The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 1 (MC Chronicles #1) (5 page)

What. A. Day! What a fucking, emotionally tiring, day.

I’m now home. I’m alone and I’m lying in bed, naked,
staring at my ceiling. Relishing in the quietness of my tiny apartment and
trying not to think about my poor puppy. I haven’t spoken about it at all
today. I didn’t want to give that giant asshole the satisfaction of making me
cry.

The doctor took me into my room at the clubhouse,
where she gave me a thorough exam. The blood tests she ran won’t be back until
a later date. I’m not pregnant, which is no shocker there. And I wasn’t
penetrated last night, again, no shocker. Not sure what she or Big Dick
expected to find, but my pussy is clean, primped, and tight. I’m careful when I
fuck, never going without a condom. I’m not stupid, even though I’m not on the
pill. I don’t like the way they make me feel. So condoms are my only birth
control method, and they’ve worked perfectly since I lost my virginity in high
school.

Gunz drove me home in his pickup a few hours ago, and
I was welcomed home to Black Betty sitting unharmed in the driveway.
Apparently, when Big fixed my fence yesterday it wasn’t the only thing he did.
I now have a brand-new patio table and chair set, a grill and a fire pit. The
fence is now impenetrable, which doesn’t matter anymore because I’ll never get
another dog. And he left a vase of white roses on my kitchen table. It’s nice
to be back into my own little slice of peaceful normalcy. Fingers crossed that
sense of peace carries through the rest of the week, and I don’t get fired tomorrow.

Thankfully, for my own sanity, I haven’t seen or heard
from Big Dick since he brought me to the club, handing me over to the doctor
and walking away. I left without saying goodbye. Gunz had been stationed
outside the bedroom door where I was having my exam. So when I finished, I made
us some sandwiches in the club's kitchen before he brought me home. But not
before he made me promise to come to the Saturday family outing at the club and
to bring my famous cookies and meatballs. I relented because it’s hard to tell
him no. Where Big Dick’s a pushy, forward, insolent jerk, Gunz, who’s in his
mid-40’s, bald, with a short graying goatee and covered in tattoos, may look
tough, he isn’t. Well, he is tough, but not with me. He doesn’t push me around;
he’s always been respectful and sweet. Plus, I think I’m the only person he’s
ever shared his suckers with. From what I hear, Gunz quit smokin’ when I was a
kid and started using suckers as a replacement. So the inside pocket of his cut
is always stocked full, and it’s rare when you don’t see him with one in his
mouth.

“You know he’s just lookin’ out for ya,” Gunz said,
holding out a strawberry sucker for me on our drive home.

“He has a shitty way of showin’ it.” I stole the
sucker from him, ripping the wrapper off, shoving the sweetness into my mouth,
and.rolling the wrapper into a ball with my fingers.

“Yeah, he does. But he cares for you. Not like you
give him much of a chance to take care of you,” Gunz said.

I pulled my knees to my chest, gazing out the window,
watching the world fly by. “I don’t need to be kept.”

“Sometimes in life we don’t get a say in the things
that we want or don’t. You’re Bink, you’re our girl. You might not have asked
to be part of this life or to grow up in a place like this. But that’s what you
got and there ain’t one man in that place who wouldn’t bleed for you.
Especially Prez.”

Shrugging my shoulders, I swept my eyes over the
expanse of the land out the passenger window. “I guess,” I muttered under my
breath, done with the conversation and anything that pertains to Big or his
colorful ways of taking care of me.

You live in this life from birth and don’t know
anything but. You don’t know what it’s like to have a dad who works legit jobs,
nine to five. You have a daddy who goes on runs for weeks at a time, doing God
knows what. You have a mother who resents you because you’re allowed to stay at
the clubhouse when she’s not. There are rules for old ladies, and she’s always
had to follow them, just like the rest of the women. I can’t help that she
hated me and refused to care for me when I was sick or help me with my
homework. I’ve only ever had the brothers to help; I had Gunz, Big Dick, Gypsy,
Tripper, Blimp, Mickey, and Dallas to take me clothes shopping and to love and
care for me when she refused. I have two sisters that my mother’s always fawned
over, always been proud of. Sisters, she went dress shopping with for prom and
to buy their first bras and makeup. Did I get that? No fucking way. I’m the
black sheep. Remember.

