Monday, September 2, 2013

Today’s the day I start writing to you, and let’s just hope I can do at least this right. My birthday was last week. Last week I turned thirty; last week my life changed into another decade. A decade I swear that I’m going to do better. Considering I spent my entire 20’s bed-hopping from one bad boy loser to the next and never having a damn thing to show for it. No ring, no happiness, a big fat nada. Except maybe the extra ten pounds I’ve gained since high school. Ok, I realize you are probably rolling your eyes at me right now. Yes, ten whole pounds. All of it created by stress eating mass quantities of chocolate and all of it ending up in two places, T&A—need I say more?

Now… When I stare at myself in the mirror, I see boobs. Boobs is all I see. Or how my mom so delicately puts it, I’m ‘One Big Tit.’ A medium sized woman with boobs too big for her body. I’ve considered having them lopped off a time or two, but then where would my sporadic nipple orgasms go? I can’t jeopardize those, not when they make my toes curl and I’m clawing at whatever man is sucking them, nearly suffocating him in these giant bad boys. I’m a size six. Don’t hate me, I can’t help it. And if I gain weight, I fear I might topple over as my breasts will undoubtedly get larger, they always do. I have a hard enough time buying bras at it is. A size 34 DDD, yes, I said it… Three D’s…I’m not stuttering.

My hair…it’s always been the same color, different styles, and lengths, but I refuse to dye it. It’s blonde, Goldilocks blonde, and it’s short, at least for now. I wear it close to my jaw now; I chopped off the majority of it after my last loser boyfriend and I broke up. My eyes are blue…Why the hell am I’m spouting this shit to you? No damn clue…but I’m at a loss of what to say or what the hell I’m supposed to even write… Just deal? Will ya? Oh, sweet Jesus, I’m talking to a diary now. Pathetic, huh? Yup, I’ve stooped to an all-time low. Okay, maybe not low-low, but low enough that I am sitting here in my living room, my laptop in my lap, the TV is on with some infomercial, and it’s five a.m. I am due to my second week of work at eight, and I can’t sleep. I can hardly ever sleep. A few hours here or there, and I’m lucky if I get that.

Glancing up from my computer screen, I scan my apartment with my eyes, taking in my life. Trying, in some way, to fathom how I’ve gotten nowhere fast. Landing my eyes across the room on the full bookshelf is the entire reason my life has been this way. Why I am the way I am. A picture of my parents rests there in an ornate silver frame, their eyes staring knowingly at me. Like they can see my deepest, darkest secrets, or some shit.

I guess, since I’m sitting here, staring, and reminiscing…and I don’t see any shuteye in my near future, I’ll explain a little more about myself. Since eye color really isn’t of any importance.

My name is Eva, or that’s what’s on my birth certificate. I can’t remember the last time anyone has ever called me that. To everyone else in the world, to all my family, and friends, I’m Bink, Bink Cummings. The daughter of Rodney ‘Steel’ Cummings. Who goes by Steel or Daddy, when I speak to or about him. My father is and has always been a badass, no-nonsense man, who just so happens to be the VP of the Motorcycle Club, Sacred Sinners. That’s how I grew up, surrounded by men in leather, drinking beer or liquor, fucking whores and bitches in front of me, smoking God knows what, and cussing so much it would make your grandma’s grandma blush. Those same men ride hogs; that’s what we call motorcycles, not those prissy bitchass crotch rockets made of plastic for men who have less balls than I do. No, big metal machines that make your pussy clench when you ride on one. And yes, I own my own little slice of heavy rumbling metal that I hold between my thighs and have to think of anything else than the orgasm that always consumes me when I’m on Black Betty, my pink and black vintage Harley. She was a gift from my daddy and his club Prez, Big Dick, when I graduated college a few years back with a bachelor’s degree in business management.

I’m a third generation biker. Both of my parents’ parents were in the Sacred Sinners. Pap-pap still is, going on eighty and still rides his Harley and hangs around the club on occasion. My mom’s folks passed on before I was born. My mom’s nine years older than my dad and had already considered him hers once he turned fourteen. Kind of gross when you think about it. A twenty-three-year-old broad getting wet for some kid. That’s my parents, though. Happy as ever, in love, and perfect for each other. Although I must admit, I’m not my mother’s biggest fan, nor my two sisters, for that matter. Yeah, there’s a whole damn litter of us. Two boys, three girls. Guess where I fit into all of this? The middle. I’m the middle child, the black sheep. My sisters both married off and moved away; both of them despise the MC and married some metro-sexual motherfuckers with tiny cocks and fat wallets. My brothers fell in line right behind my father—leather, bitches, hogs, and the whole gambit. I’m a strange mixture of both worlds.

