MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) (6 page)

Larry makes a mental note, rattling off my order to
himself. “Right,” he nods, “do you want nuts on your brownie?”

“Doesn’t every girl love
nuts
?” I wink, flashing a shit-eating grin.

“Right, yup, most of ‘em do. I’ll share mine,” Larry
winks back and grabs a handful of his cock through his overalls.

I snort a laugh. “Yup, Larry, I’m sure you would.”

Larry doesn’t speak. He just salutes me with a dirty
grin, pushes off the wall, and pivots on his heel, headed back for the shop,
just as my phone buzzes on my desk. Leaning back in my chair and tucking an
errant strand of my blonde hair behind my ear, I attempt to take a load off my
aching back and feet, while working inside my sparse and rather dingy office.
Pretty sure this desk I am sitting at is circa World War II.

Candy Cane: Talk to Marshall soon. Sorry sweetie, I’ve
got to skedaddle, helping Pix at her shop, see you this weekend. Jez is leaving
kids home, so we can have a girl’s day. Tripper told me to tell you, hey and
that he misses ya. I do too. Oh and be good, don’t forget to wear something
slutty on Saturday. K?

I scoff and roll my eyes.

Me: Slutty? Are you kidding? Have you forgotten that I
have been implanted with an alien parasite that is making me fucking huge and
my ankles swell into these hideous things they call cankles?

Has she lost her damn mind? Dressing that way? Not in
this lifetime, with this body, looking like this. Hell to the no.

Oops and one more thing….

Me: Oh ya, miss you all too. Tell Pix
I said Hi when you see her. How are you helping at the shop? She’s not teaching
you to tat is she?

Candy Cane: You’re still hot with that BABY in your
belly. Cankles are the new fetish porn, didn’t you know? And no, I’m not
learning. She has an assload of clients today, so she needs me to clean her
stations, prep stencils, take calls, copy IDs, file paperwork, and all that
crap, while she’s busy inflicting pain on her customers.

Cankles, the new fetish? That makes me laugh. There
isn’t a damn thing that is glamorous about pregnancy. My ankles are swollen, I
have to visit the doctor once a month, I pee all the time, I’m always hungry,
and my back and feet ache all day, every day. The only bonus to being pregnant
is feeling your baby move, and my insomnia has downgraded significantly to
maybe once or twice a month instead of my usual five days a week.

I am thankful though for having a
healthy pregnancy, no snags, no real problems, my blood pressure is great, no
protein in my urine, whatever that really means. When Marshall and I went in
for my last ultrasound, it was in 3-D so I got to see every little part of my
daughter. Including finding out that she was in fact a girl, like I had dreamt
in these extensive, highly vivid dreams I started having about a month
beforehand.

These are the same dreams that still
manifest on a weekly, sometimes nightly, basis. I wake up horny from most of
them and so wet that I fear my water might have broken. And no, I am not going
to expose what those dreams contained so don’t ask. Let’s just say they are
highly sexual, and they involve some exceptionally sexy men, performing even
more exceptional sexual favors on me, nothing that would be considered vanilla.
And that’s all I’m going to say about that. Because just sitting here my pussy
is already starting to throb thinking about them. I haven’t had sex in over a
week, and I can’t get myself off to save my life. Declaring that I am sexually
frustrated is like saying a hurricane is just a little rain. Yes, it’s that
bad. And the further along in my pregnancy I am, the hornier I become. Shit,
Larry is even starting to look like a prime candidate for an afternoon romp,
bending me over the sink in our only bathroom. Okay, maybe that’s a bit too
much. But yeah, it’s become an issue. And the shit with Gunz last night has
pretty much guaranteed me sexless for the remainder of my pregnancy. Way to go
Gunz….
asshole!

Friday: February 21
^st
,
2014

“No, tell them to send the flowers back.” I am
standing here in the doorway of my office, arguing with Deke and the local
flower deliveryman. “I don’t want them. Throw them in the trash for all I
care.” My finger points to the giant barrel by the side entrance. “But they’re
not gonna come into my office, no way, no fucking how.”

I’m not quite sure who is groveling more at this
point. Gunz because I won’t return his calls and accept his half-assed apology,
or Marshall because, as of Wednesday night, I decided not to stay at his
apartment again for a while.