Lindy Sue Cummings considers me the evil spawn of her
womb. I can’t recall a single time I ever back talked her or did anything to
merit such hatred from a woman who is supposed to be preprogrammed to love me.
Me just breathing in her direction has her hissing at me, malevolently staring,
or downright cussing at me. When you think you’re the scum of the earth because
your mother detests you, you sometimes wonder what you did to deserve it or
what’s wrong with you. I’ve never voiced my feelings about this to anyone
except Big on the rare occasion.

When I think of my mother, or Lindy Sue as I call her
to her face. the memory that prominently plays on a reel in my head happened in
fourth grade, the day I desperately needed my mother and she wasn’t there for
me. Looking back now, it was the defining moment of our fragile relationship.
It was the day I got made fun of in school because I’d started growing breasts
and had no bras to wear. I was past the training bra stage, and I didn’t know
what I needed or how to get them. My mother never discussed with me feminine
hygiene, bras, makeup, periods, or anything revolving around those things a
mother is to inform her daughter of. I spent most of my time at the club, and
let’s face it, men aren’t knowledgeable on those sorts of female elements.

The bell rung
signaling the end of the day. With tears streaming down my face, I scurried
down the front steps of school. Daddy had gone on a run, so Gunz, Big Dick, and
Tripper were waiting on their Harleys outside in the parking lot.

The familiar growl
of Big echoed above the sounds of
kids
,
and the cars
waiting to retrieve their children, as I ran across the pavement, toward the
bikers in my life, swiping tears from my eyes. Once I reached them, Big
smoothly dismounted motorcycle and yanked me protectively into his arms.

“What the fuck
happened?” he demanded, his hands quickly removing my backpack and throwing it
to Gunz, who caught it with ease and strapped it to the back of his bike.

“Bink, talk to me,”
he repeated, gentler this time, picking me off the ground and holding me to his
chest. The comforting scent of his leather cut surrounded me, offering me
peace. Uncontrollably, I sobbed in his arms, and he held me, rubbing my back,
my head tucked against his warmth. I felt safe. Big’s arms created that
protective barrier, warding off the awful parts of the world. Somehow the smell
of leather, cigars, beer, and cologne became my safe haven and still offers me
that sense of comfort to this day.

“Bink,” Gunz spoke
after minutes passed and my tears began to dry up. He pushed an open sucker
toward my face that was smashed against Big. I lifted my head and sucked the
sweet lolly into my mouth. The small gesture of goodness helped soothe my
aching heart.

“Thank you,” I
whispered, my cheek resting against Big’s chest, the rapid beating of his heart
thumping in my ear, offering me an even deeper level of comfort.

“It’s okay, baby
girl,” Gunz reassured, lightly brushing his fingertips up and down my tiny arm.

A mild grumbling
sound reverberated from Big’s chest, and I glanced up, my chin on his cut. The
biggest ice-blue eyes were trained on me, full of deep concern.

“Baby doll, tell me
what happened,” Big said calmly, with the sweetest tone.

So I told them. I
told them how Marcy Dunbar was in the bathroom and had flicked my boob, making
fun of me and how my nipples stood erect. I told them how that same awful girl
had informed my entire class that I was poor, my mother was a slut, and that I
didn’t even know who my real father was. How I’d spent all of recess being
tormented by a group of those prissy rich girls. How I’d cried in class when
the pain became too much to bear and was sent to the principal’s office to calm
down. And how my mother had been called, but she never came to pick me up. I
disclosed every mortifying detail.