Glancing up again from my computer, I catch a glimpse of Pretzel’s tail awakening.

“I know you’re up,” I tell him, and that whip of a tail goes wild as he rolls to his side, his eyes landing right on me. Yup, I’m a sucker for those puppy dog eyes. I love this damn dog. Got Pretzel almost two years ago, after another one of the club’s pit bull bitches had a litter and he came out the runt. Big Dick sold a few of the pups and when all was left was Pretzel and the two other dogs they were going to train, he’d pulled me to the side one evening at the club.

“Hey, Bink,” he’d boomed over the crowd, with a jerk of his chin, alerting me that he wanted to talk. The club was packed as usual. Which meant half-naked club whores, zero old ladies, and all the leather clad bikers that were patched into the club or prospects who wanted to join. I just happened to be dropping by to deliver some cookies I had baked for the men to munch on and was ready to leave. Once you’ve watched dozens upon dozens of men in your life, literally take a bitch over the bar, a chair, or wall in front of you or force a whore to suck his dick, you kind of become numb to it. Once you’ve seen one dick, you’ve seen them all. Well…sort of. You catch my drift.

As I approached Big Dick, his smile widened, and the whore between his legs kept up her desperate and failed attempt to fit his cock in her mouth. Pitiful sight. I knew he loved every single time a woman attempted the impossible. I’d heard as much over the years.

“I have a runt.”

My eyes narrowed, trying to understand what the hell he was even talking about.

“Huh?”

“Punta’s runt, nobody bought ‘em. Can’t keep ‘em. He goes to ground or you find him a place to rest his tiny head.”

This wasn’t the first time a runt hadn’t been bought, but it was the first time I’d ever been offered one.

“Big, you know I can’t afford one of your dogs.”

He shook his head, his long dark brown hair that was tied back with a rubber band swayed slightly. “He’s yours if you want him. He’s a cute pup—”

I grinned and had to hide my need to laugh when he said the word ‘cute.’ It just didn’t suit coming from the lips of a man who was properly road named Big Dick, who also happened to be approximately six feet eight inches tall, and pushing three hundred pounds of tight, hard muscle, with tattoos that littered his scarred, tanned flesh.

“What?” He stopped his sentence, realizing my expression had changed.

I shook my head, dismissing my need to laugh. He’d probably go off the hinges if I had even chuckled at him.

A growl, a deep, murderous, Hellhound growl snarled from his lips and my eyes went wide. Fuck! He was scary when he got like that.

“Tell me, Bink.”

I bit my lip, as he ordered again, more agitated this time. “Tell me, Bink.” His giant hand went to the whore between his legs, who was still trying to suck his fat cock. Gripping her hair, he yanked her off his erection, and I about fainted. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. I had heard about his dick. It was a legend. I just hadn’t seen it in person. As the whore, who I recognized as a newbie, fell back onto her ass, he grabbed between his legs and stroked his length. Holy. Hell. I went light-headed as all the blood rushed out of my brain and landed firmly between my thighs, instantly making me wetter than I had ever been.

“You can’t suck my dick for shit, whore. Get out of my sight.” He sneered at her in palpable disgust and she shrank away, mortified. Straight into the crowd of leather, sex, booze, and loud rock music she went.

“Now, tell me.”

I couldn’t have kept up my brush off any longer, not if I wanted to stay in the good graces of the club Prez.

“It’s nothing—” I stopped talking, and even though I didn’t want to, I looked at it again. The giant baseball bat between his legs was still being stroked as he grinned at me. The singular dimple on his face wound me tighter than an eight-day clock, and I knew if I didn’t leave soon, my pussy juices were going to start to run down my legs. I was that turned on.

Using his thumb, still giving me that grin, which showed he was rough, beautiful, and naughty as hell, he swirled the pre-come on the head of his monster cock and pinched the head between his fingers. Shhhiiitttt, it was sexy.

“Want me to take care of that, baby?” another club whore singsonged, coming to stand beside me, and my stomach rolled. I wanted to puke. This one was naked and chubby, unlike the other who was also naked but skinny as hell. I hated that I was in the middle of this. I’d spent my adult years trying to avoid situations that included club whores.