Let me give you an update and leave Deke to handle the
frustrated flower dude. Sound good?

You nodding? Yep, I thought so.

Here goes….

Tuesday, I went home, and Marshall wasn’t there. He didn’t
stroll into the apartment until well past midnight, reeking of liquor,
cigarettes, and perfume. Did he cheat on me? No. Did he head to the local
gentleman’s club and spend an obscene amount of money to get his junk grinded
on? Yup, he sure did. Then he decided to take that same junk and try to stick
it in my pussy when I was fast asleep in bed.

“Wake up, Darling,”
he drunkenly purred into my ear, wafting his hot acidic breath across my cheek
as his hard cock thrusted awkwardly into my panty covered backside. And his
hand slid it over my side, cupping my belly, to use it as leverage for his
jerky, inept thrusts.
That
pissed me off.

“What do you want,
Marshall?” I whined half asleep, grabbing his hand, and tossing it off my belly
before curling by body into a ball on my side.

“I want to make
llllooovveee to you,” he groaned creepily into my ear, and poked his tongue out
to lick the underside of my earlobe. That made me want to puke.

“Well, I don’t want
to make llllooooovvveeee to you.” I crudely mocked, keeping my eyes closed,
praying he would just go away and let me rest. My back had been aching all day,
and I needed the sleep.

No such luck.

“Oh come on, Darlinggggg.
Aren’t you supposed to be some crazy biker lady who wants to have sex all the
time?” His hardened cock viciously grinded my ass cheeks through his Dockers.
So much that it hurt, making my ass cheek burn. I tried to scoot to the edge of
the bed, only to be followed.

“I do want to have
sex all of the time. I just happen to have a boyfriend who only wants
to get it on with me after he’s used twenty
other women to get hard. Not my thing. Now leave me alone.” I was serious, but
for whatever reason Marshall didn’t seem to care. He kept trying until I
climbed out of the bed, and like a lost puppy, he trailed right behind me.

“Go away!” I yelled
trying to find some peace.

“I want to make
love to you,” he repeated.

On the verge of
slapping him, I inhaled a deep relaxing breath and shouted, “No,” while
entering the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it.

Jiggling the knob,
he tried to come after me. I refused to let him inside. Sliding to the floor
with my back to the white door, I tugged two terrycloth towels from the small
linen closet, one for my head and one for my body, and curled into a ball. For
over an hour, Marshall banged repeatedly while he tried to turn the knob and
yelled for me to let him in, just so I could make love to him. For the rest of
the night, I silently cried to myself. Just as the sun was peeking over the
horizon and glimmering in the windowpanes of the bathroom, I solidly tuckered
out for an hour or two.

The next morning,
after he’d slept the booze off, God knows where in the apartment, Marshall woke
me up by banging on the door again. Except this time he was dripping with
apologizes about how he didn’t remember what happened last night and how sorry
he was. I didn’t buy a lick of that bullshit and kept quiet, ignoring him until
he exhausted his efforts and finally, with an exaggerated huff, used the spare
bath to get ready for work. After he’d left and I was sure he’d gone, I
unlocked the bathroom door, dressed, packed a small bag, and left. I arrived to
work a few hours late, but nobody seemed to care. Larry was the only one who
commented on my sunken eyes, and I brushed it off by telling him I hadn’t slept
much, which was the truth.

Around noon on
Wednesday, the calls started pouring in. First from Gunz for acting like a
jackass, and then from Marshall for the same reason. I hung up on both of them.
Wednesday night, because I had arrived to work late, I stayed late and decided
to crash out on crappy office couch, which turned out to be a good choice and a
bad one. Good, because the years of wear and tear made the couch a fairly
decent bed for the night. Bad, because Deke came in early to find me asleep and
scolded me for staying at the shop. Not that he expected me to go home, but he
lectured me about staying with him, instead of at the shop, if the time ever
presented itself again. Well, it did. Thursday night, which was last night, I
decided to take him up on his offer, and I slept at his pad. His daughters
Cherry and Ginger were so sweet and accommodating. We even baked my famous
chocolate chip cookies that I haven’t baked since I moved here. They were a
huge hit.