When I was done,
Big kissed my forehead, set me on the back of his bike and helped secure my
helmet. And with my miniature hand held in his, he met my gaze and said, “Bink,
me and the boys are gonna take care of you. Ain’t no stupid little bitch gonna
get away with that. I don’t care how old she is. A bitch is a bitch, and
bitches get dealt with. Now stop that cryin’.” His free hand wiped the salty
tears from my puffy eyes. “Time to take our girl shopping, you down with that?”

I nodded my response, and that was it. Big Dick, Gunz,
and Tripper rode with me to a Sears department store, where the sales lady
helped me pick out my very first bras. Big, of course, being the control freak
that he is, had final say in what I did or didn’t get. I ended up with
everything I needed and when we left, Big sent me on the back of Gunz’s hog as
he and Tripper went to handle club business. For the rest of the day, Gunz was
my constant companion, dishing me out a generous helping of ice cream at the
clubhouse and helping me pack away my clothes in my new room at the club. I no
longer slept at home after that day. I was given my own nine by nine room at
the clubhouse. The only room that has ever been given to a female. A room that
is still mine, but one I’ve hardly slept in for the past eight years or so.

Marcy and the kids in my class were
never a problem again, and it was months before I saw my mother. Not sure what
happened or how Big took care of things like he had promised. I just know that
my life from that day forward changed significantly. I was surrounded by the
brothers day in and day out. I rode the bus to school and was picked up from
school by one of the brothers or my daddy. The only females I encountered
regularly were half-dressed club whores, some of which I took a liking to,
regardless of their sexual tendencies that I was privy to viewing on a regular
basis. By the time I was in sixth grade, I had seen more women suck cock than
most adults have in their lifetimes. I learned to shoot a gun and clean it, to
cook a decent meal, and polish boots like a pro. By high school, I no longer
flinched when a brother came home with blood on his hands. Often times, I found
myself helping clean the wounds that needed tending to. I became indifferent,
almost numb, to seeing men take a bitch over the bar in the main room or
drunken testosterone-filled men needing to resolve their issues by use of
violence instead of talking it out. The polar opposite of everything I was
taught in school.

Most parents teach their children to never solve
disputes with violence and to only have sex when you’re in love. The theory of
those parental notions isn’t lost on me; they just don’t compute in my way of
life. Just say no to drugs; also common knowledge among adults and children
alike. Well, those adults and children who weren’t raised in an outlaw
motorcycle club around brothers who proudly wear a one percent patch. Sex is
yet another outlet for the brothers. Living with the barbaric old age belief
that all men have the need to spread their seed, being clouded by society’s
ideals of to love and be loved, to only share yourself with the one you are
meant for, your soul mate, if you will. The fictional romance novels paint a
prettier picture of what romance looks like. When in the reality of the world,
my world, is that romance and true love is a myth. Fucking is the only real way
of showing raw love-like emotions for those not connected by blood or
brotherhood.

Sure, my belief in love sounds like the bitter
rantings of a cynical woman. Which, in part, might hold some validity. What can
I say? I’m exhausted, my life, once again, has been emotionally jolted by the
club, and I’m ready to catch a bit of shuteye. The popcorn ceiling in my
bedroom is beginning to blur as I stare upon it. And my mind can’t take any
more mental deconstruction of my life or shit that’s happened in it.

Goodnight, see you bright and early tomorrow. Peace.

Friday, September 5, 2013

Friday, TGIF.
No
work, just cooking
—the motto surrounding my day.

Yesterday, walking into work, my nerves were shot. My
insomnia kept me from getting more than three good hours of sleep the night
before. Well, it was probably more due to stress than my insomnia, although I
can’t be sure. I woke up to my phone buzzing next to my head; I’d fallen asleep
with it clutched in my hand.

It was from Brew, my older brother.

Brew: Don’t know why four brothers got bruised up cuz
of you. Dad’s pissed.

I rolled out of bed, way sooner than I needed to. And
because I don’t drink coffee or tea in the morning, I settled for a can of pop
as I sat on the couch, debating if I should get into it with Brew or not. I
hate when he knows shit that I don’t. Claiming I’d caused harm to the brothers
seemed like a huge leap, but then I thought about it and realized it’s the
club. Nothing surprises me anymore.

