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

by Bink Cummings

  ‘Aww’ all of us women sigh, our wombs collectively clenching with motherly need. Or mine is at least.

  “So how’d she get her name?” Marylou asks, knowing that he hasn’t divulged the full story yet. I’m excited to find out myself.

  “That night started a ritual.” Big smiles adoringly at me, and the butterflies make a brief appearance. “When I was home, not on a run, she’d hide under the back porch for me to find her. Instead of fightin’ to come out and leave Fuzzy, she’d crawl out to me. I’d let her take a bathin’ suit swim in my claw foot tub with lots of bubbles, and we’d lay in bed, playin’ share the binky game, watchin’ cartoons, or readin’ a story. Eventually, after ‘bout a month of this, I started grabbin’ her instead of the binky and saying she was ‘my Bink,’ and I’d pretend to suck on the top of her hair like I did her binky. A week or two later, she gave up the binky because she just wanted me, her Big, to get ‘his Bink.’ She’d curl up into my arms, I’d pretend to suck on her hair, and she’d eventually fall asleep her head against my chest, hands clinging to my cut. Sometimes I’d take her home; other times, I’d make sure it was cool with Steel that I kept her. That was the only time I ever stayed at my house much. Most of the time, I’d sleep here,” he glances around the decorated room. “But she was a little-little shit, and I didn’t want her subjected to all these roughnecks,” he gestures with the jerk of his chin to the rowdy bikers, absorbed in various activities. Two tables are wrapped up in playing Euchre, and others are just shootin’ the shit, while many of them are tossing back shots, playing quarters.

  “After a while, she started calling herself Bink. Big’s Bink. Until right before she started kindergarten she was Big’s Bink, and every time she’d hug me I’d pretend to suck her hair by pressing my lips to her head and making silly sucking sounds. She’d giggle and burrow herself into my chest, then I’d read to her, listen to the Eagles or Skynyrd, or sometimes we’d sit in the kitchen eatin’ Italian Ices.”

  Now, I remember part of that. I remember burrowing into him, and him pretending to eat my hair. How did I never know the rest of this story? Common sense would suggest that you’d know your full namesake. I knew about the binky obsession, not the rest. What a dummy I’ve been.

  “Why didn’t I know about this sooner?” I inquire evenly, not wanting to come off defensive.

  “I never told it until today. Gunz was the only brother to know how I’d gotten you to stop your binky addiction. The only reason he knows—”

  “The asshole told me if I didn’t stop buyin’ ‘em for you,” Gunz interrupts, announcing his arrival, and placing his hand on my shoulder, “he was gonna insist on a club vote, and then he’d drag my ass behind the dog kennels to beat me with his belt. I stopped buyin’ ‘em after he told me what he’d been doin’ to break you of ‘em.”

  I glance up to Gunz. He snickers and bends down to place a sweet kiss on my forehead. It warms my belly with happiness.

  “Love you,” I mutter, still looking up at him.

  “Love you more,” he squeezes my shoulder and presses another simple kiss to my upturned forehead.

  Big clears his throat, as if he’s uncomfortable, and abruptly stands.

  “Be right back,” he states, swiftly striding away from the table, leaving us to enquire about his hasty departure. Our hawk eyes follow his every step, as he crosses the room headed straight for the DJ station, where he stops to chat up the young DJ.

  “That was weird,” Marylou affirms, taking the words right out of my head. That was strange. One second we were in reminiscing mode, the next he’s jumping ship.

  Not going to lie, that delightful story has lessened my resentment towards him and Marylou’s kitchen game of hide the sausage. The relationship between the two of us is hot and cold. I think I’d settle for lukewarm, if I ever got lucky enough for it to stay constant.

  The Aerosmith song that was midway through playing is cut off, and the DJ two finger taps his mike. “This song is for a special lady,” he broadcasts, and Big turns around from the black makeshift DJ booth, and stares out over the crowd as the distinguishing instrumental intro of Bon Jovi’s I’ll Be There For You serenades us.

  Holy fuckin’ shit…. this is not that song! He did not.