This morning, Deke
drove me to work with a big Tupperware container overflowing with the extra
cookies I made last night. Guess I forget that I don’t always have to make so
many. But it’s something I’m so accustomed to doing for the club, it’s like
second nature to me.

Sitting down at my office chair, I wheel it under my
desk ready to get back to work, following the early afternoon flower guy
blowout.

“Hey,” Deke reenters the office, shutting the door
behind him.

“Hey,” I glance up from my computer screen with a
grin.

“Would you like to explain why you are throwing a
three dozen rose bouquet in the trash? What happened?” he heavily drops onto
the couch, clad in his leather cut, jeans, and grease smeared t-shirt.

Last night when Deke agreed to let me
crash at his place, he was too preoccupied with handling Vivian and her being
high on coke, acting crazy. My purpose for staying with him was pushed to the
back burner as I took care of his daughters, and he corralled the drug addict
in the bedroom.

Saddest part of the whole evening was when Ginger,
who’s six, decided to give me the elaborate run down of her mommy snorting some
white powder off the kitchen table while daddy was at work. When I’d asked her
how many times she’d seen mommy doing it, she innocently shrugged and said, “I
dunno, lots, three times this week.” She craned her head to look at her older
sister, Cherry, who solemnly nodded in agreement, which chilled me to my very
core. Poor, poor, poor, little sweeties.

“No, I wouldn’t like to explain that. But I would like
an explanation as to why your daughters saw your old lady snorting coke from
the kitchen table three times this week. And when are ya plannin’ on leavin’ her?
Because now is as good a time as ever. Shit, send the girls to the compound and
let Candy Cane and Debbie care for them till you can move there.” I know
turning the tables is a dirty trick, but I’m certain his wife being a coke head
is way more important than my measly relationship scuffle that is sure to work
itself out one way or another. I’m not stressing over it, why should he?

Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees,
hands in his hair, Deke sighs long and hard. “Fuck, did they tell you that last
night?”

Even the words leaving his mouth
sound pained. I know this isn’t easy, but shit, he’s got kids to worry about.

“Yeah….yeah, they did.” I’m careful when I express it
to keep him from imploding with guilt. I can definitely understand that the
truth hurts sometimes. “So, when did Gunz say you can patch over and move?”

Raking his hands through his hair, Deke remains quiet,
and as if on cue, my office phone rings. I answer it, leaving him to stew with
his own guilt-ridden thoughts.

“Son’s Customs, this is Bink speaking, how may I help
you?”

Oh shit!
A
deep hellacious growl erupts through the phone. The same growl I haven’t heard
in months reverberates deep down into my soul and straight to my loins, making
me insta-wet. Clamping my hand down on the edge of my desk and sitting straight
up, I wait for his voice. Swallowing hard, I bite my lip, my body high on fear
and excitement seamlessly meshed together. How can he affect me this way?

“Would you care to explain to me why Gunz is moping
like a fuckin’ dog with his tail between his legs?” his gravelly voice
interrogates.

I inhale deeply to steady my nerves and reply with a
flawlessly smooth tone. “No, sorry, that’s not my place to discuss.”

“The fuck it ain’t!” he yells.

A wave of goose flesh flares across
my body, and my daughter at that very moment decides to kick. It’s like she
knows it’s him. How is that possible? I have no idea. I swallow down the guilt,
ignore my pounding heart, and the light fluttering of nervous butterflies that
I haven’t felt in months, battling in my stomach, and wage on.

“If this isn’t a professional call, I
am sorry but I need to get back to work,” I state.

“Fuck!” he growls. “Fuck, fuck,
fuck!”

I don’t hang up. I stay on the line,
listening to him breathing heavily into the phone, like his hot breath is
caressing over my skin, down my stomach, between my thighs, and straight into
my needy core.

Oh god, the thought even feels good.

Dropping back into my chair with a
sexually frustrated sigh, I glance at Deke who remains impassive, wedged in his
own drama bubble. He is oblivious to the animal I am having to listen to on the
phone, and the way that animal is making me so wet. I can feel my panties
sticking to my pussy lips, soaked in my juices.