MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) (23 page)

“How about we
both
go,” I innocently offer, sweeping my hands toward the kitchen doors. He jerks a
strong nod and takes the lead, striding to the kitchen. I’m a few steps behind
him. He shoves open the kitchen door, it swings wide and jolts right back. I
stop it with my hands to keep it from smacking me.

As soon as I cross the threshold of the kitchen,
forceful hands grab my upper arms and slam my body roughly against the wall
beside the door. I yelp in pain as my head rattles, smashing into concrete.

“What the fuck?!” I screech.

Big’s manic face is wild and crazy, his eyes are
frantically wide, and he rapidly looks me up and down, like he’s searching for
something. Thick calloused fingers of his trembling hands dig into my biceps,
and I bite my inner cheek to keep from crying out in agony. It hurts, but I can
take it. Hot stress-laden breaths burst out of Big like an over exerted piston,
sputtering uncontrollably. Maybe this is a psychotic episode.

“Big,” I try to push off the wall, his hands tighten
and his legs plant themselves firmly to the floor, holding me to the wall with
all of his might.

“Big,” I call out again.

Nothing.

“Big! Stop!” I shout, and suddenly his manic behavior
plummets to an instant halt. He holds his breath, his hands stop shaking, and
he freezes to stone.

Shrugging his hands off my biceps,
they fall to the wayside, swinging loosely to his sides. I don’t even question
what I do next. I grab his face in my hands and force his eyes to meet mine.

“Are you okay?”

He faintly nods repeatedly, all expressions washed
from his deathly pale face. I’ve never in my entire life seen him this way. I’m
scared. What if something is seriously wrong with him?

“Talk to me.” I cup his face firmer to let him know
I’m not going anywhere, and I refuse to break eye contact with his cold dead
eyes. He blinks, once, twice, and then closes his eyes for a moment and reopens
them. Then I see the warmth and love flood back in. They soften around the
edges, creases forming as they slightly droop, with his lashes accentuating his
heart wrenching vulnerability.

“What happened?” I gently ask, keeping my tone low and
sweet.

“Did you sleep with him?” he whispers, ignoring my
question.

“Is that why you sent him?”

The guilty nod he produces is my
answer.

“You’re mad you made that call, aren’t you?”

Another guilty nod.

“What if I had?”

He scours and tries to jerk his head to look away. I
refuse to let him.

“Big, I didn’t sleep with Marshall just because you
sent him. I didn’t want to sleep with him. I wanted to fuck you. There is no
way his sex could ever compare to yours.”

The radiant smile that curls from his
pouty lips makes my heart soar. I love when he smiles like that. It doesn’t
happen often. I know I probably shouldn’t have told him the truth about his sex
being that much better because it gives him too much power. In this moment, I
think he deserves it.

“Are you done freakin’ out?”

He nods, and his smile begins to recede.

“Hey,” I pat the side of his face to
make this melancholy disappear. “I need you to stop freakin’ out. You are Big
Dick, the badass Sacred Sinners president. You aren’t allowed to scare me with
this emotional roller coaster you got goin’ on. I need you to be the tough
fucker I know you to be. Why are you actin’ so weird?”

“Cause,” he states, stronger than I expected.

“Cause, why?”

“Cause,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I love you, and…”
he grunts. “I hate you. And, I hate that I fuckin’ love you.”

The words ‘Me too’ nearly slip out when the kitchen
door swings open, and the familiar sound of Marylou’s gasp fills me with dread.
I release Big’s face, and we both turn to see her standing with the door open,
stunned, both manicured hands cupped over her mouth.

“You let her touch your face?” she whines, looking to
me and back to him for an answer.

What kind of weird as fuck question is that?
Of course I touch his face, bitch. What the fuck are
you gonna do about it?
He’s Mine.
Oh, shit, I did not just think that. My protectiveness needs to chill the hell
out. This is his girlfriend, not some other woman. I clench and unclench my
fists at my sides to force my boiling blood to cool. I think I should probably
go; me standing here isn’t doing anyone any good.

I stroll right past Marylou without sparing a single
glance toward her or Big, as I re-enter the common room, forgetting to grab my
cake in the process. Shit. Oh well… I’ll eat something later.