  Big’s piercing blue eyes dart to me, watching me watch him. He raises both brows, points at me, mouthing ‘come ‘ere,’ then flips his palm over to seductively sweep the come-hither finger my way. At the same time, he offers me the sexiest fucking single dimple grin on the planet. I feel like I’ve been hooked, and I’m being drawn in. I gravitate out of my chair without even realizing it and float through the room, never registering anything except the lyrics of the song and his intense adoring eyes boring into mine, guiding me to him.

  My heart dances in my chest, and my palms dampen like a teenage girl, ready to dance for her first time. I shake them at my sides to rid the clamminess.

  Big opens his arms, as I stop at the edge of the cleared dance floor. “Come ‘ere, Sugar Tits.”

  I go to him. It’s like I’m living a perfect dream. Stepping toe-to-toe with Big, he wraps his arms around my shoulders, treads his fingers through the back of my hair and gently pushes my face to nuzzle his cut clad chest. I don’t object. I melt into him, deeply inhaling his soul seeping scent that instantaneously makes all of my limbs turn into overcooked noodles. The only thing keeping me upright is his protective, loving arms enveloping me. I sigh, nuzzling my nose and cheek to his thick pec. God, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed him. Where there’s no fighting, no pain, there’s just us.

  Big leads, swaying our conjoined bodies slowly in a small circle. My feet sluggishly skim across the floor with his. I tug my arms out from in front of me to latch around his torso, holding him tighter. Big’s warm lips graze the top of my head, and I hear him scent me before pressing a slow tender kiss into my hair. The strong beat of his heart warmly serenades my left ear, while Bon Jovi croons his promises of always being there into my right.

  “I’ll be there for you. I’d live, and I’d die for you. I’d steal the sun from the sky for you,” Big subtly sings, through parted lips against my head. His hot breath drifts through my hair and over my tingling scalp.

  Swallowing down the emotional lump in my throat, I close my eyes to prevent the happy tears that are muddling my vision from teeming down my cheeks. Curling my fingers around the base of Big’s cut, my fingertips slightly brush his jean-clad ass. The rest of the world fades into oblivion, and I shut my brain down to enjoy this moment of serene paradise. Heat emanates from his chest, as his lungs propel strong breaths in and out. The sounds of his singing to me I hear echoing in his chest, somehow making the intimate moment even more special. This is the Big I know and love.

  Turning in our tiny circle, Big stops guiding, when the song ends. “Now it’s time to really dance with me,” he states into my hair, before kissing it once more.

  I rub my cheek to his shirt. “Huh?”

  “We are going to dance and show people how it’s done,” he confirms, unlatching his arms from around me. I don’t want to release him yet. Not wanting to come off clingy, I inhale his leather and musk scent one last time and let go, just enough to separate our bodies. His knuckle reaches out to tip my chin up, forcing me to make eye contact.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  Not sure if I want to dance-dance with him or not, I give in anyhow. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” I offer him my hand, and he takes it, at the same time nodding at the DJ.

  Nickleback’s Far Away begins, and my hand goes to Big’s shoulder as my other stays clasped in his giant hand. He pulls me forward so my stomach is touching him while he keeps his eyes on me and me alone. Guiding me around the dance floor, he spins me out and twirls me back in. I giggle with a fresh smile, and return to dance frame. This song isn’t much for dancing, but it serves its purpose. The lyrics are significant enough to our relationship and mean far more than anything else.

  “You picked this song
for a reason,” I comment, coming back to him from a double spin, and rocking back on my heel for him to sweep me into a small dip.

  “Yes,” he states, snapping me upright into his arms.

  Dropping my hand, he pulls me in tighter, his body bending forward enough that his hands are able to slide down my back and glide sensuously over my ass. Tucking my head into his broad shoulder, my face turned toward his neck, I brush my nose against his exposed flesh, and he hisses his blatant arousal. Devilishly, I grin at the power I possess.

  “Why are you touching my ass?” my fingers thread together around the nape of his neck, holding him close, his long hair tangling in my fingers. “You know people are going to talk.”

  “So what,” he grunts, no longer smoothing his hands over my cheeks. Instead, he digs his possessive fingers into the round meaty flesh. “You have a hot ass. Nobody’s gonna blame me for touchin’ it.”

