The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 1 (MC Chronicles #1) (3 page)

“Thank you.” I sincerely blurt.

He sharply nods once, accepting my gratitude.

“Wait.” I place my purse into my saddlebag and turn to
my dog, where I kneel and stroke one hand down his back. “Why did my neighbor
call
you
? And what neighbor?” I
glance up at him. He’s quietly watching me pet Pretzel.

“Linda.”

Linda? Linda? Who’s Linda?

Oh…no…not…her!

Immediately, I have to reel in my urge to let off some
steam. I. Can’t. Stand. That. Bitch.

“Linda? You mean...” I trail off, unable to speak
about it, much less want to think about it. Linda isn’t my neighbor; she lives
two blocks from my house. How’d that whore know about Pretzel?

Suddenly I don’t want anything to do with Big or look
at his face. Linda? Seriously?! He had to have been at her house, pounding that
disgusting pussy. A roll of revulsion waves through me. I abruptly stand and
try to tug my pup’s leash from Big’s hand. No such luck.

“Let go of him. I’ll ride with him on my bike.”

“The hell you will.”

“Why did you bring him here anyway? How did Linda know
about him? What aren’t you telling me?” I fiercely question, growing more
agitated by the second.

Silence, stupid ass silence, is his reply.

I tug on the leash again. His grip tightens, and I see
his muscled forearms constrict, the veins bulging to the surface.

“Give me my dog, Big.” I try to stay calm, but I’m
losing my patience. I don’t care if he is the club president. I’m not part of
the club, not in the official capacity anyhow.

Linda, that sick bitch he’s spouting
off about. She’s part of the club alright or was. She’s a whore, his whore, to
be exact. The whore he’s used for the past ten years. The whore who’s been
digging her claws into him since I can remember, trying to become his old lady.
Big Dick, doesn’t do love; he only fucks and sure as shit doesn’t want to
settle down with some two-bit club whore. But for whatever jacked up reason, he
keeps going back to her, year after year after year. It makes me sick. And I’m
sure you are wondering why I even care. I’ll tell you why. Because we hate each
other. She hates me; I don’t actually hate-hate her. We got in a drag out,
knockout, fistfight about a month after I got my pup. Even though she’s about
five feet nine, which is seven inches taller than me, and probably double my
size. I’m scrappy, and I grew up in this lifestyle. Plus, I have two biker
brothers and a biker for a father. So I know how to box. In turn, I fucked her
shit up - broke her nose, busted open her lip, and bruised her up something
fierce. It’s been years since I’ve even heard her name spoken aloud. She’s not
allowed at the club anymore. But that never stopped Big Dick from sliding into
home plate wherever she willingly spreads her legs. What a sick son of a bitch.

“Were you at her house, Big?”

His response, nothing but a straight
up, scary as hell glare. I’m not going to wilt under his intimidation tactics.
I stare back with just as much intensity, my eyes turning into two slits of
anger and disgust.

“Were you?” I grind my jaw, the hairs
on the back of my neck standing attention, my agitation at an all-time high.

Silence.

Fuck. Him.

“You know what? Keep him!” I snarl,
release the leash and pat Pretzel’s head while I wink at him. Then, with a
stern face, I sling my leg over my bike, turn her over and not once do I look
at him. Not once, do I register any of the words that keep flying from his pissed
off mouth as I peel out of the parking lot, heading not home but to the bar.
The bar I go to when I don’t want to be found.

“Bink, what’ll it be? Another?” Manny, my favorite
bartender, asks, leaning his elbows on the bar in front of me. A whoosh of air
from the front door blows my way, thanks to the storm that has suddenly settled
in the sky. From the looks of the radar, it’s not going anywhere fast.

Grreeeaaatttt.

It’s eight, and I’ve been here for hours, drinking,
eating, chatting, drinking some more, getting hit on, and the list rattles so
on and so forth. See, I told you my life was in utter disarray. I don’t even
have my fuckin’ dog anymore. What a stupid bitch am I? Do I think Big Dick will
put pups in the ground? No, not at all; he called him
cute
.

A snicker follows that thought. Fuckin Big. Uhh!!! I
can’t stand that sexy, infuriating man.

“What’s wrong, princess?” A man in a blue business
suit glides onto the bar stool next to mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see
him bang my brains out, with a determined expression on his face. Big tits,
that’s all he sees. My mom was right.
‘One
big tit.’

I ignore him.

“What’s wrong?” His hand lands on mine, which is sprawled
unladylike on the bar, and I jerk it away.

“Men,” I incoherently grumble, down another shot of
whiskey, and slam my empty glass back on the bar with a loud thud.

Ahhh…yes…that good belly burn… Just what I needed.

