MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) (19 page)

“Axel has two of those three, and
I’ve asked some of my customers. That’s why,” Pixie explains, annoyed. Like
answering the question is the dumbest thing she’s ever had to endure.

“Why are we talking about this
again?” I interrupt, leaning back in my chair and cupping Harley who has
decided in the last twenty minutes to play soccer in my womb.

They both snap to glare at me. I
snicker at their mashed up faces and shrug. “What? I’m just asking.”

Pixie takes a shot and drops the
glass to the table with a thud. Then she slouches in her chair and searches the
crowd for Axel. Pinning him in her sight, she dreamily sighs. “Jez wants Bulk
to get his junk pierced. She wants to be the one to convince him which one
would be best suited for their kinky humptastic tango.”

Jezebel barks a laugh, and I blush,
giggling under my breath. Pixie talking like this is a rarity. I like this new
side of her. “Humptastic. I’ll keep that in mind,” I reply dryly.

“You do that,” Pixie licks her lips,
her eyes blazing with lust at her man. Whiskey and hormones does it every time.

“I’ll…be…right…back,” she purrs,
pushing up from the table and sexily sauntering over to her man who pulls away
from his brothers and sweeps his tiny old lady into his arms. Devouring her
mouth in a sinful kiss, he grabs a palm full of her tiny ass and grinds what I
would presume is his hard pierced cock against her stomach.

“I guess they’re about to fuck,”
Debbie singsongs, dropping down in the seat Pixie just vacated with an
exhausted huff.

“They need it. Axel just got back
from a run four days ago, and she’s been hell-bent on banging his brains out
every chance she can. Between us,” Jezebel leans in, and like a girl posse
ready for a juicy story; Debbie and I eagerly lean in too.

“She wants a baby,” she whispers.
“She went off birth control, and he don’t know. He don’t want kids. Never did.
She does though, and the hormone imbalance of being off the pill has her going
bat-shit crazy. Found her this mornin’ on her bathroom floor riding a suction
cup dildo. This was after she and he had just finished, and he’d left. She said
she doesn’t know why but she feels like she wants to come all the time. Can’t
shake the feeling. Kinda feel bad for the poor woman. That puss has got to be
gettin’ tired.”

Through this whole horny sob story,
all I can think about is how lucky Pixie is. I know that might not be your
reaction. Or most people for that matter. I don’t feel any sympathy for the
woman. A) She’s got a man to help feed her sex drive, B) She can get off on her
own, without Axel’s assistance. I, on the other hand, can’t get off without a
partner. The only time I come is either on a motorcycle, which I can’t do right
now, or in my dreams. Both are pathetic. All because of ….. I recline back into
my normal position and turn my head to see Marshall is now munching on some
appetizers. Not a care in the world about his girlfriend, because he’s too
preoccupied with the rich people on his even playing field to even look over to
check up on me.
Asshole
.

The dinner bell rings, just as Debbie
finishes up whatever last second chatter she and Jezebel are mulling over about
poor Pixie’s radical sex drive. Yeah well, try finger banging yourself in your
bathroom while your boyfriend is in bed reading some snooty-falooty biography
about one of the presidents only to come out completely unsatisfied and hornier
than you went in. Then crawl into bed, try to straddle your sexy boyfriend’s
lap, and be told ‘no’ and ‘please get off me’. I think I am starting to
understand what the majority of what men go through when their women brush them
off instead of taking ten minutes out of their day to please their partner.
Think about it; you might not be in the mood, but how hard is it really, to
just suck it up and lay like a dead fish, or suck a cock for ten whole minutes.
Seems rather simple if you ask me. Not quite the daunting task that old biddies
make it out to be.

Big stands next to the buffet table
raising his hands in the air, with his woman flanking his left side. “It’s time
to eat,” he bellows as the crowd goes silent. My brother hasn’t returned from
his mating chambers quite yet. I’ve been to a few of these weddings before, and
some bikers take the consummating thing very seriously. Doesn’t surprise me
Brew would consider this one of those occasions.

A long line forms at the buffet, and
I remain seated. Viper approaches me, as does Deke; both of them politely offer
to get me a plate so I don’t have to get up. Graciously I decline and fold my
hands under my belly, as I wait for the line to dissipate. Fifteen minutes
later, I stand and waddle over. Grabbing a thick paper plate, I load up on
heavenly scented food, refusing to waste any energy checking to see if Marshall
has eaten yet. He’s on my shit list already.

