!

I blatantly ignore Marshall’s stupid
assumption, climb off the stool, and sprint barefoot to my purse sitting on the
table in the entry. Yanking out my phone, I hit text.

Me to Brew: What the fuck? I just get
an invite to your wedding! That is in two weeks?! And to Dixie the club whore?
What the hell?!

Carrying my phone back into the
kitchen, I sit back down at the island. Marshall hasn’t moved.

“I know it’s a bit rushed, but we can
still go.”

Aggressively, I raise my hand,
showing him my palm. A silent gesture for him to shut up. Got to cover all of
my bases first. This is some stupid shit!

Brew: Yeah… sorry… everyone’s invites
got sent out at the same time. It’s kind of a last minute thing.

How in the hell can you decide to get
married on a whim? Last minute? Uh!!! Is he insane?

Me: What? When did you become an item
or claim her? Nobody told me that.

Brew: She’s knocked up with my kid,
just found out. Decided I wanted to make an honest woman out of her.

What???!!

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I
grumble, furiously pounding away at my screen.

Me: This isn’t the 1920’s. You don’t
have to marry her just because you implanted her with your seed.

Brew: What the fuck? I am your
brother, and she’s gonna be my wife. Show a little respect. I know it’s old
fashioned, but I’ve liked her for a long time. She’ll make a good old lady.

Liked her? Since when do you get
married because you
like
someone?
Don’t get me wrong, I like Dixie, she’s a nice woman. Now to go off and get
knocked up by my brother…Shit, the dumbass probably did this intentionally.
I’ve got to talk to someone. I can’t take this. This is crazy!

Pulling up contacts, I click send on
the first person I would normally call for advice or insight.

“Hey, Baby Doll,” Gunz answers on the
third ring, sounding rather happy.

“Hey… so I’m going to cut to the
chase,” I advise.

“Do you really have to warn me? I
mean—”

“Get off the phone.” Someone, or
should I say
, Big
, yells in the
background.

“Ah… Shut it, old man!” Gunz yells
back.

“We’re in church. Hang up the fuckin’
phone,” Big chastises.

“Hey, I can—” I start.

Gunz cuts me off, “Don’t you dare say
let me go.”

“Get off the fucking phone!” Big is
beyond pissed.

“Fuck, Prez, it’s Bink, she called
me, and I am gonna talk to her. So shut it, brother,” Gunz snaps back at his
president, and then I hear a whole new argument ensue.

“Let me talk to her,” Big demands.

“No, she called to talk to
Gunz
, not
Big
Dick
,” he articulates with his rough, no nonsense edge. “If she
wants to talk to you, she knows your number.” I can picture Gunz sitting there
in church shaking his head in exasperation at Big, who’s sitting at the head of
the oval table, wearing that sexy leather cut of his that fits him like a glove
. Mmmmm…
Oh
shit, I gotta stop thinking about him.

“Ok,” I purposely huff into the phone.
“I just got an invitation to Brew’s wedding. Care to tell me what the hell that
is all about?”

The sound of a hand covering the
receiver scratches in my ear, as even more arguing plays out. So much for
calling to get answers. I wait impatiently, tapping my foot on the stool,
ignoring Marshall as I listen to Big exchange heated curses with Gunz.

He comes back a few minutes later.
“Sorry ‘bout that.”

Can’t control my impulse, so I let go
and roll my eyes. “Control freak at his finest.”

“Yup, that’s him, and he’s been even
more of an ass the past couple‘a days. Anyhow, back to Brew. Yeah, he’s gettin’
married to Dixie…knocked her up, but they’ve been spendin’ a lot of time
together since he got back in September. I think it’s been headin’ in this direction
for a while now. The baby thing just tips the scales enough to make ‘em do what
we all know they’ve been thinkin’ about.”

“Why do they have to get married so
quickly?”

“Fuck if I know. Your brother is my
brother, and neither of us understand that dumbass half the time. He wants her,
she wants him, and he’s been helpin’ plan the whole damn thing. We all like
Dixie ‘round here, so it’s cool that she’s joinin’ the sisterhood with you all.
Not a bad choice in an old lady.”

“Guess that means you got another
grandbaby on the way then.”

“I do? I got another kid you know
about?” he playfully cracks.

“Brew’s my brother, and Dixie’s
pushing out a baby. Makes sense.”

Gunz barks a grumbly laugh, “That
ain’t my grandbaby.”

Now I’m confused.

“What?”

“Just ‘cause Brew is your brother,
he’s also my brother in arms. But his baby ain’t no grandbaby to me. Sure, the
baby’s family and all, but I didn’t raise Brew or Jizz like I did you, Kid. The
only grandbabies I am ever going to have are the ones you pop out. You gotta
name picked out yet?”

How does one phone call go from my
brother getting hitched to my daughter? I swear I wish things were less
complicated. As for the name, I do have one I’ve been playing with, but I am
not about to tell anybody except maybe you. Harley Cummings or Harley Darcy
will be her name. I know it’s unique and pretty hardcore. I like it though.
Suits her. She feels like a Harley, and I will keep that surprise name
hush-hush until she comes barreling out of my cooch in a few months. So zip it,
will ya?

Gunz and I carry on for a few more
minutes, as my nerves begin to settle, and I’m left with basically the same
understanding of my brother’s stupidity that I had before I made the call. As I
hang up the phone and lay it on the counter, it vibrates.

Gunz: Baby picture, please.

My heart swells. He’s such a sweet
grandpa.

I lift my black t-shirt over my bump
and aim the camera to snap the billionth photo I’ve sent to him the past few
weeks of his newest pride and joy.

Clicking send, I push my shirt back
over my bump and turn my attention back to Marshall.

“So…. now that you’ve got that out of
the way. Can we eat dinner and talk about our upcoming visit to see your
family?” I can tell Marshall is trying to be smooth and calm about it all.
Probably did the whole candle and flowers thing as a way of buttering me up to
soften the blow. Nice gesture, sorely mistaken on what kind of girl I am
though. Not much for romance or hearts and flowers sorta shit. It ain’t my thing.

The question is how do I handle him?
Do I do the normal Bink thing and be a bitch, calling it how I see it? Or do I
take the respectable, less invasive stance and have a mature conversation about
this where we talk it out without cussing, or passing judgment? That’s a hard
one. The former is typically how I handle most things. Who woulda thought at
thirty I’d be maturing even further? Not me.

“Dinner, yes, it smells wonderful,” I
praise with a smile, and tilt my head up sniffing the air. “We can talk after.”

Marshall nods without complaint and
returns to cooking, whistling away. I sip on my cider, mulling over a hundred
different feelings at once. If I do take Marshall with me to my families, what
will that mean? How will they react to an outsider that is so different than
them? I could bring Deke as my plus one, and nobody would throw a fit about
that. Although my daddy and Lindy Sue would probably get off on me bringing
Marshall along, he would be a fine specimen of man to throw the brothers for a
loop, if Gunz hasn’t already filled in the blanks for them already. The
pregnancy thing is going to be enough to cause a mild uproar. Adding Marshall
to the mix might even soften the blow. They’ll ask less questions, if they
think my daughter is his. And they will have two aspects to my new life instead
of one. It’s not like I can get out of going to my older brother’s wedding.

Hmm….That makes me wonder.

Watching Marshall stirring a pot over
the stove, I text Gunz again to find more answers.

Me: Are my biological sisters coming
to the wedding?

Gunz: I don’t know. I think they were
invited. Dunno if they’ll show up.

Me: I don’t want them to show up.
It’s going to be bad enough handling the family with this pregnancy thing,
Marshall, my mother, and if they come…