MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) (8 page)

To deter Marshall from clicking into
father mode, I change the subject altogether. This topic is something I will
have to iron out on another day. Today not being it.

“Well, I won’t be home until probably
Sunday. Give me a few more days to calm down. And give yourself a few more days
to try to come to terms with all that you’ve learned, and make sure you still
want this relationship. I—,”

“Of course I still want this
relationship.” He’s firm, talking over me. “I want you home. And if I have to
wait until Sunday, that’s perfectly fine. I will just miss you until then. Are
you at least staying some place decent?”

Decent to Marshall is a five star
hotel, with room services and a concierge to dote upon you hand and foot. Now
my idea of decent, is a Motel 6 with a hard bed and no cockroaches. Deke’s
house is somewhere in-between.

“It’s fine,” I groan. “See you
Sunday.”

“See you Sunday, Darling, I love
you.”

“Peace.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, bye.”

“Bye.”

I hang up and toss the phone back
onto the cradle again with a long exhausted sigh. I’ve had enough phone
conversations today to last me a week or possibly two. Now I’ve got to cut this
week’s checks for the men and enter them into the paid column on the computer.
I’m staying at Deke’s again tonight. Not sure if he knows it, but I am. Not only
for myself, but for his daughters too. I want them to like me and feel
comfortable around me since I know they don’t have many female figures in their
lives. Once they move to the compound, they will though. And as long as they
steer clear of my mother and the whores, they will be just peachy keen.

Now it’s time to work. Hope y’all
have a fanfuckingtabulous day, and stay out of trouble. And for my sake, I hope
I do too.

Peace.

Saturday: February 22, 2014

“Seriously? You had to bring me to this teenybopper
party zone? As if I don’t already feel old enough as it is, let’s bring the fat
pregnant lady to the club with all the hot fresh meat and make her feel like
the oldest dinosaur in the joint,” I chastise my cohorts, slumping my back into
the corner booth here at the hottest nightclub within thirty miles. Five
minutes of sober sitting, in a glittery red vinyl booth, scanning the bar (that
I am oddly surprised doesn’t have a children’s ball pit), and I’m ready to
hightail it outta here.

“Shut it, Bink. We all saw the way the bouncer by the
door looked at you when we walked in,” Debbie shoves at my shoulder in a
playful manner, her hand wrapped around a fruity concoction. The thought of any
type of alcohol at this point has me willing to beg for just a taste. Jack. I
miss Jack, almost as much as I miss having regular sized ankles.

“Like his mother?” I yell over some R&B song
thumping through the speakers about it being too hot in here. It is, by the
way. But I am not taking my clothes off like the song suggests. I would scare
these poor children to death. Listen to me? Since when did I become the old
spinster? Does pregnancy do that to a woman? Or does turning thirty attribute
to that? Most of the women I’m gallivanting with, with the exception of
Jezebel, are older than me. Even Pixie. Although they do seem to be having
enough fun. I’m the dud. The party pooper. Go figure.

“Shush, you don’t look like anybody’s mother. He did
look like he wanted to take a bite right outta you,” Candy Cane justifies,
sipping on her rum and coke.

I’m not buying it. They are just
trying to make me feel better.

“You think he’s hungry? Maybe he’d
like a nice juicy cankle to chew on? Maybe he missed his dinner. Ya think?”
Sarcasm is dripping from every word, which somehow forces a laugh out of my
partygoers.

Resting back in my seat, they carry
on amongst themselves, jabbering about this hot man or that one. I know they
don’t get out from under their old men much. This is like a breath of fresh air
for them. I can respect that, even though I would much rather be home than
here. Home, being Marshall’s at this point in time.

Today has been spent as a mix match
of entertainment. Shopping, which I loathe. The women insisted on picking out
clothes for baby Gabe, Jezebel’s newborn, and wanting to help me decide on my
little bundle of joy’s outfit to bring her home from the hospital in. Little
does anybody know, including Marshall, is that I want to have an at home birth
in a giant tub of water with a midwife. I can’t think of a better way to bring
a child into this world. Shit, I grew up being taught not to retreat to the
hospital for most things, maybe that’s why having an at home natural water
birth appeals to me so much. I spoke to my midwife about it at my last
appointment. Marshall was thankfully detained, which meant I could speak freely
with her. Now that I’ve set the idea in motion, she said she’d handle the rest.
My only worry is carrying this baby and delivering her in a timely, preferably
not overdue manner. Pushing a ten-pound overcooked turkey out of a hole the
size of a walnut is not my idea of a good time. A seven pounder seems way more
appealing, even though it’s still gonna suck.

