MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) (18 page)

Dabbing a bit more concealer under my puffy, cried out
eyes, I massage it into my skin, and, voila, I am complete. Hair’s slightly
curled, in a messy, fuck-me way. I opted for smoky eyes and red lipstick. I’m
going for a biker meets pinup look. Not quite there with this belly and all,
but it’ll have to do.

Opening the bathroom door, I come face to face with a
smiling Debbie, Jezebel, and Pixie, all dressed to kill.

“Candy Cane has Marshall,” Pixie explains, looking
mighty sexy in her retro blue halter dress and matte black fuck-me heels. Now,
she’s the epitome of a tiny pinup model, tattoos and all.

“You all look so beautiful,” I compliment, surveying
Jezebel in her black, modest pant suit. Well it would be considered modest, if
her boobs weren’t heaving out of the top of the blood red corset that’s under
her suit jacket. Debbie went biker classic, with a simple black halter dress
and spiked black heels. They all look fucking awesome.

“So do you, hot stuff,” Jezebel whistles.

I blush and spin around, with my
dress flaring.

“Well, thank ya.” I stop and curtsy, acting all prim
and proper and shit.

Debbie heads for the door. “Let’s do this thing,” she
says, taking the words right outta my mouth.

Pixie feeds her arm through mine, and
we walk arm in arm out of my bedroom, down the hall, and out the back metal
door of the clubhouse to be greeted by an usher. Which in our neck of the woods
is a biker, wearing his cut and a charcoal gray long-sleeved dress shirt
underneath it, with the collar neatly folded over the top.

“Bink.” The usher I’ve never met
before bows, offering his arm to me, so I release Pixie’s and take his. Up the
center aisle dusted with white and red rose petals he escorts me, like a
perfect gentleman. The fragrant flowers flatten beneath my feet in the freshly
budded grass. We stop at the end of Marshall’s row. He’s busy…..Dammit! My breath
catches, lodging a boulder of tension in my chest…. he’s talking to Lindy Sue,
my sisters, and…. I internally gasp… my sister’s husband, the obstetrician.
This is definitely not where I want to sit.

Marshall turns on his seat. Noticing
me, he stands and gestures for me to sit beside him, genuinely smiling. Jesus
H. Christ, he looks sublimely happy and right at home with those God-awful
people. A wave of revulsion crashes through me, and I don’t realize that I am
stalling, with my friends waiting behind me, until Pixie taps me on the
shoulder and I flinch. I can’t stop assessing this horrendous position I am
faced with. My mother and sisters have turned around from the row in front of
us to animatedly talk with Marshall. Most people want their boyfriend to like
their family. I do want that from Marshall, but not this uptight faction of my
blood relatives.
I
don’t even
like them.

I take a hesitant step forward in the
right, yet feels so wrong, direction. Pixie files in behind, followed by the
rest of my real friends and family, not these blood related imposters. My
mother warmly looks up at me with a too bright smile, with her fake teeth, her
fake hair, and her fake everything. Even her fake manners. Ugh! I hate this
woman. Why does she always make me feel like a second-class citizen in her
hoity-toity presence? How she was ever an MC brat is beyond me. Immediately I
have to swallow hard to mash down the nausea she rises in me. It’s sad that a
woman you are supposed to love and should love you back does nothing but make
you feel ill.

I take the seat next to Marshall’s.
He leans over, kisses my cheek, and rests his hand on my exposed thigh before
returning to some imperative conversation with my modernized sisters, with
their perfectly shaped and liposuctioned bodies, their perky neck-high breasts,
waxed eyebrows, five hundred dollar outfits, and diamond wedding rings the size
of Wisconsin. See, there is something I never understood; why in the world
would you spend ten thousand dollars on a ring? It’s a ring. Yeah, I get it’s
supposed to last forever, but a five hundred dollar ring is more reasonable and
you could spend the rest of that money on something like… oh… I dunno… a
motorcycle or something less pretentious.

I didn’t realize until right now how
much I truly am the black sheep of this family. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say
it a hundred more times. Whether it is my appearance that doesn’t match theirs
or my attitude, it all clashes. My dress cost me thirty dollars; theirs are
designer. I can’t even begin to guess the cost. I have my hair down and
slightly curvy, and all three of them have their hair in prissy bitch up-do’s.