After I showered and combed through my hair, put on a
minimal amount of makeup, and dressed in business casual, per usual, I texted
him back.

Me: Dunno how any of it’s my fault or what happened to
them. Just blame me. Black sheep will take the blame once again.

Immediately, my phone rang. It was Daddy.

“How’s my girl?”

“Not good. But I’ll live another day.” I knew I
sounded whiny, I didn’t care a damn bit.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

The loud clearing of my father’s throat told me he was
getting agitated with me already. The older he gets, the more his patience
wanes, to the point of it now hanging on by a mere thread. “I know better than
that, Bink. I got a call from Runner last night sayin’ you’d pissed Prez off,
and he went ape shit. Tore up the office, left two prospects to clean up the
mess. Ended up shitfaced, thanks to a bottle of Jack, and fought with the
brothers, took four of them to calm the beast down.”

Not knowing a damn thing about why Big flipped his
shit, but being blamed for his actions grated on my nerves. A lovely start to a
day I already knew wasn’t going to be peachy anyhow. I wasn’t taking
responsibility for a grown adult’s choices. I had my own I had to live with.
Like the fact I gave that same beast of a man the go ahead to basically kill my
dog. Now that, I would never recover from.

“First, Daddy, I didn’t know about any of it. Second,
Runner called you, not Big or Gunz. So I wouldn’t believe him. He’s sketchy.
Third, how am I to blame for what a grown ass man does? Not only a man who’s
grown, but also the president of a club
I’m
not a member of, and old enough to be my father,” I said, exasperated that I
was having this conversation so early in the morning. It was only an hour
before I had to ride to work.

“You were born into the club. Nothin’ you can do about
that. You’re right though; you can’t control Big. But if I find out you did
something to push him to this, when he’s already tightly wound because of this
run me and your brothers are on, then you and I are going to have some choice
words, little girl,” he expressed, and I could hear a group of the brothers in
the background talking, the word
guns
,
bullshit,
and
Florida
being the only words I could make
out clearly.

I sighed, running my hands through my hair, pacing my
living room. Big was wound? What about me? What about my life? What about my
job? Apparently, none of that mattered. The club, the club, and more about the
club. That’s all he’s ever cared about. Now he’s worried about what I did to
Big? What about what he did to me or my boss? Nope, their precious Prez could
never be at fault for a goddamn thing.

We hung up after I listened to him rattle on about a
little bit of this and that. To be honest, I barely paid a lick of attention to
the shit he was spouting off. I was cranked a little too tight; my muscles
ached from tension. I couldn’t yell at my daddy, as much as I wanted to. The
fact that Big was anxious about this run clued me in enough to know that my
daddy had plenty of shit already stacked on his plate. Me attacking him
wouldn’t do any of us any good.

I rode Black Betty to work shortly thereafter, and not
a single orgasm came. I had no sex drive, no desire to come—zilch. I just
wanted to get to work and get the horrible face-to-face with my bosses over
with. I needed to gain some sort of footing back in my life.

Walking into the office was seemingly normal. I sat at
the front desk, did paperwork, and sent out bills. The day passed like any
other day. I didn’t even see any of the doctors until an hour before closing
time when Doctor Jagger casually strolled into my part of the office, his usual
smile glowing on his flawless face. How he and the rest of his colleagues are
doctors and not models is beyond me.

“Mrs. Jenkens can be taken off the schedule. I just
got a call from her children telling me they’ve put her on hospice and that’ll
she’ll no longer be coming in,” he said, leaning next to me, looking at my
computer screen. The scent of his cologne surrounded me. It was intoxicating
and my hidden sex drive suddenly made an appearance. I couldn’t be sure if it
was him, my high level of emotions that I was nearly bursting at the seams
from, or the fact I hadn’t gotten laid in almost a month. My pussy didn’t care the
reason. She was wide awake and wet, and the more he lingered, the wetter I
became. The thrumming in my clit turning from a mild sensation to indescribably
over-alert and ready to shatter. I was willing to hump his leg, if the
opportunity presented itself.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I found myself saying,
the guilt eating me alive.