Tapping my finger on the edge of shot glass, Manny
doesn’t ask; he just pours and keeps the whiskey within arm’s reach for my next
refill.

“We’re not all bad, princess.”

Does this doofus really think the princess line is
sexy? I’d rather be called a bitch. That would surely make me wetter than some
depiction of being a princess, like the fuckin’ little mermaid. Note: Women do
not, I repeat, do NOT like to be called princess. The whole tiara, prissy bitch
thing. Nope, not sexy. It comes off as weak and needy. I’m the furthest from
both.

My phone buzzes for the umpteenth time. I roll my
eyes, exasperated, and pull it from between my legs, dropping it onto the bar.
Sliding open the screen, I’m assaulted with message after message. Fuck. Me.
Sideways. I don’t wanna hear all this shit. I’m a grown ass woman. I don’t need
some dudes barking orders at me. The dickwad already took my goddamn dog. What
the fuck else could he possibly want?

Big: You crazy bitch! What the fuck are you thinkin’?
Rollin up outta here on your Prez like that. You know that’s a punishable offense,
right? Punishable by lockin’ your ass up at the club and whipping your ass
kinda punishment. Hit me up now, or I’m pullin’ rank.

Big: I’m not fuckin’ tellin’ you again. I’ll kill this
dog just to spite your mouthy good for nothin’ ass.

Big: Bye-bye, Fido. Dumpin’ his dead ass in the river
now. You did this shit to yourself.

Tears… Big hot tears well in my eyes, coating the
world in watery bleariness.

Big: I’ve got his collar if you want it. If not, I’ll
burn it.

The tears fall, streaming rapidly down my cheeks. He
killed my dog! He killed Pretzel, and it’s all my fault!

Manny slides a tissue box in front of me, and I solemnly
grin my appreciation.

“It’s on the house.” Another fill to
my shot glass, I down it, and he refills. Then another goes down the hatchet.

Me: I don’t want his collar. I don’t want to see you.
I’m not comin’ round the club no more. I’m out. Peace.

I sit, staring into the empty shot glass, running my
finger slowly around the rim, drowning in my own sorrows, crying like the bitch
I am.

Big: Where you at?

Why does it matter? I turn off my phone, and I lay my
head on the bar. The cool varnished wood helps numb the pain that has curled
itself into my soul and locked itself there. My. Life. Sucks!

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

“Morning, sleepyhead.” A warm hand nudges my arm
that’s tucked under a pillow above my head. “Morning.”

Grumbling, I roll onto my back while my head pounds
like a million vehement drums.

Fu-uh-uh-ckkk!

“Bink.”

Whose voice is that? Where the fuck am I? Oh shit… I
passed out at the bar… Which means? Shit…Shit… Double Shit… Where am I?

“Bink.”

I recognize that voice.

“Bink.” My arm is nudged once more.

“Uh?” My caveman-like response isn’t lost on me, but I
feel like crap. This man’s lucky to get any damn sound from me. I’d much rather
slip back into a deep, sleepy coma than have to live though this throbbing pain
that’s eating my brain for breakfast.

A pleasant, masculine laugh fills the air, and my
brain seizes, hating me, noise, light, and everything about being alive. I hate
hangovers!

I clasp my hands over my ears for relief and weakly
groan, turning my face over into some sort of overly soft feather pillow.

“It’s me, Doctor Jagger. You need to take some
medicine for that nasty hangover you’ve got.”

“I don’t wanna move,” I whine into the pillow, face
down, with nothing but the pain and misery of reliving yesterday to keep me
company.

He chuckles. It’s one of those deep chuckles that
instantly warms your insides and even with my hands over my ears, I can feel it
thaw a sliver of my ice-cold sadness.

“You’re not going in to work today. I called in too.
Now turn over and take these.”

I comply, keeping my eyes closed in fear of any light
cracking this splitting headache into fourths.

“Open.”

I listen and part my lips. Two pills are dropped
inside, followed by the rigid tip of a straw. I suck some ice water into my cottony
mouth and swallow the contents down.

“How did you find me?” I ask in barely above a
whisper, curling my fingers into the blanket and holding it secure at my
neckline.

“My phone number is in your purse. The barkeep Manny
called.”

“I’m not a drunk.” I strangely blurt, spewing word
vomit.

“I never said you were.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“You having to pick up your employee of two weeks and
bring her back to wherever this is and take care of me.”

Another one of those warming chuckles pleasantly fills
the air. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he whispers as I feel his body
leaning closer to mine. I inhale sharply and instantly smell the delicious
scent of his spicy, almost woodsy cologne.

“You smell good,” I mutter under my breath, knowing
that he’s close, too close to me. It feels awkward.