  “Your girlfriend might,” I quip.

  The shoulder my head is resting on lifts in a shrug, “And?”

  “And it’s gonna make her jealous.”

  My head jumps again from an even harsher shrug, “Do you really think I give a fuck if she or some pansy-ass lawyer cares?”

  Well if he puts it that way. No.

  “Guess not,” I mutter, nudging my nose further into his taut neck.

  “You better stop that shit,” he demands.

  I know why, but I’m going to ask him anyhow because this is fun.

  “Why?” I act innocent and bite my bottom lip to keep the giggle from bubbling out.

  “You know why, Sugar Tits. I’m hard.”

  I don’t really need to know this, but I’m gonna ask this too. Call me a glutton for heartache. “But…didn’t you just fuck Marylou in the kitchen?”

  “No,” he pulls away with an angry huff, and my hold around his neck severs, as he stands up tall. His hands that were just on my ass are defiantly tucked across his chest. Puffing his chest out, he makes the corded muscles in his forearms deliciously bulge. I can’t help it. Even though he’s heated and his stance defensive, I still want to lick him all over, climb him like a tree, and devour that scowl right off his face with a brutal kiss.

  “Why would you think that?” his nostrils flare and eyes glaze into self-preservation mode.

  “You had reddened lips,” I keep my hands loose at my sides, unthreatening, and ignore the bikers, suddenly interested in our newest squabble. I am not going to fight with him. We had a couple of nice dances, and I am too exhausted. Plus, I’m leaving tomorrow morning, and I’d hate to end this weekend in a catastrophic battle, where neither of us would win. Then I’d go home even more miserable than when I arrived, and we wouldn’t talk for another six months. I don’t want that, and from the softening clarity in his eyes, he doesn’t either.

  “I didn’t have sex with her,” he avows. “We talked for a second, and I kissed her to make her shut up. That’s all.”

  That makes sense, and now I feel like an idiot.

  My shoulders deflate losing their buoyancy, and my head slumps forward, chin dropping to my chest. “Sorry,” I utter dolefully, staring at my hot pink polished toes.

  “It’s okay,” he steps forward, wrapping his arm over my shoulder. The weight feels like it may crumble me to dust at any moment. I’m such an imbalanced wreck. “I know you’re leavin’ tomorrow, but I wanted to see if ya’d like to see the cute pups.”

  I halfheartedly grin, there goes Big and that word, cute.

  “Sure…” I sigh. “When?”

  “Now?” A question, not a demand. That’s nice for a change.

  “Sure,” I mutter, my face still looking down.

  The song ends, and I muster up enough balls to straighten myself out and shove these bizarre emotions down where they belong. I wish for once I didn’t feel like I could cry one second and blow off the hinges the next. I swear that will be the thing I am most grateful to rid myself of once Harley is born -- no more hormonal imbalances I can’t control. A-to-the-fuckin’-men.

  Big with his arm still draped over my shoulder escorts me off the dance floor, where he drops his arm and reaches out to take my hand, threading our fingers together. My stomach lurches with teenage excitement at the giddy feeling.

  Big and I wave to our family, as we pass them by and head toward the hallway. It shouldn’t take long to see Pretzel. I miss that little shit. I wonder if that turd will still remember me.

  Out the back of the clubhouse, the sun has just begun dipping into the horizon. Fresh hues of pink and orange wash through the sky like a watercolor painting.

  “It’s beautiful,” I comment, looking up as Big drags me hand-in-hand behind him, past the deconstructed ceremonial site and the two barren fire pits toward the paved road. Glancing down, I realize that I forgot to put shoes on. Oops, oh well.

  “What is?” he asks after a moment, his determined feet striding faster than my short legs can carry me without breaking into a jog.

  “The sky,” I blurt. “Now Big could ya please slow down,” I jerk my hand, trying to break away from him. If he wants to be Speedy Gonzales, then so be it. Doesn’t mean I want to be dragged along like a toddler.

  He stops walking altogether and waits for me to make the last few steps to sidle up to his left. “Sorry,” he says, “we good now? Or do you want to take a break?”

  I scrunch my nose up at him, “Uh, no, I can walk.”

