The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 1 (MC Chronicles #1) (7 page)

The group of us all look to him, all of us except Debbie,
who is minding her own business, getting ready for the party. Big Dick blinks
rapidly, staring into space and shakes his head as if he’s clearing it from his
own thoughts.

“I’m—” Big locks eyes with me for a moment, and drops
his chin to his chest. “Linda, you gotta roll out.” His tone is deep and laced
with a hardened sadness.

Immediately, she screeches “What?!” at ear piercing
levels, whipping around to face him.

The air in the room suddenly changes as Big’s demeanor
flips like a light switch and shifts into a chilling level of unsullied wrath.
His jaw locks like a vice, and he stands tall, shoulders back, his chest
jutting outward like a Greek God. His arm muscles bulge, turning to smooth
marble under soft tattooed flesh, as his abs contract and his nostrils flare
with red-hot fury.

“You fuckin’ heard what I said, bitch,” he growls like
a demented animal, and I nearly smile at how he’s talking to her. Serves her
right.

“But?” Now it’s her turn to sound sad, nearly fragile.

“But, what? I should have never brought you here.” He
glances at me and back to her, and I feel myself instantly relax. All my
tension melting into a puddle at my feet.

“But you did! You called me! You asked me to come
here. You picked me up. You are the one who fucked me in your truck and shoved
your cock down my throat. What in the hell am I to do? I’ve been your plaything
for ten years! Ten years, Big! I haven’t slept with anyone but you in ten
fucking years. I’ve waited around for your calls. I’ve done everything I’m
supposed to. Why can’t you see that? Why won’t you claim me?” She points to her
chest. I can feel the resentment and grief pouring out of her soul. I almost
feel sorry for the dumbass,
almost
.

“We are not discussing this again,” he orders.

She flips her black hair over her
shoulder with attitude and pointedly stares right at me. “Why? Because that’s
the cunt you want and can’t have? Is that why I’m not good enough? Because of
that stupid bitch?” she seethes in my direction, rockets of hatred shooting
from her shit-brown eyes.

A massive hand shoots forward, clamping around her
throat and Big yanks her off the ground with ease. Leveling them eye-to-eye, choking
off her air supply as she frantically tries to scratch at his hands. “Don’t you
ever.
Ever
. Fucking refer to Bink
as a bitch. I’m the only one who gets to call her that. We clear?”

She barely nods her response, as she
garbles out a string of noiseless words, and manic tears break free of her
watery eyes.

“Good.” Big drops her to the ground like a piece of
garbage, and she begins to openly weep, curling herself into a ball like a
wounded animal. The sounds of her stricken cries echo in the kitchen and filter
beyond its confines as they gain in intensity.

Gunz’s arm comes to lazily rest over
my shoulder, as he leans in to whisper in my ear. “See, no murder needed. Big
just needed to get this shit over with. Shoulda happened a long time ago.”

Just like that things end. No more
arguments or further discussion. Big nods to Gunz and leaves the room, barely
sparing a glance my way. Candy Cane grabs hold of my hand, and we start on our
jobs to ready the place for a huge party. And Gunz, along with a stunned
prospect, escort Linda away. What a morning. There’s never a dull moment in the
land of the Sacred Sinners. I’m just glad my brothers and daddy aren’t home. If
they’re gone, it means my mother will stay home for this shindig. I don’t think
I could handle seeing her and Linda all in the same day. As of right now, it’s
a toss-up on which female I dislike more, and frankly I don’t want to find out.
Not today.

It’s been hours that we’ve spent
setting up and cooking. I’ve browned over ten pounds of hamburger for sloppy
joes and added it one of our oversized crockpots to serve from. I’ve chopped up
huge blocks of cheese to snack on and made one of the biggest cheeseballs known
to mankind using eight blocks of cream cheese. Tiring days like today would go
a hundred times faster if we had the extra hands to help. There are plenty of
men in the club, but almost none of them have claimed an old lady. Sure, the
grounds are scattered with old ladies from some of the outside chapters who are
riding in, but those old ladies aren’t expected to help. This is our job as
hosts. But our chapter only has four of us. Lindy Sue has never been a model
old lady, which leaves us short-handed. Sometimes I wish I could call upon some
of the club whores to assist; however, they’re only allowed to participate if
children aren’t present. I understand that rule and I abide by it, but it’s
days like today that I hate it with a passion.

Six of the long, garage sale tables
(or that’s what I call them) are lined up on the grass out back. Candy Cane,
Debbie, and I have been taking trips in and out of the clubhouse for the past
twenty minutes organizing food, paper plates, napkins, and utensils on them. The
loud sounds of Harleys fill the air as members pull through the gates or ride
up to the clubhouse from the houses at the back of the compound. They are signaling
the start of our noon-to-noon party. It will commence at noon and end the
following day at noon. Another one of those pesky club traditions that we try
to accommodate. Booze and pussy are the two biggest staples of the event. Or
any of our events, for that matter.

Walking out of the back door one
final time, I carry the bowl of the freshly diced strawberries, mixed with
angel food cake and whipped cream in my arms. Setting it on the table in the
dessert section, next to a container of my famous cookies, I take a few steps
back and rest against the ten-foot retaining wall that surrounds the entire
compound. Dancing my eyes over the party, I take in the scenery. Weather worn
picnic tables are strewn across the plush green lawn filled with men drinking
beer and women wearing ‘property of’ cuts, talking amongst themselves. Music
from the outdoor speakers, pours the sounds of Lynyrd Skynyrd into the air. A
horseshoe pit keeps some of the incoming bikers happy, as the MC brats run
across the road to check out the dog kennels and play on the jungle gym.
Dallas, Debbie’s old man, has migrated there along with their two children, as
he shows off his prized dogs to a much larger audience than he’s accustomed to.

