The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 1 (MC Chronicles #1) (14 page)

I grimace, tucking my hands across my chest, watching
Big. “Why in the hell would you do that?”

“My personal business is not for him to discuss with
you or anyone that isn’t a brother.
Especially
you. Think if all the old ladies knew who their man was plowin’.
Think of what kinda head-fuckin-ache that would cause.”

I shake my head defiantly. “Maybe if the women knew,
the men would be too scared to bang the club whores.” This has always been my
opinion. One I’ve never voiced. It’s not my place, I know. But I can’t help
myself.

Big tsks me, shaking his head, lips pulled into a taut
line. “Do you really think that’d change that?” he questions gruffly.

“Well… I don’t know.” I shrug, unsure. “But I never
understood why they gotta do it anyhow. It seems pretty gross, to fuck a bunch
of different women, when you’ve got a wife sittin’ at home with your kids.”

“Yeah, a wife who nags, who wants this fuckin thing or
that stupid shit. Who withholds fuckin’ because you don’t do some shit she
wants. I respect the hell outta most of the old ladies. But I get why the men
fuck the whores. They’re easy, they don’t complain, they are here to service
them, and that’s it. They don’t want them to change their kid’s diaper or take
out the trash. They spread their legs to get plowed into, plain and simple.”

Not sure on how to accurately argue my reply, I roll
my eyes instead. “Seems like an excuse to be unfaithful.”

“Why are we discussing this anyhow? You’ve known and
lived this shit for years. And now that you turned thirty you’re wising up and
questioning how we run things?” His stomach muscles contract beneath me, his
body turning hard, eyes intense. I’m pissing him off. Go figure.

“I’m not questioning how
you
run things.” Breaking eye contact, I glance at the
ceiling and shrug. I seem to be doing that a lot lately. “I get it. Is that why
you never claimed an old lady? To keep away from that drama?”

“No.” His hands hold onto my hips, his body softening
below me. Nice to know he doesn’t stay agitated with me for long. “I don’t have
an old lady because I never wanted one. Most old ladies
put up
with their men in the club. They
participate in family shit, but their old man could never tell them what they
go through. They wouldn’t understand. The men have to hide their bumps and
bruises, and they lie. I hate to lie. That’s why I never wanted an old lady. I
didn’t want to have to lie to her. And I couldn’t find one who I could trust
enough not to freak the fuck out when I told ‘em shit that’s goin’ down. There
are very few quality old ladies nowadays. Back when my dad was king of this
castle, he didn’t want an old lady, but the women back then were of better
stock then they are now.”

He pauses briefly gathering his thoughts. “Now, women
fantasize about being with bikers. They think because they’ve seen some dumb
fuckin’ shit on TV that they can hang with the big boys. Handle the lifestyle.
It’s rare for them to last even a year. We’ve lost more brothers in the past
ten years from that than anything else.” He sighs, and it’s drawn out and sad.

“Men gotta choose between their bitch and their club
when the old lady can’t hang. The more society changes, the weaker men become.
Lettin’ women rule their lives instead of men being the king, ya know…men bein’
men.” He lowly growls under his breath, “So the pussies up and leave the club.
Another reason why I vet all brothers and their old ladies, more so now than
ever. I can’t handle those prissy fuckin’ cunts tearing the brothers away. If I
can’t trust ‘em to stay, I might as well throw in the whole fuckin’ towel.”

“Then you better keep that one brother out,” I
intercede.

“Chelsea ain’t cuttin’ it?”

Not surprisingly he is able to pick out the problem
child of the bunch. It’s nice to know I’m not the only person to see her being
an issue.

I glance back at Big’s face. “No.” My expression
morphs into seriousness. “No way. I will not put up with her being here. Ever.
I mean, I know I’m not allowed to have a say in this. But seriously, she is not
equipped to handle our… I mean your lifestyle.”

Big smirks. “Your lifestyle too.” He briefly tickles
my side and I squeal, smacking his hand away.

Still chuckling, I reply, “Yeah…it’s different for me.
But if you value my opinion—”

“I do.” He cuts me off. “No Chelsea,” Big states
decisively, squeezing my hips, to accentuate his decision. “What about the
other two? Bulk and Axel seem like pretty solid candidates for transfer.”

“You’re actually talking to me about this?” I perk up
a brow. I’ve never talked club business with Big before. This is kind of cool,
strange but cool.