The expression on Big Dick’s face was one of pure aggression and lust, as his lips curled over his teeth, and he not only growled at her, he nearly ate her alive with just a look. A look of pure evil, wrapped with sinister thoughts of slow, agonizing murder.

The chubby brunette didn’t even stand there a moment longer before she broke into a sob and ran full speed, away from him.

“Two, Big Dick, two fuckin’ whores tonight are gone. How much more ass am I gonna lose tonight before you cool the fuck off, man?” a member I recognized as Runner said, standing against the wall a few feet away, two bitches on their knees playing with his less than impressive cock.

“Out!” Big Dick snapped, pointing his free hand toward the front doors of the clubhouse.

Runner shook his head, exasperated, “Fine,” his words were clipped, eyes narrowed into tiny slits as he took the women by the arms and escorted them, along with himself, out the door. Both of the girls giggling like teenagers the whole way. Shit, who was I kidding, they probably were teenagers. I just didn’t care to notice or ask. Wasn’t my problem.

“Alright, now that that’s done.” Big Dick sighed, leaning back in his leather armchair. He was half-naked, his head reclined against the top.

“I didn’t want to laugh, but when you said the word cute, it doesn’t suit you,” I spit out fast, using all my air and quickly sucking a nervous breath.

“Cute?”

There it went again, a deep, gravelly voice like his and that word. I covered my mouth.

“Cute?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried desperately to hold back my impending laughter.

“Cute?”

A giggle snuck out, and he growled, again, like a beastly animal. I opened my eyes to see him ferociously fucking his own fist, his own eyes locked on me. His dick jerked. I saw it fucking jerk, and I couldn’t help but stare as my breathing kicked up. I nearly exploded on the spot.

Nine inches of thick man meat was being stroked directly in front of me, and I just stood there in a room full of bikers and watched. In awe, I might add. The first jet that shot from his dick arced high and landed on the floor by my feet. Each spurt shot, one right after the other, six in total, and they all were beautiful. Yep, I said beautiful. I’ve never, to this day, seen a man come that hard, that completely…that deliciously. I’ve slept with men, lots, and lots of men. Not once have they come so purely. That’s the perfect word to describe that night, that first and only night he came in front of me. Beautifully pure.

Swiping off the last bead of come from his dripping head with his T-shirt, he sighed, stood up, towering well over a foot above me and slid his leathers up his legs, buttoning and zipping them. Running his thumb across my chin, he winked at me, and I melted at his touch. Twenty years older than me, still gorgeous and utterly untouchable, not like I’ve ever wanted to touch. Well, nothing other than maybe his cock. Which I’ve dreamt about ever since that night. The night that Pretzel became my dog.

Big Dick stepped past me. I was frozen in shock, and ready to come on a moment’s notice, trying desperately to reel in what had just taken place. He’d jerked off in front of me. Looking at me. It didn’t compute.

“Yo, Bink, dog, yeah?”

I nodded and turned to see him staring casually at me like nothing happened. His normal half smirk, half smile, played on his handsomely rugged face.

“Yeah.” I anxiously swallowed and followed him out the front doors of the clubhouse and to the back of the property in the middle of the night, where they housed the high-class kennels. Not only does my father’s club deal in the shit most clubs do, but they also deal in purebred pits, rotties, and dobies. They don’t fight themselves, but I know that has to be part of what these expensive dogs are used for. They train them to be guard dogs and sell them at high prices. Thousands of dollars, to be exact.

“Here.” He pointed into a dimly lit kennel, where a lonesome dog lay curled into himself. His head lifted just slightly once he noticed people standing outside of his door, and as soon as those adorable eyes of his, one blue and one brown, gazed up into mine, I was a goner.

“I’ll take him,” I whispered. And two weeks later, Pretzel, the only male I’ve ever loved other than my daddy and the brothers, came home to live with me.

Glancing down at the corner of my computer screen I check the time…it’s shower time. Then I’m off to work.

I kiss Pretzel goodbye before I leave; he can come and go as he pleases all day. I have a doggy door that goes out to my back patio and a small fenced-in yard. My apartment may be small, but it does come with a killer outdoor space, great for cookouts and sunbathing. Not that I do either of those things. The sight of me in a bathing suit is disgusting.

