The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 3 (MC Chronicles #3) (2 page)

“Because she can’t fuckin’ leave without me, brother. You know that. With Lindy Sue’s bullshit threat and….” he tapers off. I hear his telltale pacing as his boot heels scrape the clubhouse floor and the chain on his wallet jingles.

Big paces when he’s confused and not sure what to do. Big’s pacing, I’ve come to find, happens a lot when he’s thinking with his heart and not his brain, which coincidently goes hand in hand with me. So anytime we argue and he starts to question his motivations and intentions, he paces, hands in his hair, staring at the floor, huffing and cursing under his breath. I’ve learned to let him sort it out on his own. Eventually he’ll come to the right conclusion when he allows that marshmallow interior (that I’ve told you about) not rule his thoughts and instead allowing logic to run its course. He’s a smart man, and it works every time.

Minutes drift into oblivion as I sit next to Gunz, wrapped up in grandpa love, and wait for the beast to render his own logical conclusion. While we wait, why don’t I give ya a bit more 411 on the Bink-Big clubhouse situation. Sound good? You nodding? Yup, thought so.

As you know this Big and Bink relationship thingy has come to some sort of jacked-up fruition. Big works at the clubhouse and does his presidential duties. I help at the clubhouse, and try to keep a low profile. God forbid Big catches me scrubbing the floor in the kitchen or doing something else that he would consider unfit for his pregnant old lady to do. As you can see, the macho thing, yeah, it’s multiplied by a thousand, not to mention the fucking baby shit.

‘What kind of crib do you want?’ ‘What kind of bassinette?’ ‘Do you want a pink car seat? Or do you want this cool black and blue one?’ ……

What kind of question is that? Of course I want the pink car seat. It’s me we’re talking about here, not some other woman. Pink should be my fucking middle name. As for the others, they are flying at me a hundred times a day, from bottles to changing tables and playpens to diapers and bouncy chairs. Big’s an organized man, and he wants everything to be in place for when Harley makes her grand entrance.

Thus far, Harley’s two nurseries have been painted a pale slate gray. Poor White Boy, the prospect, was roped into that disastrous task until Candy Cane and Pixie jumped in and saved the day. Yes, you heard that correct, two nurseries, one upstairs at Big’s house and one downstairs. We argued about where to construct it. I prefer the basement, due to its cozy, comfy atmosphere, and Big thought that the upstairs would be more suited, due to size. His idea of a compromise was two nurseries. Costly and ridiculous as hell, but it’s better than nothing.

We now have two black baby beds, two hot pink gliders with matching ottomans, Victorian print style baby bedding, done in hot pink, black, and white. A matching black changing table/dresser combo is also set in each room. Luckily, I’ve convinced Big that we only need one highchair, playpen, and bouncy seat for the house. Don’t get me started on what he is supplying at the clubhouse, for whatever fucking reason.

Back when I was younger…No…Back as early as last year, the clubhouse was a woman and kid-free zone for the most part, except some parties, family gatherings, and the Family Social. Now, the rules that have been set in stone for decades have been completely eradicated, and it’s become a free for all. Not that you hear me complaining, it’s nice to be able to see everyone there whenever they want to drop in. It gives the clubhouse less of a men’s only feel and takes on more of a family friendly vibe. Which is good considering we
are
a giant family and adding two more bundles to the lineage.

The stopping of feet has my eyes opening and shifting to glance up at the man I know and love. His face is no longer red, and the anger has dispersed.

“Alright,” he breathes huskily. Swallowing hard, the thickness of his throat constricts and the grumbling in Big’s chest is an apparent sign he’s not so sure about what he’s resigned himself to say.

“If Gunz goes along, and you carry your gun and pepper spray, then I will…” Big pauses for a beat, cracking his neck from the side, stalling. “back…. Down,” he finally forces out through obvious difficulty. His intense eyes widening bore into mine, daring me to argue. That’s not going to happen, or I’ll get locked up.

“And…” he continues, swallowing hard once more and taking a deep breath. “I want you to check in by phone. None of this texting bullshit,” he waves his hand dismissively, like texting is the dumbest thing ever created. “I want calls three times a day. Mornin’ when ya get up, sometime in the afternoon, and at night before bed. Nonnegotiable,” he jerks his chin at me and raises a brow, waiting for me to come unglued.