He turned his attention to look at me, and stood up.
That’s when I saw it. The hardness in his Dockers was apparent. Was he feeling
the same spark of sexual chemistry like I was? His dick sure was. I didn’t try
to hide my flushed cheeks or the fact that my eyes had glued themselves to the
crotch of his pants.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he muttered with
a darkened voice, reaching down and adjusting the bulge without an ounce of
shame.

“Are you going to fire me?” I pleadingly glanced up
into his eyes.

His same, light, heartwarming laugh from yesterday hit
me like a Mac truck, straight between my thighs, and I shuddered. The innocent
smile he held was Oscar worthy, all the while he watched me squirm in my seat.
I hated being affected so intensely, but my hormones were blazing through me
like a wildfire. I couldn’t control them.

“No way. We have big plans for you. Take tomorrow off
work, come in ready for a meeting bright and early Monday. Okay?” His hand
clasped my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. The heat from his palm
radiated into my flesh. I nearly came.

“Okay,” I muttered in retort. And that was it. He left
me to resolve my own sexual frustration, which was quickly solved once I left
work for the day. I came three times riding my Harley home and spent the rest
of the night watching junk TV and wishing I had Pretzel to curl up next to.

Which leads me to today.

I woke up this morning, threw on some yoga pants and a
Harley tee, and then I hopped in my grocery getter to go shopping. Which isn’t anything
you’d consider a ‘grocery getter’. I guess you can say I’m a bit of a vintage
car and bike whore. The club owning and running a legit auto repair shop
doesn’t help my whoring ways. I blame it on Big and Gunz. They forced this
obsession on me as a child. Black Betty is a customized and fully rebuilt 1967
Harley Electra Glide Sport. My car is a 1969 black and pink Chevelle. Or should
I rephrase that? It’s a custom
hot pink
Chevelle with black racing stripes, and a black S.S patch painted on
the roof; Dukes of Hazard style. I paid a small fortune to fix her up. She’d
originally been Gunz’s car, and he’d had every intention of restoring her. But,
after he forked out heavy dough to customize and restore his prized 1947 Ford
pickup, he decided he didn’t want to sink that kind of cash into another
beauty. Sold her bare bones to me for a steal. Lots of man hours later, I am
the proud owner of a car I’ve rightfully named Kitty. A car that none of the
brothers would be caught dead driving. One of the many bonuses of driving hot
pink
bitch mobile
—as my brothers
call her.

Today at the grocery store, I broke down and purchased
the biggest box of Bisquick they manufacture. You know the ones that are the
size of a poodle? With as often as I’m asked or in some cases told to bake
these cookies, I decided buying in bulk would be the right way to go.

If you haven’t gathered the gist quite yet, the base for
these ‘famous’ cookies of mine is Bisquick. The recipe goes as follows for a
single batch, which I always multiply times ten.

• ½ cup Real Unsalted Butter, softened

• 1 ½ cup Dark Brown Sugar, packed firmly

• 2 large Eggs

• 2 ½ cups Bisquick

• ½ tsp Vanilla

• Pinch of Salt

• 12oz bag Chocolate Chips

Fluff the softened butter and sugar together. Then add
all other ingredients until mixed thoroughly. It will be a sticky mess when
done, so I do the spoon dropping method onto a lightly greased pan and bake
them at 325 to 350 degrees for ten to fourteen minutes, or until golden brown.
The result is a yummy cookie that rocks the brothers’ socks off.

I’m on my sixth batch in the oven as of right now, only
four more to go. Then on to the meatballs that I’ve already rolled out and have
covered in the fridge, ready to pop in the oven at any time.