It’s week two here at work, sitting at the main desk at the front of RJD Specialists, who are Pulmonologist and Thoracic Oncologists. In layman’s terms, lung doctors or in this case, ones who work with cancer patients, too. It’s a quaint office - three nurses, three doctors, and me. Did I mention that all three doctors are gorgeous hotties? Not that I’d tell anyone but you that little fact. But they are, and they seem fairly nice. None of them are married; I think one has a girlfriend, not sure, though, and all three of them are best friends. They met in college or working at a hospital or something like that. I’m new. I don’t know much, other than Kelsie, the young 20-something nurse, is also the office gossip queen. There is also Johanna, the sweet, rotund, mid-30’s nurse who dislikes Kelsie. And Kendrick, our only male nurse, who is gayer than Richard Simmons doing a duet with Elton John in a bathhouse, and I love him! He’s hilarious and flirty and being around a group of big nasty bikers all the time, makes Kendrick the breath of fresh rosy air in my life.

“How’s my favorite blonde?” Kendrick asked me as soon as I strolled into the office this morning, clad in my business casual clothes, headed to the bathroom to fix my hair and makeup. I rode Black Betty this morning, and it’s impossible to stay pristine when riding on a Harley and having two orgasms on my way to work. When I say I burst at the seams and even moan when I’m straddling my beautiful bike, it’s not a joke. I orgasm, hard, every damn time, and I love it.

“Great.” I smiled at him once I hit the bathroom. He stood, leaning in the doorway watching me reapply my lip gloss and give myself the once over in the mirror above the sink.

“You do know that working here doesn’t mean you have to come in so early,” he said.

“I want to make a good impression.”

Kendrick shrugged, pushing himself off the door frame. “Alright, but if you get to fuck any of our bosses, I better be the first to know.”

About having a heart attack at his bluntness, I coughed, choking on my spit. “What?” I croaked.

“Oh… Puh-lease.” His eyes rolled exaggeratedly into the back of his skull. “As if you didn’t know.”

Know what? Huh?

“What?” I turned around and headed for the door.

Just then my cell phone vibrated in my pocket and I tugged it from my black dress pants.

“We’ll discuss it later.” He left me to my phone and provided me with a too-da-loo, prissy finger wave, as he walked away in his scrubs and bright white crocs.

Jizz: Steel, Brew, me, and some of the boys are headed on a run for two weeks. You gonna be chill? Need you to stop by the club, family gatherin’ coming up this weeken’. Do your bro a solid and do what you best. Oh… And follow the rules, Steel said.

Uh!!!!! I screamed in my head.

Could my brother be any more of a barbaric moron? And to think he’s three years younger than me. Follow the rules? Please. I always follow the rules. Have since I was a kid. I’ve never had sex with a brother. Not even once. Loser, wannabe bikers? Yes, lots of them, actually. But brothers in the club? Nope. My daddy, Gunz, or Big Dick would murder them on site. Since I was little, my daddy always told me he wanted more for me and my sisters. Well, those bitches I call sisters, they got out. I, however, wanted to stay and be a part the club that I grew up running around in. Where the man Big Dick carried me on his shoulders like a prized doll at all the family gatherings, since he’s never had any children himself. Or where Gunz would always have a special sucker stashed away in his cut for me. Sure, there was sex, drugs, alcohol, bitches, and all that in between. It was my life, and I loved it. Even the big gaping flaws.

“How’s your second week coming along?” Doctor Jagger asks, tugging me from my thoughts, with his calculated voice, standing opposite the counter in his usual pressed Dockers and long sleeved dress shirt. It’s September and it’s hot outside, and still he’s in a long sleeved shirt. Odd…

“It’s going well.” I try to appear as refined as I can.

“I saw you reformatted the scheduling system and files.”

“Is that okay?” I raise an apprehensive brow.

A smirk is all he offers me in retort.

“Hello, Ms. Cummings,” Doc Dane says, coming into my line of sight and standing beside his business partner and friend.

I curtly nod in his direction. “Afternoon, Doctor Dane.”

“Please call me Lawrence.”

When you spend your entire life calling people, Big Dick, Jizz, Brew, or Gunz, calling someone Lawrence, a normal name, becomes a foreign concept. But one I willingly take in, accepting this crisp, fresh air of normalcy.

“Thank you, Lawrence, and please call me Bink or Eva. Whichever you prefer.”

The dazzling, toothy smile he produces warms my skin, as a shot of pleasure shoots straight to my loins. “Which do you like better?” he asks.

Unable to look at him any longer without the slight flush of my cheeks becoming apparent. I look down. I’ve never allowed anyone to willingly call me Eva before. I don’t even like the name.