I know this tell because I’m sure he thinks I find his terms to be too stringent. If I didn’t know that he loves me, and I wasn’t worried about him straying, then maybe I might be so bold to fight to get my way. However, I’m not stupid. I know this is a reasonable request, and if I get to talk to him, it’s a victory for me too. I get to check up on him without becoming a needy nuisance. Can’t be a nuisance when he’s the one who made the rules. So as far as I see it, this is a win-win.
Hallelujah.

Big’s rock body of inky steel is as stiff as a 2x4, and his eyes are assessing my every movement. This is the look he gets when he’s reading me or feeling me out, which he does a lot. I open my mouth to agree, only to be cut off when he continues. “And Gunz is to stay in the same room with you and go everywhere you go. If ya get up to pee, Gunz stands outside the bathroom door. If you, on some off chance, decide that ya actually like to shop and want to try on clothes, Gunz will be outside your dressin’ room door.” Big flicks his eyes to Gunz to make sure he’s on board, and I catch him in my peripheral giving a singular nod. Guess that’s settled.

“I need to know who’s goin’ and where you’ll be. I’ll have Gunz book a safe hotel in a classier part of town where you’ll have a concierge to take your bags and room service for breakfast. You aren’t allowed to miss it. Ya know, Harley is growin’ fast right now, so you need to make sure ya eat like you’re supposed to and take your vitamins.”

I know him telling me this kind of sounds like a father scolding his daughter. It’s not. I’m terrible about remembering to take my pills and eat breakfast. It’s something I rarely did before I became pregnant, and I still don’t like it. I’m like the worst patient in the history of patients. I hate medicine. I’m one of those people who gets a sinus infection, goes to the doctor way past the time I should have, and when I get my medicine I miss like half of the daily doses for my meds. I still end up taking them, but instead of a five day round of antibiotics, I wind up taking them for eight days. Or skipping the last half of the bottle once I get to feeling better, thinking that I won’t need it. Half of the time, I’m right. The other, I wind up back at the doctors, and scolded by Gunz, Big, or one of the other brothers. They know how I am; I’ve been this way since birth.

“I’ll make sure it’s taken care of,” Gunz cuts in, taking the responsibility away from me. I’m sure I can remember for the weekend. It’s not that difficult. I am a grown ass woman.

“Good,” Big assertively two finger points to Gunz, “that’s settled.”

Gunz nods, affirming Big’s gesture, just as Big’s two fingers swing in my direction.

“Who’s goin’?” Big interrogates.

“Candy Cane, Pixie, Jez, Dixie, maybe Niki, and maybe Beth.” I rattle off, running the names over in my head to make sure I have the list correct.

His voice lowers, “No Debbie?” He asks like he’s truly interested in wanting to know.

“No,” I shake my head, “she’s got the kids, both hers and Jez’s, and the dogs.”

“Niki and Beth, huh?” he adds, tucking one hand across his chest in a relaxed, unthreatening manner, as the other scratches his days’ worth of sexy man growth.

I grin, feeling my chest expand with warmth, watching his fingers play along his square chin. That same chin I love to run my tongue over.
Mmmmmm….

Shifting in my seat, I uncross my legs and tuck them to sit Indian style. Pretzel takes this as his cue and shifts so he’s no longer to my side and stations himself at the edge of the couch, directly in front of me, where he plops down, legs sprawled forward, his ears perked and watchful mismatched eyes focused on Big. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again, the training Big enrolled Pretzel into was the best thing he could have done. Pretzel was a good dog before. Now, he’s the same dog, only way more protective and obedient. He’s the best dog in the world.