“After what I just told you about old ladies, yeah,
I’m gonna to talk to ya ‘bout this. I need to know if these women are going to
cause trouble. Our chapter has less old ladies than any of our others because
our laws are stricter, and I run the men harder. I need to know they are going
to be able to handle the tough shit,” Big explains.

I adjust myself to keep my legs from falling asleep,
and momentarily glance around. I realize that not only are we strangely alone
on a Sunday morning in the clubhouse, which doesn’t seem possible, but I’m
still sitting on him and he seems okay with it. Plus, I’m in my PJ’s with my
hair lookin’ like God knows what. He’s fully dressed in clothes for the day, his
hair’s tied back in a ponytail with a blue bandana wrapped around his head. The
stubble on his face is slightly rougher than usual. Upon closer inspection, I
wonder if it’s purposely kept to hide the fading mark of a hickey that I see.
The sly dog.

“I think they’ll be fine. But I can’t get a full read
on them after just a day.”

We sit like this another half an hour discussing old
ladies and what qualities I need to keep an eye out for. Even though Big Dick
just beat one of his brothers to a near pulp, knuckles still bloodied, he’s
back to his normal, pig headed, control freak self. His views are insightful
and tips are valuable. Just as he finishes speaking to me, the door to the hall
that leads into the common room opens.

“Are ya ‘bout done?” Tripper asks, entering the room
wearing an impish grin.

Both Big and I turn our gazes to him. “What do you
mean are we
‘bout
done?” Big
presidentially inquires. “The last time I knew this was the clubhouse that I’m
the President of.”

“You are.” Tripper hesitates. “But we’ve been patching
up Runner, and Candy Cane needs Bink to help since she’s done this before. And
we’ve got two brothers out front and two in the hall, keepin’ anyone from
comin’ in. Figured you two needed a moment, but it’s been over an hour. The
brothers wanna drink and eat. And they wanted me to ask if the whores could come
early today? Guess some old ladies are piss…” he stops talking, rocking back on
his heels. “I’ll tell ya about that later.”

Big lifts me off of his lap to stand and joins me,
positioning himself so close that our bodies are mere inches from one another.
“Don’t do that. Fuckin’ tell me. Bink is a big girl.” He winks at me, and I
grin. I hate that my feelings are always so hot and cold with him. One minute I
despise him, and the next he winks and we talk like old friends, and then all
is forgotten. Even the foursome last night or that…oh you know…little thing,
like him eating me out in the backyard, which we haven’t discussed yet. Not
that I want to. If he slept with those women, that means what happened was a
fluke, a carnal action taken in the midst of a drunken, horny, stupor. Totally
fine with me. I will move on with my life, a little more sexually satisfied, having
had my itch magnificently scratched by a biker sex magician.

“Some of the old ladies are pissed. The boys want some
whores to make up for the lack of sex they’re gonna get for a while,” Tripper
evenly explains, hands tucked into his pockets, purposely avoiding eye contact
with me.

“What old ladies? The ones from other chapters,
right?” I ask.

“Yeah…there are six old ladies that rode in with their
men yesterday, aside from the three transfers. Guess they heard about their men
getting their dicks sucked last night, and I think one of ‘em fucked Bunny.”

All of us scowl in disgust at that thought. Bunny’s a
gross, freakishly vampiric pale, mid-40’s club whore, with gangly arms and
legs, a full head of poufy gray hair, heavily bagged under eye, and the kicker
of it all is she’s missing half of her teeth. I know it’s not very nice to be
judgmental over a woman’s misfortunes; however, Bunny is a greedy, rude,
bitchy, old hag that I can’t stand. She doesn’t hang around often with the
normal brothers here because they won’t touch her with a hundred foot pole.
Although the outsiders always seem to take a walk on the smelly, old hag side,
and she somehow gets thoroughly fucked. I imagine the man would have to be
heavily intoxicated for that to even happen. Two years ago, three stupid men
had some sick foursome with her on one of the picnic tables at three in the
morning after a club wide party. Bunny got DP’d by two dudes and sucked the
other’s cock. I didn’t see it. Thank the Lord Almighty. But it was a widespread
gossip that lasted for weeks and is still brought up whenever she comes
traipsing around, always sporting a short 1980s pleather miniskirt, blue eye
shadow, and overly teased hair.