“Bink, I prefer Bink,” I express, speaking to my hands, not his face.

“Well, Bink it is then.” I hear the slightest fraction of amusement cloaking his tone.

My phone sitting next to me on the desk buzzes again, and I ignore it as I look up to see both of my bosses blatantly staring at me.

Do I have something on my face?

Swiping my hand across my mouth and cheeks, I feel nothing but the burn on them, as both of my boss’s stare, one set of deep ocean blue eyes wrapped in thick black lashes, and the other set a tawny honey color. Not knowing what to say or do, I stare right back at them and sink my teeth into my bottom lip, nervousness taking up residency in my stomach. My foot starts to shake.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” The hardened tone from the only other male doctor in the office echoes. I see him once he enters into my line of sight, openly sneering at his colleagues.

“She is our bookkeeper, receptionist, and all of that. You can’t—” He continues walking toward the exit.

Can’t what?

“Says the man who hired her.” Doctor Jagger squints in frustration at Doctor Roman, the tallest of the three of them, who’s also the thinnest.

Doctor Roman shrugs. “She was the most qualified.”

Grunts and grumbles from all three of them permeate the air as they turn their attention away from me and head toward the exit. They stop at the door and all three simultaneously turn around, locking eyes with me from across the room.

“Lock up when you leave, and don’t come in until ten tomorrow,” Doc Jagger states, running a hand across the side of his neatly gelled hair.

“Ten, got it.” I jerk my head in an awkward nodding motion.

It’s not even closing time, and they are leaving for the day. What am I supposed to do?

They all offer me a wave and handsome smiles as they depart. As soon as the office door comes to a full close, I let out the breath I was holding. Could that have been any more awkward?

“And so it begins.” Kendrick makes a sudden appearance next to me with a sly smile.

“Meaning?”

“You’re in deep.”

“Deep with what?” I wrinkle my nose in confusion, pleading with my eyes for him to give up the goods and just tell me what he means.

Chuckling and shaking his head, he pats my shoulder and walks away.

Deep with what? What is he talking about? I’m not stupid; they probably want to bang me. You can’t be a biker chick and not have men tryin’ to bang your brains out around every damn corner.

Having completed my tasks for the day, I retrieve my phone and check my messages.

Jizz: You didn’t text back. You gonna be chill or not, Bink?

Me: I’m always chill, do what you gotta do. I’ll do my job.

My job meaning I’ll cook. I always cook. What does it matter if they are home or not? Who else is going to do it? Them? Not even my mother cooks for the club’s family gatherings. It’s me, Dixie, and Niki. Both of which are lifer club whores with zero need to be old ladies to any man. They are only allowed to help when children aren’t present. Then you’ve got Candy Cane and Debbie, who are old ladies, and both of them help, too. We all pile into the giant restaurant-equipped kitchen inside the clubhouse and cook up a shit storm to feed our giant family of hungry bikers and their women and children. What do I get out of it? Nothing. It’s just part of the job description. I’m glad to do it. Plus, most of the club regulars respect me. Note: I said most.

My phone buzzes 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 blurt sincerely.

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 my neighbor; she lives two blocks from my house. How’d that whore know about Pretzel?

Suddenly, I don’t want anything to do with Big or look at his face. Linda? Seriously?! He had to have been at her house, pounding that disgusting pussy. A roll of revulsion waves through me. I abruptly stand and try to tug my pup’s leash from Big’s hand. No such luck.

“Let go of him. I’ll ride with him on my bike.”

“The hell you will.”

“Why did you bring him here anyway? How did Linda know about him? What aren’t you telling me?” I fiercely question, growing more agitated by the second.

Silence, stupid ass silence, is his reply.

I tug on the leash again. His grip tightens, and I see his muscled forearms constrict, the veins bulging to the surface.

“Give me my dog, Big.” I try to stay calm, but I’m losing my patience. I don’t care if he is the club president. I’m not part of the club, not in the official capacity anyhow.