Licking a grin from my lips, I try to hold my serious expression together. It’s hard to do that when you’re sitting here watching the man who makes your heart go pitter patter. Even when he’s obviously pissed and deliberately being a controlling asshole, he’s still sweet. God, who would have ever thought I’d ever say that about Big? Not me. But he is. Just this morning, before this stupid argument, he’d brought me buttered toast wrapped in a paper towel, a glass of orange juice and my vitamin to bed. He woke me up with a kiss on the forehead. I sat up, taking his offerings and he climbed in beside me, tucking me to his side with the blanket strewn over my bare legs. Then he wrapped his arm around my lower back and held my opposite hip, lazily drawing designs with his finger on my naked skin and kissed my temple, as I ate in companionable silence. How is that
not
the sweetest thing?

Straightening my spine, I wash away my thoughts and answer him, holding my feelings at bay. “Niki has been around a long time, and she and Dixie are close. And Beth, well, I know she’s new, but she’s sweet and I’ve already asked her. So as long as she can get the nurses to stay with Jonesy an extra day shift over the weekend then she can steal a few days to herself…,” I trail off and then add, “she deserves it.”

It’s true, Beth, Jonesy’s granddaughter, who’s actually his great granddaughter, she’s a pure delight. She’s a little awkward, shy, completely out of her comfort zone when it comes to the club life, but she’s so sweet, silly, and such a noble soul that it’s impossible not to love her.

One week after I had officially moved into the compound, Beth called me. Not for help or anything like that. Pretty sure she just needed somebody to talk to.

I had been standing in Big’s office, dropping by a glass of milk when the office phone rang.

“Yeah?” he answered. Ever the proper phone conversationalist.

He listened a few beats to the person on the line and jerked his hand out to me, offering me the clunky corded dinosaur.

I didn’t ask who it was. By the look on his face he was busy with work and didn’t care who was calling to speak to me.

I took the phone from Big, who pushed his black reading glasses into place from the tip of his nose and went back to scanning some sort of thick document he had neatly laid on his desk.

“Yes? This is Bink,” I said lifting the receiver to my ear.

A woman’s exhausted sigh percolated. “You told me to call,” the female said.

I recognized her voice right away. Beth has one of those ultra-feminine voices that is higher than most but in a tinkly adorable kind of way. It’s not annoying in the least.

“Do you need anything? Is Jonesy okay?” I asked, worried that something might have happened to that naughty old man.

“Jonesy’s fine. He’s napping after our game of chess this morning. He’s exhausted, and he should be. He spent half of his time trying to figure out how to cheat. I’m pretty darn good at that game but I can never seem to win,” Beth chuckled. “He’s too good.”

“Sounds like it,” I replied, not sure if she just wanted a chance to let her hair down and talk like girlfriends do, or if she was making nervous small talk.

I’ve never been very good at girl chatting. I’ve learned to loosen up a bit and spill the gossip to my Sacred Sisters, after many months of consciously trying. Growing up with men who only talk about basic manly things, like bikes and pussy, I was kind of left without any sense of feminine appropriateness. So I’m just learning to gossip, I still hate shopping with every fiber of my being, and I’ve learned that honesty among women isn’t always the best policy.

Let’s just say Dixie was hurt when she’d asked the group of us if this eggplant colored dress made her look fat. The Sacred Sisters did the polite thing and went with, ‘It doesn’t bring out the green in your eyes.’ or some stupid, white lie BS. I, on the other hand, blurted, like the tactless bitch I am, that yes, the dress did in fact make her look fat and the color was hideous. Of course Dixie, being both pregnant and a woman, was offended and ended up bursting out into a hysterical crying spell. Jezebel laughed, Pixie curled back into her turtle shell, Debbie wasn’t present, and Candy Cane shook her head, obviously not surprised by my brashness but not supportive of it either. Oh yeah, and Brew thought it was hilarious when he called to tell me, while laughing his ass off, that I needed to apologize to his old lady. Which I did. I do have a conscience after all.

That leads me back to Beth and when she called. I wasn’t sure how to react, so I stayed silent. As it turned out, Beth is one of those normal women, and she wanted to gossip. I was so screwed.

“I was just calling to…. um… talk,” Beth explained.

Covering the receiver with my hand, I audibly sighed and Big tipped his head back, flicking his gaze to me.

“You okay?” he asked, his eyes raptly assessing my face while twirling a pen between his fingers.

I nodded my reassurance. “Yeah, it’s Beth,” I explained drearily, looking at Big.