Big is making his usual rounds,
shootin’ the shit with fellow brothers, with a bottle of Bud clutched in his
hand. He’s changed clothes since this morning, now wearing his colors, a plain
white t-shirt, jeans, boots and the infamous belt that only the S.S.M.C committee members proudly wear. A tradition handed down since before I was
born. Belts made of two motorcycle chains welded together and fastened with a
bold S.S. buckle. Custom made not only to exhibit status but to wield as
a deadly weapon should the need arise. Once, when I was in middle school, I
witnessed firsthand the brutality one of those belts can unleash. A now-former
brother who shall remain nameless was taken out back by the kennels and beaten
for sleeping with a member’s old lady. Breaking code is a crime punishable by
club law. I can’t be sure who performed the punishment, but I saw the aftermath.
I watched through the bullet-proof glass of the club’s front doors as two
brothers dragged him, limp and bloodied through the parking lot and front gate
where they left him lying face down on the asphalt for the ambulance to arrive.
The ambulance came and went, and no one inside the club even batted an eyelash
as they sat at the bar and drank, whilst Blimp ate a skanky club whore’s pussy
on the edge of the pool table and another club whore sucked his dick through
the front zipper of his heavily worn leathers.

“Is that it?” I ask Debbie, gesturing
with my hand to the buffet of food lain before us, trying to keep my mind away
from the darker parts of my club memories and in the present on the lighter,
happier moments that mean so much to us all. Until tonight, when the naughty,
dirtier parts come out in full force after the kids go home, some of the old
ladies retire, and the club whores arrive by the masses.

Her head nods a moment, her eyes
wandering the length of the tables. “Yep, I think that about does it.” Turning
partway around to face the crowd, raising her hands in the air, she yells,
“Quiet,” and claps her hands over her head as the black t-shirt she’s wearing
rides up, showing off her midriff and offering a full view of Dallas’s name
intricately tattooed across her hips.

Respectfully the crowd goes dead
silent, and I walk around the tables to stand beside her. Candy Cane shuffles
herself across the lawn, away from her old man to join us.

“The girls and I have prepared this
meal for you all today,” Debbie announces, as Candy Cane sweeps her hands like
Vanna White toward the tables. I crack an amused smirk at her showmanship.
“Would you like to say anything, Big Dick?” Debbie adds.

Across the grass, Big proudly stands
tall and weaves through of a group of bikers. Coming to a halt out in the open
he becomes the center of attention as the most important man at a party that
has well over forty people in attendance.

“There are three kinds of old
ladies,” Big starts, “ones who lie flat on their backs, ones who can’t shut
their traps, and ones that kick fucking ass. These women here…” He points to
the three of us. “Kick the biggest kind of fuckin’ ass. They’ve spent all day
long working their fingers to the bone to give us a meal fit for leathered
kings.” The crowd grunts in response, “Making me, their president, proud as
hell to have them part of the club.”

Inclining his head toward the women
seated at the picnic tables he adds, “An inspiration that all of you old ladies
need to take notice of and learn from. They are the Sacred Sisters round these
here parts, a club within a club. Oftentimes, they’re the softest parts of us
hardheaded bikers.” His intense ice-blue eyes sweep across the group and pin me,
temporarily startling me and forcing me to unconsciously hold my breath. “And
for that, I say cheers; cheers to the Sacred Sinners MC and the kindhearted women
who take our shit.”

A sea of beer bottles and red Solo
cups are raised into the air, as the group collectively cheers a ‘here, here’
and take a hardy drink.

“Now, it’s time to eat,” Big
declares, striding over to the brick wall and tossing his empty beer bottle
into the blue barrel used for trash. Next to it rests a cooler that he digs
into and pulls out another Bud. Twisting off the top he flicks the bottle cap
into the trash like a pro.

A line is quick to form at the start
of the tables. I watch Debbie and Candy Cane join me in scanning the tables
thoroughly with our eyes, making sure that it’s all set up systematically
perfect, as we had intended. As the first set of people file back into the yard
with plates full of food, my anxiety begins to recede. Today has gone smoothly except
for Linda’s interruption, which is something I haven’t given a second thought
to until now. I’ve been too occupied to have a chance or maybe I’m avoiding it.
I seem to be doing that a lot lately, or maybe that’s just part of who I am -
an avoider. First my mother, then Pretzel, and now this, among a thousand other
unexplored examples. Note to self: avoidance - a character flaw, something to
consider looking into further.

Once the line becomes devoid of
people and the food has been picked through to the bare bones, I finally take a
plate and serve myself. Tonight, the second portion of our daily prep work will
come in handy when we refill the tables for dinner. The less we have left, the
less we will have to pack away. Even if I feel like the runt, fending to grab
scraps after all the bigger dogs have eaten.

Walking through the grass by myself,
I stop next to one of the club’s smoldering fire pits and stand, picking
through my food with my fingers and popping little pieces of sustenance into my
mouth. Surrounding me is a group of out of town brothers sucking back beers and
talking. Three women sit at the nearest picnic table, staring at the group of
men. All three of them sit in statuesque silence.

My shoulder is bumped from behind at
the same time a hand slides across my ass, giving it a slight pat.
Instinctively my spine goes ridged. A gorgeous man I’ve never spotted before
stops beside me, his warm hand drawing circles on my ass cheek. His smile is
contagious, even if he is groping me in the most inappropriate of ways. I find
myself smiling back at him, nervously chewing through a carrot.

“I’m Viper,” he introduces himself,
giving my ass a harder squeeze, firing me a naughty spark of promise from his
hazel eyes. His smile widens, and he licks his pierced bottom lip, the metal
shines just right, as the sun hits it. Goose bumps flare across my skin, and I
find myself at a loss for words as I keep chewing on my carrot, with purpose.