Heading back over to the table, I sit down and jump straight into some conversation about the Fourth of July Toys for Tots bike run. It’s a run I’ve been on once, and it’s a huge deal around here. It’s not about MCs. It’s about bikers as a whole, whether they be unaffiliated weekend warriors, MC members (motorcycle club), or RC members (riding club). It makes no difference. It’s for a good cause, and we all do our duty to raise funds.

“If I can ride this year, I will,” I intercede when
Mickey gets off his customization tangent. He’s a firm believer that we need to
polish up our bikes more to make them stand out at this event, or any event for
that matter.

“I want to come too,” Pixie adds.

“You gonna ride bitch? Or you gonna learn to ride
yourself?” I ask, without passing judgment. Although, I am a firm believer that
women should know how to ride on their own.

“Bitch, of course.” Pixie sticks her tongue out at me,
picks up her shot, and downs it. Then licks her lips to lap up any whiskey that
might be left and torment me at the same time.
Bitch
!

“I wanna learn, if you’ll teach me to ride,” Jezebel
says, entering the discussion.

“You want me to teach you?” I am taken aback.

Reclining in my chair and tossing my
arms loosely across my chest, I give her the once over, like she’s lost her
damn mind. She wants me to teach her? She’s got an entire compound full of
willing men to show her how to ride who have taught people before. I know
nothing about instructing a newbie to ride. It’s nothing like driving a car.
You have to be able to hold the weight between your thighs without it falling
over, know how to shift, know how to use your clutch and hand break
simultaneously, and at the same time know how to accelerate. Those are the
easier parts to master. Turning into curves, riding on loose asphalt, and clicking down gears so you don’t stall when you are suddenly riding on slicker terrain are important to master too. I’m not saying it’s impossible to learn; I just don’t think I’m the one to teach.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never been
in a wreck. Every biker I know has stalled many times, and some, like
myself, have tipped a few bikes. Picking those fuckers back up is half the
battle, if you have no idea what you are doing. The main thing is not all bikes
are the same, kind of like cars in that sense. Size, weight, cc’s…. Some are
tighter on the gears, some vibrate more than others, and some are more
difficult to turn. A lot has to do with the kind of bike -- touring, sport, and
so forth. The basics are almost all the same. It’s the perfecting that isn’t.

I remember when I started to ride. I began on a scooter first
because they are automatic, so you don’t need to learn shifting. Once I had
that down pat, I was upgraded to a 1988 black Harley Sportster 883. I dumped
that bike four times; thank God it was in rough condition when I got it, or I
probably would’ve had to pay for all the scratches and the one dent I put on
it.

“Slowly, slowly release the brake,” Big advised me for the hundredth time of the day. I listened, and like the twenty times before, I gunned forward, lost my balance, and down it went. I was young, and the fucker had to have weighed close to five hundred pounds. I wasn’t the fastest learner, that was for sure. That time, my leg got pinned under the bike. Big lifted it off me, and I gave up for the day.

Limping back into the compound, he sat with me as Gunz went
to fetch a bag of ice to help with the bumps and bruises and an Italian Ice to
soothe my frustration. By that point with my shitty luck and skillset, I swore
I’d never be able to ride without killing myself.

“I’m not getting on a bike again,” I huffed, tossing my head
back into the threadbare couch.

“Yes, you fuckin’ are. Not everyone gets it right away,” Big
assured me.

“He’s right, Baby Doll. Don’t worry, you’ll get it,” Gunz
added, sitting on the arm of the couch next to me, his fingers combing through
my messy hair.

I shook my head, staring at the tar stained ceiling of the
common room. “Shouldn’t I learn to drive a car first?”

“Well….” Gunz started.

“No,” Big interrupted, and that was all Big said, no reasons
why, nothing.

Two days later, I was back to practicing, this time with
Gunz and Big. Three months following that, with a less temperamental bike, I
had the hang of it.

Tuning back into the conversation, I
realize Jezebel is arguing with Bulk about her wanting to ride on her own. Some
men feel it’s emasculating if his old lady rides beside him, instead of on the
back of his bike.

“I’m going to learn, Bulk,” Jezebel
insists, growing irritated.