The seats around the room have become
occupied while people chow down on their grub. As I re-approach my table, I
internally scowl when I see Debbie with Dallas and Jezebel with Bulk, they have
joined the table, alongside Big Dick and Marylou. He did this on purpose. I can
tell by the smug smile he discretely flashes my way as I give him the stink-eye
followed by an exaggerated eye roll, before I take my seat across from him.

Poking my fork into my salad, I eat,
and the table dines in companionable silence until a drunken Jezebel opens her
big fucking trap. “So Bink, how’s Deke’s garage treatin’ ya?”

I grumble under my breath, and glance
up from my plate to see Deke taking the last open chair at our table. The one
that is directly next to Marylou.

“She loves it, of course,” he answers
for me.

“Well,” I drop my fork onto my plate
and recline back in my chair, stretching my legs under the table. My toes bump
into a pair of boots, and Big’s eyes jerk up to meet mine. I immediately look
away, tugging my feet back under my chair. Shit, I didn’t mean to touch his
foot.

Way to go, you stupid bitch.

I clear my throat. “Well Jezebel, I
think my boss is a pain in the ass for the most part, but the pay ain’t bad,
and I get to wear whatever the hell I want.” I playfully wink at Deke, and he
smirks, shoving a forkful of corn casserole into his pie hole.

Swiping his mouth with the back of
his hand, Deke takes a drink of his tapped beer. “Maybe I should change the
dress code for women. How about we move to miniskirts and crop tops?” he grins
devilishly; setting his cup down and picking up a fluffy roll on this plate. No
doubt meaning every fantasy induced word. After the alley-almost-fuck-fest,
I’ve been anointed with the knowledge that my boss is attracted to me, even
with a baby growing in my belly. Maybe he digs pregnant porn? I should ask him
about that one of these days when we’re not sitting at the same table with Big
and his hottie-potattie. She’s wearing a dress that is more robin’s egg blue
than powder-blue, and it’s short, like don’t-move-or-I’ll-be-able-to-see-your-cervix
short.

A fist slams down on the table, and I
jump in my chair, my heart shooting into my throat. “The fuck you will,” Big
sneers at Deke.

“It was a joke,” I stick up for Deke,
whose expression is a mixture between fuck and oops-I-did-it-again.

With my eyes attentively staring at
Big like he’s the biggest jerk in the entire galaxy, he purposely hooks his arm
over the back of his woman’s chair and scoots her closer so she’s in the crook
of his arm. She doesn’t seem to mind; the idiot purrs like a kitten and
snuggles into the side of his chest. I try to do my best to remain impassive
over this sad display of dominance. I feel myself failing as my face squishes,
making me look more constipated than jealous. I’m jealous alright. I’m not
admitting it to anyone else but you. So yeah, now ya know. Big with another
woman makes me insanely jealous. I knew before I left in September that my
feelings for Big were more than lust. They’re love. Maybe not in love-love but
damn near it. My heart wouldn’t pound like this or ache like this otherwise,
now would it?

Suddenly, I get the urge to pee. Call it nerves or
Mother Nature; I don’t care which. I just know I can’t endure another second of
this shit. It’s my brother’s reception for Christ sake, and Big can’t let me
breathe for one goddamn minute without showboating. The single dimpled grin on
his face is enough to make me want to scream. He knows he’s affecting me. Shit,
I’m sure the whole fucking table knows it too. If I cared enough to acknowledge
them sitting here, I’m sure I’d see it written on their faces. But nope, I
can’t though. Why? I am too engrossed in glaring at this crazy hot, Neanderthal
biker to process anything other than him. God, I wish I could slap the sexy
right outta him. It would make my life just a little bit easier. I hate feeling
like I’m not in control of anything anymore. Not in control of my emotions, not
my body, not Marshall, and definitely not Big. This sucks; it really, really
sucks ass.

Pushing up from my chair, I excuse myself from the
table and weave between the tables, past the bar, to the hall door, so I can go
to my room to relieve myself and gather my rickety bearings back. I don’t spare
a second glance to anyone as I exit the main room into the hall. I don’t see a
thing once my mind registers on a single task.
Get
to my room
. I turn the corner at the end of the hall, and I jog the
last few steps to my door. Reaching into the top of my dress, I yank my key
from my bra, unlock my door, and heave a giant sigh of relief as I cross the
threshold and shut the door. A weight is immediately lifted off my chest.
Thank you Jesus
. Tossing the key on the
dresser, I head straight to the potty to handle my business.