Attempting to ignore the creepy
feeling of insects crawling all over my body from being too close to them, I
shift so I’m facing away, yet still remaining in my seat. My legs nearly bump
Pixie’s but she doesn’t seem to mind, as she’s too busy conversing with
Jezebel. I hear Lindy Sue speak my name, not sure if she’s trying to draw my
attention to enter into whatever conversation they are having or not. I’m not
falling for any of it. I refuse to look at her in her teal cashmere sweater and
gray pinned up hair for another second.

I take this time to glance at the
ceremony space. It’s rather basic, with a small stage at the front of the aisle
and a pergola draped with ivy and red roses atop it. You wouldn’t think roses
were much of a biker thing, but they are. Each of the brothers has a Sacred
Sinner’s tattoo on their body somewhere, and roses are just a part of the
club’s symbol. Big has an interwoven skull and roses piece, which wraps around
his entire upper thigh and screams hardcore all the way.

Anyhow, back to the ceremony. My butt
is sitting on a white, wooden chair. There seem to be enough chairs to fit a
little over a hundred guests. There are big black bows at the end of each
aisle. That’s the full extent of décor; like I said, pretty simple.

Leaning over into Pixie’s personal
space and interrupting her and Jezebel’s conversation, I whisper, “Is the
reception in the clubhouse afterward?”

Simultaneously, they turn their heads
to look at me. “Yeah, the caterer is already in there to set up. The ceremony
is going to be short,” Pixie explains with a smile.

“Okay, thanks,” I mutter, sliding
back into my chair.

Marshall squeezes my thigh.
“Darling.”

“Huh?” I respond, keeping my eyes
locked on the rose covered pergola.

“Elise was just asking if you’re
taking folic acid, along with your prenatal vitamin.”

Great, now he’s on a first name basis
with them. I nod my reply, and he goes back to conversing with my enemies.

How does he not feel the tightness of
my thigh under his warming hand? Or the hostility that percolates in the air
surrounding me? How is he so oblivious? It’s like he doesn’t even know me at
all. I realize I’ve not explained the extent of my family friction, just like I
wasn’t forthcoming with the rest of my past. You’d think he would be able to
appraise my lack of talking as a sign to confront. Apparently not. Not that I
want to have it out with him for the second time today.

This morning after he awoke from his
drug-induced blackout, he was livid. I tried apologizing for Mickey. I even
tried smoothing over his anger by pacifying him using sexual favors. Nothing
worked. He wouldn’t let me touch him, just like he hasn’t allowed since the
night he drunkenly tried to get into my pants. I can’t tell if it’s because I
am no longer sexually attractive to him or if his guilt prevents him from
taking the leap. Either way, I have been left sexually frustrated for what
feels like a lifetime.

Lost in my thoughts, I am jolted into
the present when the ceremony begins. The groomsmen, all twelve of them, line
up in the grass on one side of the stage. They look so handsome, wearing their
gray dress shirts under their black cuts. My brother Brew, the groom, has his
blonde hair tied back into a low sleek ponytail.

The processional music begins, and I
watch all twelve of Dixie’s bridesmaids in their tight black dresses (that
would usually be considered unbefitting for a typical wedding,) promenade down
the center aisle.

We stand as the bride’s music blasts
over the outdoor sound system, compliments of Gunz. Dixie ambles down the aisle
attached to Big’s arm. Her brilliant smile radiates, somehow serving double
duty to lessen my internal struggle and enhancing her natural beauty.

A heartwarming grin curls from my
lips, and my eyes dampen with happiness to see my brother getting hitched to a
good woman. Big hands her off, pats my brother on the back, and sits down in
the front row. I get a tiny glimpse of Marylou as he drops to sit beside her,
throwing his arm over the back of her chair. She’s wearing a powder-blue dress.
Although I can’t see it fully, I can see the back of Big’s head. His hair is
pulled back into a sleek ponytail like Brew’s, wearing the same dress shirt and
cut as the rest of the men.

