The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 1 (MC Chronicles #1) Read Free Page B

again.
    Big: Hey, little shit, somebody found Pretzel makin’ a
    break for it. Got a call and he’s at the club now. If you want him, come and
    claim him. If not, I’m keeping the cute fucker.
    Cute. That word and Big still don’t mesh. I chuckle, shaking my head, amused.
    Me: Thanks, Big, I’ll be right over. Getting off work
    now. Is that alright? Or am I not allowed over because it’s not visiting hours.
    Big: Are you fuckin with me?
    Me: Is that a trick question?
    Is it bad that I’m texting him and the whole time that
    I am, I’m picturing that big dick of his? That’s awful, isn’t it? How awful? It
    seems downright dirty. I’ve only seen it once, and it’s forever imprinted in my
    brain. This is the same man who, when I was a tiny kid of like five and my dad,
    his VP, was out on a run, would sit on the couch in the common room and read me Rainbow Brite and Care Bear stories. The same man who knows
    how much I love Italian Ices, which he keeps the clubhouse fridge permanently
    stocked with. Okay, he doesn’t, but he has someone do it.
    Big: Visiting hours is to limit club whores and old
    ladies from bein’ here. You either of those?
    Me: No. Couldn’t be if I wanted.
    Big: Damn fuckin’ straight you ain’t. You’re too good
    for this shit. Now come get ‘em, or I’m going to lock the doors and your ass is
    shit outta luck.
    Me: The club? Not your house… Right?
    Big: Shut your trap and get on that hog I know you’ve
    got parked out front of your new job. Then get your ass here.
    Me: How’s he gonna get home on my bike?
    Big: I’ll worry about it. Just get your fuckin’ dog.
    Sheesh! Alright!
    Already walking out of the office
    building, I lock up, walk outside, and there standing next to Black Betty is
    that giant motherfucker and Pretzel, on a leash, sprawled out on the pavement
    next to him.
    I toss my arms over my chest and give him the stink
    eye.
    Come to the club? He’s already here.
    “So this is the club now?” I sarcastically raise a
    brow in question.
    “Do you want the fucker or not?” He flicks his gaze
    down to my pup and back up to me.
    “What happened?” I ask, walking toward them and my
    bike. Upon closer inspection, I see Big is dirty as hell; his hands are caked
    with mud, his face dusted in dirt and sweat. The white t-shirt under his cut is
    one hot mess, as are the worn jeans hugging his thick thighs and the
    shit-kickers he’s sportin’ on his feet.
    “I got a call from your neighbor that he’d dug under
    that damn fence, which I kept tellin’ Steel to fix so this didn’t happen. Now,
    this little shit…” He glares down at Pretzel, and I almost feel sorry for him.
    Big Dick is frightening; I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that menacing
    ice-blue glare. “He was on his way under the fence when I got there. Got to him
    before he could run.”
    “Why are you so dirty?” I rake my gaze the length of
    his massive stature, skipping over the crotch portion of his pants. God knows
    it has its own zip code.
    “I got tired of waitin’ on your fuckin’ old man to do
    this job, so I took care of it. There won’t be any problems with this little
    runt diggin’ out again.”
    The satisfied look on his face says he’s rather proud
    of himself. If he was at my house, why didn’t he just leave my dog at home?
    That makes zero sense. But I’m not asking any more questions.
    “Thank you.” I sincerely blurt.
    He sharply nods once, accepting my gratitude.
    “Wait.” I place my purse into my saddlebag and turn to
    my dog, where I kneel and stroke one hand down his back. “Why did my neighbor
    call you ? And what neighbor?” I
    glance up at him. He’s quietly watching me pet Pretzel.
    “Linda.”
    Linda? Linda? Who’s Linda?
    Oh…no…not…her!
    Immediately, I have to reel in my urge to let off some
    steam. I. Can’t. Stand. That. Bitch.
    “Linda? You mean...” I trail off, unable to speak
    about it, much less want to think about it. Linda isn’t