Hot, spearmint-scented breath from his even hotter
mouth sensuously brushes across the skin on my cheek. “Thank you, Bink.” He
breathes huskily, “And I became a doctor to care for people. It’s one of the
many flaws that I have.”

A flaw that he likes to care for people? How
ridiculous is that?

“Caring is not a flaw.”

The bed moves abruptly as I feel him scoot away. “It
is when you have nothing in life but your job. No wife, no kids, parents dead,
and the only people you have are your two best friends.”

That doesn’t sound so bad.

“Listen… I’ve got family, too much of it…but no one
else either…really.”

“I wanted to tell you I turned on your phone this
morning when I brought you back to my house. I didn’t read anything, but you
have a lot of messages,” he says, blatantly ignoring my comment. Two can play
at that game.

“If I don’t have to go to work, can I sleep?”

First, I don’t give two shits about my messages, and
second, I’m surely not talking about them or the fact that my father’s a part
of a motorcycle club and his president just killed my dog.
Crazy
, that sounds straight-up, looney
bin, white padded walls, nutso.

“Sure.” His quick unhappy response floods me with
dread. I’m probably going to lose my job after this. Not that I blame him. I
would fire me too. See, another reason why my life is a continual rotation of
bad choices and fucked up circumstances. I’m not a victim in any sense of the
word, but I really would love to catch a break, just once in a while.

The door to the room comes to a close as I hear the
doctor exit.

Do you want the 4-1-1 to my life from
a hung over emotional mess? Who’s sleeping in her boss’s bed, that’s soft,
smells like laundry detergent, and man? I’ll give it to ya dirty. No holds
barred. It’s not like I’ve got shit to do today, except lie here, attempting to
nip this hellacious hangover in the butt before I get the urge to puke my guts
out. I’m about a quarter of the way there.

So here goes…

Four boyfriends, four stinkin’
boyfriends that I dated semi-seriously in my 20’s all cheated. I don’t do
cheaters, and that is why I’ve never argued with my father’s rule of no
brothers. Brothers of the club are notorious for stickin’ their dicks in
anything as long as it’s warm, female, and of age. And the latter I’m not even
sure matters to some of the sleazier men. Out of those four quasi
relationships, the longest lasted nearly a year. He was two years older than
me, a wannabe biker bad boy with a drinking problem and shit stamina in the
bedroom. But his tongue fucked like a champ, though. That boy could eat some
pussy. All night, if I wanted him to. Probably the only redeeming quality he
had. Shoulda known he was a chump when I took him shootin’ with me for the
first time.

Jason…that was his name. But I called him Jay.

Nearly a year ago, Jay and I were headed to the gun range on
the outskirts of town. I had just gotten off work at the law firm I was working
for part-time when he picked me up on his Honda. That should have been a clear
indication he was a tool. Honda? Seriously? Anyhow, I rode bitch with him to
the range, a place I try to hit up once a month if I’m able to keep my skills
sharp.

We had parked in the gravel lot and went inside where I shot
the shit with Blimp, one of the brothers from the club. He owns the place. I
introduced Jay, which by the look on Blimp’s face he wasn’t impressed. Not that
any of the brothers would’ve been with anyone I’ve ever dated. To say they are
overprotective of me is putting it lightly, feather lightly.

“Here.” I handed Blimp my standard issue 9mm with a custom
pink handle that has my name engraved on it. It had been a birthday present
from Gunz and Big Dick when I turned eighteen. I keep it in my purse, loaded at
all times.

“That’s yours?” Jay asked, wide-eyed, looking paler than
usual. We’d been dating a while, and the fact that he had no clue I carried a
gun was pretty stupid on his part.

“Yeah.” I almost rolled my eyes at the question, considering
my name was on the damn handle. However, I refrained out of courtesy, so he
could save face in front of Blimp. I knew as soon as we went outside to shoot,
Blimp would be calling my daddy and Big with an update. Never ceases to amaze
me how much they all know about my life. But when you’re the daughter of the
VP, and a friendly face of the club, you are always protected, always kept
after, always loved, and if that doesn’t make you feel special, I don’t know
what will. I had to learn to accept it long ago that the majority of my
business is the club’s business. Took me many years to let that little fact
sink in. Many years of arguments and fights about shit I never even told Big
Dick or Daddy about that was thrown in my face for not following some invisible
rules set by them for me to adhere to. But that’s a story for another time.

Blimp cleaned my 9 for me and loaned a standard issued one
to Jay. I hadn’t ever discussed with Jay his experience with a gun. Every man
in my life carries one daily, and knows how to wield it like an expert
marksman. Never considered the alternative. It just doesn’t fit into my world.
Some things are a given. The ability to fight, shoot a gun, ride a motorcycle,
drink like a fish…those are just a few qualities Sacred Sinners brother needs to possess.