Big seems to contemplate the whore idea for a moment
before speaking. “Yeah, they can come about seven. Not the triplets though.
Tell the prospect not to let them through the gate, if they show up.”

I have to wonder if his decision stems from his
encounter with them last night or their actions with the brothers. If I had to
guess, I’d say the former. Why it matters? I haven’t a clue, and I know better
than to ask.

“Well, I’ll leave you guys to it. Where’s Candy Cane?”
I ask Tripper, walking toward the hall door.

“Wait just a minute,” Big orders me. I come to a halt.

“I need a hug.” Big strides over and doesn’t wait for
my reply before he wraps me in his massive arms. My head smashes into his chest,
making me intoxicated in his manly soul seeping scent. Big’s fingers comb
softly through my hair, and he kisses the top of my head a little longer than I
anticipated. “Thanks for the talk and for last night. I enjoyed that.”

“Me too,” I whisper against his warm chest, and he
releases me.

A wide-eyed Tripper watches as I leave the common room
and enter the hall. “She’s in his bathroom,” Tripper yells at my back, and I
raise my hand in thanks, strolling down the passage to Runner’s door, which has
been left wide-open.

“Hey, it’s me,” I call into the room. Jezebel, Pixie,
and Debbie are anxiously standing outside of the bathroom door. I cast my gaze
across the room briefly as I walk in, taking in the cleanliness of it. Aside
from the pornographic, half-naked women and motorcycle shit lying everywhere,
the place is fairly tidy. His bed is neatly made with a blue comforter, which
matches the pillows and the single window valence. I’m moderately impressed.
Even the stark white walls are crisp, void of dirt.

“Candy Cane’s trying to stop his nose from bleeding.
Just when we thought we had it, it starts again. Big musta broke it,” Debbie
explains, when I stop beside her to look into the bathroom and watch Candy Cane
work on a wrecked Runner.

“I can’t get it to stop, Bink. I think I got his nose
set; I did it just like you taught. And I cleaned his only cut,” Candy Cane
says, obviously outside of her element.

Time for me to take over.

“Did you check for concussion?” I inquire, stepping up
beside her on the short wooden stool. Runner is slouched part ways, sitting
upright, on the closed toilet. His right eye is almost swollen shut, and his
nose is most definitely broken. And he has a nasty scratch running diagonally
across his cheek, compliments of Big’s S. S. ring.

“No. I forgot.” Candy Cane offers me the stool, which
I gladly accept. Sitting down, I grab the tiny silver flashlight from the med
bag on the vanity. I use it to examine both of Runners eyes, checking for
dilation. He doesn’t seem to have a concussion. But the towel he’s holding to
his nose is rapidly becoming soaked in his blood.

Reaching back into the bag, I glove up. God only knows
what he might be carrying and I surely don’t want to contract anything. Softly
holding his nose with both hands, I set it as pain-laden tears pour down his
cheeks, even though he remains quiet. I know it hurts like hell; I’ve had men
scream when I do this. Doing the best that I can, I bandage his nose by placing
white medical tape across the bridge to keep it stable, but allow for mild
swelling. Next, I place some Celox powder on a Q-tip and carefully insert it
into each dripping nostril to halt the bleeding. A few seconds tick by, and the
bleeding finally begins to dissipate.

“You’re going to have to breathe out of your mouth,” I
explain, getting up from stool and pouring him a glass of water into the blue
cup that rests on his vanity. Shuffling through the med bag, I open a packet of
Vicodin, then hand them to Runner, along with the water. “Drink this. Then I
want you to rest in bed, stay elevated though. I’ll have somebody bring you in
a bag of peas to keep the swelling down.”

Pivoting toward Debbie, our eyes meet, and she nods a
silent understanding, hurrying from the room to fetch peas from the kitchen.

I go through the motions I’ve repeated hundreds of
times. When I was younger, they had a doc on call for all medical occurrences.
Now that I’ve learned the basics, they use me to do the little things and only
call the doc when it’s a real emergency, gunshots, stabbings, those sorts of
things. We have a surgical room equipped for those dire incidences. This med
bag has been through some rough times with the Sacred Sinners.

Once I’ve completed the task of taking care of Runner,
he stands up, grinding out an aching groan and sluggishly walking into his bedroom,
climbing on top of his neatly made bed. Debbie swiftly strolls back into the
room, handing Runner the peas. With a friendly two-fingered wave, I exit into
the hall, the four old ladies right on my tail.