  “Where’s he at?” I ask, descending the basement steps of Big’s house with Big following a few steps behind.

  “He’s in the basement. I kept him down here for the weekend. Wanted him away from all the chaos at the clubhouse,” he explains as my hand curls around the cool handle of the basement door. The last time I was down here was the night before I left Big to move to Chicago. It seems like such a long time ago, almost like another life.

  Turning the knob and shoving the reinforced door wide, the same dark red walls capture my attention, but I don’t hear or see any dog as I scan the wide-open space.

  “You sure he’s down here?” I ease into the room, looking left and right. It’s not changed a bit.

  “Yeah, he’s probably in my bedroom sleeping. Go on back and check,” Big urges, stepping down the final step into the basement behind me.

  I listen to his instructions and pad my bare feet along the cool wooden floor and down the hall lined with vintage Harley pictures. “Pretzel?” I call out. The sound of a soft whine and a tail slapping the hardwood is my greeting as I stop in front of Big’s closed bedroom door.

  “Pretzel, is that you?” I crack the bedroom door open. A wet nose nudges the gap wider trying to push its way out, so I release the knob to let him root his escape. Wiggling his body like an eager crack fiend, Pretzel comes barreling out of the bedroom. Colliding with my legs, he rectifies his excitement by placing his hind end on the floor to sit posed and obedient. Sure, when I had him before he sat most of the time on command. This time he went to it intuitively. I’m delighted the training Big placed him in was money well spent.

  Crouching, I slowly reach out and touch my pup’s resolute head. You wouldn’t know this dog was excited if not for his bright puppy dog eyes and wildly whipping tail. My hand runs down the crown of his head and the length of his back. I don’t know the commands he’s learned to obey, but this militant doggy pose isn’t lax enough for me. Shuffling backward on my crouched feet, my back touches the hall wall, and I use it to guide me safely down to sit on the floor. Tucking my legs into Indian style, I wave my hands and tell Pretzel to come. He listens, shaking out of his obedient form, and transforms into the happy go lucky dog I’ve loved for years. His wet nose roots my tucked legs, and I reach out to wrap my arms around his muscled doggy form, and pull him into my lap the best I can. Like a dog always does, he rolls onto his back, offering up his belly for a good rubdown. I follow his lead, and scratch his upturned form.

  “That’s a good boy, Pretzel,” I baby talk, scratching his doggy armpits, as his body is s
played before me. “I missed you, boy.”

  A minute passes, and my fingers have scratched and rubbed from his stomach to under his chin. I turn my head to peer down the hall. No Big.

  “Big,” I call out.

  Silence.

  “Big,” I raise my voice just in case he couldn’t hear me the first time.

  Silence.

  Rolling Pretzel off my legs and onto his side on the polished hardwood floor, he eagerly scrambles to his feet, panting, and ready to play. Curling my legs under me and pressing my hands to the floor, I shove myself up to stand, using the wall as extra support.

  “Big?” I hesitantly call. A strange feeling washes over me, as I walk down the hall. Reaching the end, I glance over the living space. Nothing. No Big. This isn’t good. My stomach drops.

  “Big,” I thickly croak, taking a few last steps toward the couch and pivoting to set my sight on the closed basement door. Eerily, I pad my way to it, and try the knob. Locked. I yank on it. Locked. I try to unhinge the locks and yank on the door. Nothing. Still locked.

  My side turned fists bang on the door. “Big!” I let out a high-pitched screech, as Pretzel comes to brush up against my calves offering his silent moral support. “Big!” I bang louder, my fists manically colliding with the metal. “Big!”

  My body quivers and goose bumps flare, as a wave of frightened realization transpires. Tears I wish would never arise do. I’m locked in. He trapped me, using my dog as bait. Mustering up all the strength I can, my fists relentlessly pound on the door, and I scream his name. Over and over, I unleash all of my emotions with each powerful blow. Tears I try to blink away flow freely, streaming down my face like a waterfall. Dropping off my chin in fat plops, they land on my breasts and stomach. Forcefully, I suck air through my nose to keep it from running, and keep pounding my flesh to the point of raw pain. My voice grows hoarse and scratchy, screaming his name.