Read Online MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 2: (Motorcycle Club Romance Novel) by Bink Cummings - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bink Cummings
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I—,”
“Of course I still want this
relationship.” He’s firm, talking over me. “I want you home. And if I have to
wait until Sunday, that’s perfectly fine. I will just miss you until then. Are
you at least staying some place decent?”
Decent to Marshall is a five star
hotel, with room services and a concierge to dote upon you hand and foot. Now
my idea of decent, is a Motel 6 with a hard bed and no cockroaches. Deke’s
house is somewhere in-between.
“It’s fine,” I groan. “See you
Sunday.”
“See you Sunday, Darling, I love
you.”
“Peace.”
“Huh?”
“I mean, bye.”
“Bye.”
I hang up and toss the phone back
onto the cradle again with a long exhausted sigh. I’ve had enough phone
conversations today to last me a week or possibly two. Now I’ve got to cut this
week’s checks for the men and enter them into the paid column on the computer.
I’m staying at Deke’s again tonight. Not sure if he knows it, but I am. Not only
for myself, but for his daughters too. I want them to like me and feel
comfortable around me since I know they don’t have many female figures in their
lives. Once they move to the compound, they will though. And as long as they
steer clear of my mother and the whores, they will be just peachy keen.
Now it’s time to work. Hope y’all
have a fanfuckingtabulous day, and stay out of trouble. And for my sake, I hope
I do too.
Peace.
Chapter
Five
Saturday: February 22, 2014
“Seriously? You had to bring me to this teenybopper
party zone? As if I don’t already feel old enough as it is, let’s bring the fat
pregnant lady to the club with all the hot fresh meat and make her feel like
the oldest dinosaur in the joint,” I chastise my cohorts, slumping my back into
the corner booth here at the hottest nightclub within thirty miles. Five
minutes of sober sitting, in a glittery red vinyl booth, scanning the bar (that
I am oddly surprised doesn’t have a children’s ball pit), and I’m ready to
hightail it outta here.
“Shut it, Bink. We all saw the way the bouncer by the
door looked at you when we walked in,” Debbie shoves at my shoulder in a
playful manner, her hand wrapped around a fruity concoction. The thought of any
type of alcohol at this point has me willing to beg for just a taste. Jack. I
miss Jack, almost as much as I miss having regular sized ankles.
“Like his mother?” I yell over some R&B song
thumping through the speakers about it being too hot in here. It is, by the
way. But I am not taking my clothes off like the song suggests. I would scare
these poor children to death. Listen to me? Since when did I become the old
spinster? Does pregnancy do that to a woman? Or does turning thirty attribute
to that? Most of the women I’m gallivanting with, with the exception of
Jezebel, are older than me. Even Pixie. Although they do seem to be having
enough fun. I’m the dud. The party pooper. Go figure.
“Shush, you don’t look like anybody’s mother. He did
look like he wanted to take a bite right outta you,” Candy Cane justifies,
sipping on her rum and coke.
I’m not buying it. They are just
trying to make me feel better.
“You think he’s hungry? Maybe he’d
like a nice juicy cankle to chew on? Maybe he missed his dinner. Ya think?”
Sarcasm is dripping from every word, which somehow forces a laugh out of my
partygoers.
Resting back in my seat, they carry
on amongst themselves, jabbering about this hot man or that one. I know they
don’t get out from under their old men much. This is like a breath of fresh air
for them. I can respect that, even though I would much rather be home than
here. Home, being Marshall’s at this point in time.
Today has been spent as a mix match
of entertainment. Shopping, which I loathe. The women insisted on picking out
clothes for baby Gabe, Jezebel’s newborn, and wanting to help me decide on my
little bundle of joy’s outfit to bring her home
“Of course I still want this
relationship.” He’s firm, talking over me. “I want you home. And if I have to
wait until Sunday, that’s perfectly fine. I will just miss you until then. Are
you at least staying some place decent?”
Decent to Marshall is a five star
hotel, with room services and a concierge to dote upon you hand and foot. Now
my idea of decent, is a Motel 6 with a hard bed and no cockroaches. Deke’s
house is somewhere in-between.
“It’s fine,” I groan. “See you
Sunday.”
“See you Sunday, Darling, I love
you.”
“Peace.”
“Huh?”
“I mean, bye.”
“Bye.”
I hang up and toss the phone back
onto the cradle again with a long exhausted sigh. I’ve had enough phone
conversations today to last me a week or possibly two. Now I’ve got to cut this
week’s checks for the men and enter them into the paid column on the computer.
I’m staying at Deke’s again tonight. Not sure if he knows it, but I am. Not only
for myself, but for his daughters too. I want them to like me and feel
comfortable around me since I know they don’t have many female figures in their
lives. Once they move to the compound, they will though. And as long as they
steer clear of my mother and the whores, they will be just peachy keen.
Now it’s time to work. Hope y’all
have a fanfuckingtabulous day, and stay out of trouble. And for my sake, I hope
I do too.
Peace.
Chapter
Five
Saturday: February 22, 2014
“Seriously? You had to bring me to this teenybopper
party zone? As if I don’t already feel old enough as it is, let’s bring the fat
pregnant lady to the club with all the hot fresh meat and make her feel like
the oldest dinosaur in the joint,” I chastise my cohorts, slumping my back into
the corner booth here at the hottest nightclub within thirty miles. Five
minutes of sober sitting, in a glittery red vinyl booth, scanning the bar (that
I am oddly surprised doesn’t have a children’s ball pit), and I’m ready to
hightail it outta here.
“Shut it, Bink. We all saw the way the bouncer by the
door looked at you when we walked in,” Debbie shoves at my shoulder in a
playful manner, her hand wrapped around a fruity concoction. The thought of any
type of alcohol at this point has me willing to beg for just a taste. Jack. I
miss Jack, almost as much as I miss having regular sized ankles.
“Like his mother?” I yell over some R&B song
thumping through the speakers about it being too hot in here. It is, by the
way. But I am not taking my clothes off like the song suggests. I would scare
these poor children to death. Listen to me? Since when did I become the old
spinster? Does pregnancy do that to a woman? Or does turning thirty attribute
to that? Most of the women I’m gallivanting with, with the exception of
Jezebel, are older than me. Even Pixie. Although they do seem to be having
enough fun. I’m the dud. The party pooper. Go figure.
“Shush, you don’t look like anybody’s mother. He did
look like he wanted to take a bite right outta you,” Candy Cane justifies,
sipping on her rum and coke.
I’m not buying it. They are just
trying to make me feel better.
“You think he’s hungry? Maybe he’d
like a nice juicy cankle to chew on? Maybe he missed his dinner. Ya think?”
Sarcasm is dripping from every word, which somehow forces a laugh out of my
partygoers.
Resting back in my seat, they carry
on amongst themselves, jabbering about this hot man or that one. I know they
don’t get out from under their old men much. This is like a breath of fresh air
for them. I can respect that, even though I would much rather be home than
here. Home, being Marshall’s at this point in time.
Today has been spent as a mix match
of entertainment. Shopping, which I loathe. The women insisted on picking out
clothes for baby Gabe, Jezebel’s newborn, and wanting to help me decide on my
little bundle of joy’s outfit to bring her home
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