“I’ll teach you,” Big states,
announcing his arrival, with messy hair down his back, puffy red lips, and a
glowing girlfriend sitting down beside him with an extra bounce in her step.
Fuck! He just banged his woman in that damn kitchen, after he went all
emotional on me about Marshall. Screw him! I’m not hurt! I refuse to be hurt.
I’m fucking pissed! What a jerk! Argh!! I hate him! That sick, self-righteous
son of a bitch.

Scooting my chair to the side, I angle
myself so I am not viewing him head on. I refuse to look at his stupid
cheating… no, I mean, stupid… oh fuck... I dunno. I’m not looking at him.
That’s all. Oh… and I hope his dick came in contact with a rare kitchen fungus
that makes it shrivel up, turn gangrene, and fall off. It would serve him
right!

Okay, enough of that. Back to the
topic of Bulk and Jez.

“Prez, I don’t want her to ride,”
Bulk grumbles, and Jez scowls at her old man, scraping her chair across the
floor, moving away from him and closer to me.

“Why not? What’s your old lady’s
hobbies?” Big inquires.

“I dunno?” I catch Bulk shrug out of
the corner of my eye, stupidly unaware of what his woman likes. “Chill with the
Sacred Sisters, read, and her kids… I guess,” Bulk answers after a moment,
clearly unsure of his response.

“See,” Big clamors, “you don’t know
your old lady,” he pauses, “Dallas.”

I’m assuming he’s pointing to Dallas,
but I refuse to look.

“He knows his old lady likes to cook,
help him with the dogs he raises, and?” Big prompts.

“Take care of our boys, babysit, and
watch her shows,” Dallas finishes, and by the ‘aww’ imparted from Debbie, she’s
smitten with his response. Somebody is gonna get lucky tonight.

“Which means,” Big clears his throat,
“he and his old lady have some shit in common, and he knows how to take care of
his old lady. Bulk, your old lady wants to ride. You could teach her, instead
of me or Bink.”

I wince as my name smoothly flows
from those kissable lips of his.

Big continues, “It’d be a bonding
experience for you two. Your marriage ain’t like normal marriages, brother.
It’s a club one. She’s got a bunch of shit she’s gotta put up with in order to
hack it as an old lady. More so than most civilians. If she wants to learn to
ride, to gain her freedom like the rest of us, then I say fuck yeah, let her do
it. It’ll bond you, and it doesn’t mean she won’t ride bitch anymore. It just
means you get to see her luscious tits bounce as you ride beside her instead of
feelin’ ‘em against your back.”

Hate to give him credit after his
kitchen fuckfest, but he’s right.

Jezebel thanks Big, as I concentrate
on the back of her head to keep from looking over to the rest of the table, who
has lapsed into more conversation about women riding solo. I faze in and out of
listening to the conversations, picking up bits and pieces here or there. The
less I hear his voice, the better I’ll be. Kicking off my shoes, I toss them
under the table and curl my feet into the chair with me, sitting Indian style.
I wrap my arms around my pumpkin baby, feeling her move around.

I’m torn from my daze when someone
calls my name. I glance up and turn my head to see it’s Marylou who called me.

“Huh?” I mutter.

“I was curious. How’d you get your
road name?” she innocently asks. As much as I’d rather not speak to her, I’m
not going to be rude. She’s been nothing but polite to me.

“I picked it up as a kid. Binky
obsession,” I try to explain. “I—”

“She used to fight me for her binky,
couldn’t keep her away from the damn thing,” Big explains, cutting me off,
while flashing me a single dimple grin and brilliant thoughtful eyes.
Positively handsome, he nearly takes my breath away when he looks this way.

“You’re named after a binky?” Marylou
asks, perplexed.

“Sort of,” I admit.

It’s not the coolest thing to be road
named after, but I couldn’t change it if I wanted to. I am forever Bink in this
club, and it’s a hundred times better than being known as Eva. Eva is the name
my mother gave me when she named me after Eva Peron, a women’s rights activist,
or so I was told during one of the times my mom argued that I was Eva, not
Bink. She said Bink was a silly name I should be ashamed for using, and Eva was
an astute, sophisticated name given to a strong female. What the fuck ever.

“When Bink was a toddler, her pops
tried to break her of her binky habit,” Big explains to the whole table, who
has decided to hush up long enough to get the full-fledged story.