Walking out the back of the brick single story building, our
targets were pinned to stacks of hay bales in the distance. I always use the
outside range versus the inside, just seems more natural. The bright blue sky
was shining down on us, on that perfect sixty-degree day.

Standing in the grass next to Jay, I checked my clip, held
my stance, raising my arm like my daddy, Gunz, and Big taught me to, and I
unloaded the first shot. It hit the target a little low and to the left. So I
readjusted my aim, based on wind, temperature, and all that happy horseshit.
Another bullet discharged from my 9 and landed just how I knew it would,
straight in the heart of my paper man target. I heard Jay gasp, as a cocky
smile curled up from my lips and like always, I was burning hot and ready to fuck.
Firing a gun will do that to you. After I had emptied my clip, I turned to Jay,
who stared in open-mouthed awe at my target. Two bullets I released were the
only ones that didn’t hit my desired destination.

Next was Jay’s turn, and when he lined up, aimed, and fired,
I had to hold back everything within me not to laugh. One bullet, one singular
bullet, hit his target out of the entire clip. The rest missed by a mile. Even
with my coaching, he couldn’t shoot. It was embarrassing for him and even more
for me. To think I still dated that fool for another month, and only dumped him
once Big and Gunz had photographic evidence of that dumbass tonguing some local
floozy in one of the downtown dive bars. I didn’t have to break up with him
myself. Thankfully, Gunz did it for me, bashing his face in is one of his
specialties. Serves him right for thinkin’ he’d get away with it. Not in this
town. This town, my town, it’s a biker town. Almost all the small businesses
are somehow linked to S.S.M.C and those who aren’t know better than to fuck
with us. Even the local PD are chill. The brothers know all, see all, and
formulate their own level of justice and have since the S.S.M.C opened its
doors in 1942.

Well, there’s a small Bink history lesson for ya. Now I think
it’s time for me to catch a bit of shuteye.

A hefty knock at the bedroom door
cuts through my dreamless sleep. I roll onto my back and finally open my eyes,
feeling a hundred times better than I did before I crashed again. The knock
sounds again.

Resting my hands behind my head, I
grin as the white bedroom door creaks open. Doctor Jagger’s face is morose and
apologetic as he pushes the door wide, the handle bumping against the wall.

A deep, sexually charged growl, the
same growl that I’ve heard millions of times in my life, slices through the air
like a knife, breaking the pregnant silence.

“What are you doing here?” I calmly
ask, watching Big Dick standing next to my boss, who looks like a tiny ant
compared to Big’s size.

“You, tiny little bitch, weren’t
answering my calls,” he snaps at me, taking a step forward and filling the
entire doorframe with his size, his head having to crouch slightly to avoid
hitting the top.

Doctor Jagger purposely clears his
throat, and Big leers at him over his shoulder, squinting in disgust. The age
lines around his eyes accentuating his maddening glare.

“Listen, pretty doctor boy, this ain’t got nothin’ to
do with you.”

“I beg your pardon, Big…” Doctor Jagger speaks,
trailing off with an obvious catch in his throat. I can’t see him because he’s
hidden behind my large, overprotective asshole of a… Well… I dunno what he is…

“Dick. My name’s Big Dick. Come on, Doc, you can say
it.”

What a sarcastic bastard! Why in the hell is he here
and more importantly, how did the asshole find me?

“Don’t call him that, Doctor. Ignore the crazy gorilla,”
I explain.

Another fucking growl erupts from Big, and his jaw
locks as he gives me the death glare, his hands balled into tight white
knuckled fists at his sides. I’m pushing his buttons. Good!

“Bink, don’t do this. Prez has been havin’ himself a
beat-down-a-thon since last night. Don’t provoke him.” The familiar voice of
Gunz interrupts from the other room. That’s gotta be how the asshole found me.
Gunz is a tech whizz. Stupid me, I shoulda known.

“Hi, Gunz.” I lean up onto my elbows, the blanket
falling away from my neck and exposing me in my black lace bra.

One second, Big’s trying his failing intimidation tact
of his eyes boring into mine, and the next, he turns on his heels and lunges
like a protective bear straight at my boss.

“No!” I scream, frantically jumping out of bed,
knowing damn well he will kill him without a second thought. “No!”

Rounding the corner outside of the bedroom in nothing
but my matching black bra and panties, Big has my boss pinned against the wall,
the barrel of his black handgun pressed under Doctor Jagger’s chin. My poor
boss’s hands are trapped at his sides as his body shakes. But he doesn’t say a
word, as his lungs pump air rapidly in and out of his nose in short bursts. I
can feel the anxiety and fear pouring off him, clouding the air and mixing with
the fury that Big is emanating. It creates a toxic imbalance that I could
almost choke on.