After shopping and buying god knows
how many outfits for Gabe and none for my daughter, I refused to start that
nesting syndrome thingy that I’ve read about. I’m sure it’ll come eventually. However,
it’s too early to start now. After that, we ate dinner at a fancy Italian
eatery. Not that it mattered much because I threw it all up twenty minutes
after I’d ate. And now we are here. Jezebel found the bar on her phone, and we
decided to give it a go. It’s like a fifties diner meets dance club; it’s
unique in its own sock-hop mashup kinda way.

Dialing back into the women’s
conversations, I see Pixie pointing rather obviously to a man sleeved in ink
like her, standing by the bar with a blue Mohawk and skull plugs in his ears,
the size that you could fit a cherry through.

“I’m gonna start doing those at the
shop,” she yells. “I already do piercings. It only seems natural to stretch
ears too.”

Now is a good as time as ever to
bring up what I’ve been dying to talk about all day. “Do you think Big’s old
lady would approve of you stretching his ears out? Maybe he needs a new look.”

I meant it to be funny, but all the
women’s faces snap to mine, with obvious shock, eyes bugging and mouths gaping.
Rubbing the edge of the table with my fingers occupies my attention just enough
to keep me from reaching out and lifting Debbie and Pixie’s jaws off the table
before they start to drool.

I shrug, stop rubbing, and lay my arm
across the back of the booth, trying to appear more relaxed than what I am. On
the inside, I’m fucking dying, and I want to slaughter my best friends for not
warning me. Shame on them bitches.

“What? No?” I mock, lifting a single
brow.

Nearly a minute passes before anyone
gets enough courage to stop sucking back their alcohol and staring at me to
actually sputter a coherent word.

“You know Big has a woman?” Debbie
finally breaks the seal. Way to go Debbie, being the bravest.

“I do,” I casually bob my head with
an impassive tone. “What I don’t understand is how I found out from him instead
of you all,” my head nods at each and every one of them in order, my brows
reaching an all-time high, peeking into my hairline.

“We didn’t think you’d want to know,”
Pixie adds.

“Really?” I’m shrill. “A man I grew
up with finds himself an old lady, and I don’t want to know?” Now this time I
can’t feign my indifference, I’m pissed at them.

“Bink,” Debbie reaches over Pixie to
me. With her hand landing on my knee, she gives it a loving squeeze. “You know
we didn’t tell you to be respectful to you. Just like we haven’t told our guys
you are pregnant because we knew that was important to you.”

“Did Big or the brothers tell you not
to tell me?”

Candy Cane gasps, throwing her hand
over her mouth. “How could you think so low of us? We are sisters, and as much
as we love our old men, we don’t always listen to them. And Tripper would never
ask me to hide that anyhow. We didn’t tell you because we didn’t want you
upset.”

I am upset. He has an old lady, and I
wasn’t fucking informed.

“She’s not his old lady anyhow,”
Jezebel chimes in, tying her hair atop her head with a scrunchie. “Fuck it’s
hot in here,” she states, rubbing the back of her neck with her hand and sighs.
“Ah, much better,” then turns her attention back on me. “She’s his girlfriend.
They started datin’ in November. She doesn’t live on the compound, but she does
stay over a lot. And I do know he’s still been fuckin’ whores.”

“Of course he has.” The words are
like thick molasses as they stick to my mouth. Big and whores are like two
fucking peas in a pod. He couldn’t be faithful to anyone. Sick old bastard.

I have to hand it to my sisters
though. Axel is simply pussy whipped by Pixie, even though he’s the southern
charmer and more social than she is. Debbie and Dallas, they are two halves to
a whole. Tripper and Candy Cane, I know that woman would kill Tripper if he
strayed and though I’ve seen him with a wandering eye, he never acts on it.
Then you’ve got Jezebel and Bulk, and the sun sets and rises with her in his
eyes. Now that they have their new baby, he’s been a loving father and doting
husband. Or the best he can be, considering he is a biker. Makes me envious in
a lot of ways. Marshall is a great man, but he’s sometimes too stiff and clean cut.
That’s what I like most about him, but it happens to be the thing that I also
dislike the most about him. It’s a damn catch 22.