I finish and wash my hands, still swirling in an
unwanted vortex of emotional confusion and rampant, needy hormones. Drying my
hands on the soft terry cloth towel on the rack, I return to the sink and take
a good long look in the mirror. Who is that woman staring back at me? The woman
with the deep blue eyes and the short golden hair? The woman who’s gained
nearly thirty pounds and is carrying the biggest secret of her life snuggled in
the depths of her womb? I hardly recognize myself anymore. Sure, I look the
same, but months of stress and heartache robs you of yourself. I know I can’t
play victim, and I’m not. Not for the most part anyhow. I chose to leave, and I
chose to come back and visit. Simple as that. But seeing him, I mean really
seeing him, in person after so long feels like I’ve regained a huge chunk of my
soul. Even if he’s with another woman, cuddling with her, and treating me like
dog shit. Apparently deep down, I’m a misogynist at heart, a true glutton for
punishment. After all that, after all the heartache, lies, and sorrow, I still
long for him. In my dreams, I dream of him. I hate to admit it to myself,
really. It’s hard. It’s like admitting you’re an alcoholic; the acknowledgement
is only half the battle. The rest is how to regroup and untangle the web to
which my emotions and love has weaved, since probably infancy. A lifetime of
memories, even if they weren’t ones of romance, are hard to undo and discard,
like meaningless sex.

I shake my head and break away from
the mirror. That’s enough of that. I am here for my brother’s wedding. That’s
it, that’s all.

Righting myself by dusting off my
dress that has absolutely no dirt adorning it, I straighten my back and open
the bedroom door.

“What!?” I scream and gasp. Throwing
my hand to my mouth, I back pedal as fast as my swollen feet will carry me and
slam the door shut.
Oh my God!
I
lock the bathroom door and throw my back against it with a loud thud.

A knock sounds on the bathroom door.
I don’t respond. The next knock quickly turns into a thunderous pound that
bounces off the tiled walls in the tiny bathroom, making my ears ring.

“Open the goddamn door, Bink. I know
you’re in there, and there is no way out except through this door. And I am not
leavin’ until we talk,” Big gruffly demands on the opposite of the bathroom
door.

Fuck-shit- fuckity-fuck- shit-fuck. I
don’t want to do this.

Slamming my noggin against the door,
I groan in defeat, “I have nothing to say.”

“I have plenty.”

Great, we’re going to be here all
night. Can’t elude him now.

“I’m listening.”

“Come out of the bathroom.”

“Why? So you can call me names, and
tell me how fat and ugly I am?” I peer down at my ankles and shiver in disgust.
Yuck. Frodo Baggins and I have swapped feet, except my ankles are plumper, and
they ache like hell.

I continue, “Or how huge my ass has
gotten? Or how much you wish I’d never have come back? I’m sorry, but I’d
rather be insulted with a door separating us,”
and
so I can cry without you having to see me.
I finish the sentence in
my head.

Sounds of nails scratching the back
of the door are his reply. Seconds turn to minutes and with every beat of my
heart the clock ticks. I would’ve thought he’d have left by now, but the
scratching persists. Then there’s a clunk, like the sound of metal colliding
with the door; his ring would be my guess.

“What are you doing out there?” I
have to ask because this silent waiting game is almost worse than the
inevitable confrontation. I’m tense, and shaking, from the tips of my toes to
the top of my head. I hate this.

“I’m trying to figure out why I
bother. Why I even care.” I hear him groan, and his voice lowers to a deep soul
owning gruff that I feel deep down in my marrow. “Sugar tits, you show up
here…” he drifts off, and I wait for a reply, only it doesn’t come and more
agonizing minutes slip by.

Stepping away from the door, I
hesitantly wrap my small fingers around the cool knob. I really hate to have
this ‘talk,’ but I know it was bound to come to a head sooner or later. And the
melancholy that’s steeped in his voice makes the voices in my head take notice.
The caring part of me wants to fix his troubles and ask what he really needs to
say. The other part wants to run far-far away and never look back. Since I’ve
already accomplished the latter, I figure I owe him the former, out of respect
if nothing else. Even if he hasn’t shown me an ounce of respect since I’ve
arrived.