The ceremony is quick; they speak in
biker vows, the rings are exchanged, and they devour each other’s mouths in a
spicy kiss. Turning toward the guests, Brew raises his bride’s hand clasped in
his, and we all hoot and holler, giving our rowdy blessing. Then Brew escorts
his blushing bride up the aisle, stops at the end, turns around, and yells,
“Hey fuckers, go eat. I’ve got some consummating to do.” The men grunt and
whistle their approval, and I throw my head back, laughing. My brother is such
a horny devil.

With his hand on the small of my
back, Marshall filters out of the row behind me. My mother bumps into me as we
enter the aisle; at one point in time, the aisle seemed wide enough, but with
her here, it’s growing smaller by the second. I try to scurry ahead away from
her and my sisters, who have decided to take up even more of Marshall’s time.
Apparently their husbands can’t provide enough stimulating conversation so they
have to steal my date as well. Go figure, nothing’s changed. They had to steal
my childhood away by being bratty bitches and treating me like garbage.

Once, before I moved into the compound, my sisters pushed me
down in front of our house while my mother stood on the porch and watched. They
threw mulch from our flowerbeds at me. It might look pretty, but it smells like
cow shit, and it hurts when it’s thrown in your face. My eyes ached for days,
and by day three it had developed into a painful, swollen infection.

Wanna guess who took me to the doctors? Gunz and Big. Wonder
why I needed two big bad bikers to take me? Because they fought over it. That’s
why. So instead of one admitting defeat to the other, we all went. Showing up
to a normal everyday pediatrician’s office with two gun-toting bikers, who were
already pissed off because of my eye then add their argument into the mix and
it became intolerable. We sat in the waiting room for what felt like a
lifetime, both of them huffing in frustration under their breath. I sat between
the two of them, with my tiny legs dangling off the end of the rough plastic
chair. At one point Big growled in his chest so loud, it scared a little girl
to the point of tears. Big didn’t even care.

The doctor finally came to my rescue a short while later; he
brought all three of us back into the sterile, clown painted, exam room. What
should have taken three minutes to check my eye and all the normal things, like
my lungs and blood pressure, turned into an hour. Big was adamant the doctor
checked my eyeball for scratches and this and that. After that appointment
though, I never saw that doctor again because Big declared him an incompetent
sissy. Needless to say in my younger years, I went through five pediatricians
until Big and Gunz were finally happy. Want to guess why Doctor Julia Swartz
was the winner? She was young, hot, great with kids, had a backbone, and most
of all, a giant rack. And I don’t mean of medical supplies, if ya catch what
I’m puttin’ down.

The common room is dazzling. It has
been transformed into a biker-wedding oasis. The shabby tables and threadbare
couches have been slid into a corner and concealed behind a faux wall. New
round tables are now lining the room, covered with black linens. Silver pillar
candles in tall hurricane centerpieces are situated in the middle of each
table, flickering a subtle romantic ambiance. I never thought I’d see the day
this place actually resembled something other than a bachelor watering hole,
lacking in all things feminine. Now, though, it’s like a real wedding erupted
amongst the leather, booze, and bikes. And I love it. They did a great job. The
entire joint smells of delicious food as its being set up on the buffet station
near the back of the room. There is an actual waiter dressed in leather chaps
manning the bar. Kegs are lining the back of the bar, along with extra bottles
of both Jack and Beam. You won’t see toasting glasses here. Nope, just a room
full of black Solo cups. The chatter and constantly raucous laughter is loud;
however, the radiant happiness is nearly palpable. Everybody is mingling and
getting along.

I’ve been seated at a table for a
little while now, taking a load off my swollen feet. No assigned seating at
this sort of reception. I’ve had a slew of friendly old ladies and brothers to
converse with, as Marshall sits at the furthest table, engrossed in hushed
banter with my mother, sisters, and the husband. They seem rather comfortable,
sipping their wine from glasses they brought themselves and ignoring the fun
biker vibe altogether. The Sacred Sisters have migrated to my table for the
most part. Jezebel and Pixie, who have grown into close friends, are trying to
draw me into some idiotic debate about dick piercings. It’s quite titillating,
let me tell ya.

“How in the hell would you know if a
Prince Albert adds more pleasure than a Jacob’s ladder or a dolphin?” Jezebel
queries in all seriousness. Raising her cup, she sucks back the rest of her
beer and slams the empty cup to the table with inebriated gusto.