“So….” I take a sip of my water and
set it back on the Formica tabletop. “What’s she like?”

“You,” Debbie blurts, and realizes
quickly what she just said. “I mean, not personality, but looks wise,” she
recovers.

My
get
on with it
hand motion sways Jezebel to formidably fill in the
painstaking details that I want to hear, but then again I don’t want to. It’s
like a doctor diagnosing you with something horrendous. You know it’s awful
because he’s disclosed that much. What you don’t know is how awful the
prognosis is and in what way it’s going to affect you. This is the same. Except
I’m not dying. My heart may be, but physically I am as healthy as a horse or
maybe a cow. You pick.

“She’s blonde, short hair, blue eyes, and big boobs.
She’s less curvy though,”

“You mean skinnier?” I cut in.

“No,” she shakes her head. “I mean she doesn’t have
curves.” Jezebel sticks her tongue out. “If she was skinnier I’d tell you,
honey. I’m not a stick figure myself.” Her hand rolls down the sides of her
thick curvaceous body and devilishly grins.

“What she’s saying is she has no ass.” Debbie
corrects. I don’t know why those words from her affect me, but they do and I
instantly start to laugh hysterically. Then the entire table catches the
laughing bug, and we all turn into crazy hyenas cackling in the corner about
this blonde woman who has taken my place at the club. Laughter is the best
medicine, right?

Catching my breath a minute or two later, I swipe the
tears from my eyes and take another sip of my water. “So she’s not curvy, check
that off the list.” I pretend to check it with my finger. The girls’ chuckle.

“She’s also about six inches taller than you. Not that
that’s hard,” Jezebel says.

I flip her off. “Funny, bitch. I know I’m short.”

“Yeah, you’re short but she’s not. She’s a lot younger
than you too. Probably twenty three at most,” Jezebel explains.

“So what you’re saying is Big hasn’t started to date
her? He’s adopted her? Since she’s over twenty five years younger than him.”
It’s a ruthless jab, I know, but it feels good. Maybe being a bitch is the best
medicine instead. Hum… I can’t decide. What do you think?

“No, he’s fuckin’ her. But yeah, she’s very young. She
kinda reminds me of a CZ diamond.” Jezebel raises her hand to flash her
oversized engagement ring. “She’s beautiful to look at, she’s new, she’s clean,
and perfectly cut. But then you get up and look closely and see that she’s not
real. She’s a fake. She doesn’t glimmer like a natural diamond or hold the
beauty and unbreakable strength of a real diamond. She’s just a manufactured
piece of glass. Not the real deal. And sooner or later, that pig headed owner
is gonna realize that fake diamonds can never pass for the real ones, no matter
how much you wish they would.”

Jezebel’s analogy, even though it’s a bit unorthodox
and completely weird coming from her mouth, does make sense, as long as I’m the
real diamond in the scheme of things. I think that’s what she’s getting to.
Instead of asking, I take a drink of water, draining the rest of my glass, and
slam it down on the table. It’s time to get the party started. That’s enough of
the heavy for now. No more talk about Big.

“Let’s dance.” I shove my hip into Pixie to slide out
of the rounded booth, and all my sisters climb out, one right after the other.
Standing at the edge of our table, we all turn and cast our gazes upon the
crowded dance club. It’s packed with more hot sweaty gyrating bodies than a
whore house, minus the fucking.

“Okay,” I take in deep breath readying myself.

Debbie looks scared as hell to dance,
so I grab her hand, squeezing it for reassurance and guide her to the wooden
dance floor. I didn’t wear this red wrap dress and studded black flats tonight
for nothin’. It’s time to get our groove on.

A weird song about lickin’ balls and windows to walls
ends, and for our sake, we strike a bit of luck when a song I actually know
pours over the speakers. Strangely enough the younger crowd screams their
excitement, holding up their bottles of beer and drinks high in the air, as the
manic strobe lights cast wild greens and brash ruby reds over the crowd, and
the glittery disco ball rotates.