Strolling into my small living room, I plop down on my
tan couch until the timer dings. Kicking my feet up on my coffee table, I grab
the remote and flick on the TV. Buzzing through the channels on my flat screen,
I settle on a rerun of the
Sons of Anarchy
.
Yup, I know it’s an angst ridden TV drama that attempts to embody the MC
lifestyle. I find it highly entertaining. Even if it’s not quite true to life.
What show on TV really is? If you get to thinking about it.

My phone goes off in my jeans pocket for the third
time in the past two damn minutes. Gee-fricken-whiz, my phone has literally
been buzzing nonstop all day with various party planning shit. Between Gunz and
Candy Cane, who’s Tripper’s old lady, I’m tapped the hell out.

Tugging the annoying thing from my pocket, I drop it
into my lap and slide on its Bisquick-caked screen. Every single time I bake, an
atomic bomb explodes in my kitchen, and I’m forced to spend the next three days
trying to recover. I know I could do all the baking at the clubhouse and it
would take me a fifth of the time. Plus, I could insist a prospect or club
whore to read up after me. But as tempting and convenient that may sound, the
idea of being in the same building with the six foot eight, control freak
himself, is not on my to do list. Especially after the mild scolding I received
from my daddy, just yesterday.

I glance down at the first message that pops up on my
screen. Unable to make out all the words clearly, I grab the corner of my black
t-shirt and wipe down the display.

Gunz: Heads up. Five brothers traveling in for the
weekend from other chapters to scope out the clubhouse.

Me: Scouting?

Candy Cane: Gunz texted, said we’ve got three old
ladies to entertain both Saturday and Sunday, hope you’re up for the task. I
can’t do it alone.

Gunz: It’s club business, baby doll. Three brothers
are bringing their old ladies along. The pussy crew has some extra hosting
duties.

Me to Gunz: I really wish you’d come up with a better name
for us. Considering your asses wouldn’t have anything to eat ‘cept beer and
pretzels if it wasn’t for us.

Gunz: I’ll get right on that.

Me to Gunz: Sarcasm is not the best form of flattery.

Gunz: Neither is sass, but that’s never stopped ya.

Well…well…well…looks like someone is extra spicy
today. I can hang. Just hope he can keep up.

Me: I rarely sass you. I don’t have enough energy to
do that when I have to use it slaving away for a group of leather wearing
cavemen and their King, Sir Controlling Big Dick.

Gunz: Ha-ha, you’re a funny girl. I’ll have you know
the king isn’t the only one with a big dick.

Me: Are we seriously having this conversation? Because
I’m telling you right now, I’m well aware of what each and every one of you
brothers are packing between your legs.

Gunz: You’ve never seen mine.

Me: I’m saying goodbye now.

Gunz: What? It’s true.

Me: No, no it’s not.

Gunz: Fuck, Bink! How is it not?!

I can almost hear him yelling at me through the
screen, that pissed off line in his forehead red and angry as it pulses with
the beat of his heart. That’s how you know Gunz is furious. The vein that
bulges in the middle of his forehead, it’s like its own continent.

Me: New Year’s Eve five years ago, kitchen, chubby
redhead, fishnet stockings. You, Blimp, and a red Solo cup.

Gunz: No way!

Me: Yes way… How else would I know that you have a
skull tattooed right above your dick? And a Prince Albert piercing.

Gunz: Jesus fucking Christ!!

Serves him right for thinking he knew better. Blimp,
who by definition lives up to his name in size, is like a silver backed gorilla
with more hair on his body than his head and looks about seven months pregnant.
Not a pretty picture, is it? Anyhow… he and Blimp took turns eating this curvy,
plump, and rather slutty redhead out, as she sat on the kitchen counter. While
the one ate her, the other jacked off into a red Solo cup. Empty or not? I
dunno, I didn’t catch the whole show. I saw a few snippets when I walked in and
out of the kitchen, cleaning and storing leftovers in the fridge. I do know the
girl ended up drinking both of their jizz from the cup after they’d finished in
it and got her off a few times. She grunted her orgasms like a dude. It wasn’t
pretty, and that is probably one of the main reasons I remember it.