Linda, that sick bitch he’s spouting off about. She’s part of the club alright or was. She’s a whore, his whore, to be exact. The whore he’s used for the past ten years. The whore who’s been digging her claws into him since I can remember, trying to become his old lady. Big Dick, doesn’t do love; he only fucks, and sure as shit doesn’t want to settle down with some two-bit club whore. But for whatever jacked up reason, he keeps going back to her, year after year after year. It makes me sick. And I’m sure you are wondering why I even care. I’ll tell you why. Because we hate each other. She hates me; I don’t actually hate-hate her. We got in a drag out, knockout, fistfight about a month after I got my pup. Even though she’s about five feet nine, which is seven inches taller than me, and probably double my size. I’m scrappy, and I grew up in this lifestyle. Plus, I have two biker brothers and a biker for a father. So I know how to box. In turn, I fucked her shit up - broke her nose, busted open her lip, and bruised her up something fierce. It’s been years since I’ve even heard her name spoken aloud. She’s not allowed at the club anymore. But that never stopped Big Dick from sliding into home plate wherever she willingly spreads her legs. What a sick son of a bitch.

“Were you at her house, Big?”

His response, nothing but a straight up, scary as hell glare. I’m not going to wilt under his intimidation tactics. I stare back with just as much intensity, my eyes turning into two slits of anger and disgust.

“Were you?” I grind my jaw, the hairs on the back of my neck standing attention, my agitation at an all-time high.

Silence.

Fuck. Him.

“You know what? Keep him!” I snarl, release the leash and pat Pretzel’s head while I wink at him. Then, with a stern face, I sling my leg over my bike, turn her over and not once do I look at him. Not once, do I register any of the words that keep flying from his pissed off mouth as I peel out of the parking lot, heading not home but to the bar. The bar I go to when I don’t want to be found.

“Bink, what’ll it be? Another?” Manny, my favorite bartender, asks, leaning his elbows on the bar in front of me. A whoosh of air from the front door blows my way, thanks to the storm that has suddenly settled in the sky. From the looks of the radar, it’s not going anywhere fast.

Grreeeaaatttt.

It’s eight, and I’ve been here for hours, drinking, eating, chatting, drinking some more, getting hit on, and the list rattles so on and so forth. See, I told you my life was in utter disarray. I don’t even have my fuckin’ dog anymore. What a stupid bitch am I? Do I think Big Dick will put pups in the ground? No, not at all; he called him cute.

A snicker follows that thought. Fuckin Big. Uhh!!! I can’t stand that sexy, infuriating man.

“What’s wrong, princess?” A man in a blue business suit glides onto the bar stool next to mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him bang my brains out, with a determined expression on his face. Big tits, that’s all he sees. My mom was right. ‘One big tit.’

I ignore him.

“What’s wrong?” His hand lands on mine, which is sprawled unladylike on the bar, and I jerk it away.

“Men,” I incoherently grumble, down another shot of whiskey, and slam my empty glass back on the bar with a loud thud.

Ahhh…yes…that good belly burn… Just what I needed.

Tapping my finger on the edge of the shot glass, Manny doesn’t ask; he just pours and keeps the whiskey within arm’s reach for my next refill.

“We’re not all bad, princess.”

Does this doofus really think the princess line is sexy? I’d rather be called a bitch. That would surely make me wetter than some depiction of being a princess, like the fuckin’ Little Mermaid. Note: Women do not, I repeat, do NOT like to be called princess. The whole tiara, prissy bitch thing. Nope, not sexy. It comes off as weak and needy. I’m the furthest from both.

My phone buzzes for the umpteenth time. I roll my eyes, exasperated, and pull it from between my legs, dropping it onto the bar. Sliding open the screen, I’m assaulted with message after message. Fuck. Me. Sideways. I don’t wanna hear all this shit. I’m a grown ass woman. I don’t need some dudes barking orders at me. The dickwad already took my goddamn dog. What the fuck else could he possibly want?

Big: You crazy bitch! What the fuck are you thinkin’? Rollin up outta here on your Prez like that. You know that’s a punishable offense, right? Punishable by lockin’ your ass up at the club and whipping your ass kinda punishment. Hit me up now, or I’m pullin’ rank.

Big: I’m not fuckin’ tellin’ you again. I’ll kill this dog just to spite your mouthy good for nothin’ ass.

Big: Bye-bye, Fido. Dumpin’ his dead ass in the river now. You did this shit to yourself.

Tears… Big hot tears well in my eyes, coating the world in watery bleariness.

Big: I’ve got his collar if you want it. If not, I’ll burn it.

The tears fall, streaming rapidly down my cheeks. He killed my dog! He killed Pretzel, and it’s all my fault!

Manny slides a tissue box in front of me, and I solemnly grin my appreciation.

“It’s on the house.” Another fill to my shot glass, I down it, and he refills. Then another goes down the hatchet.

Me: I don’t want his collar. I don’t want to see you. I’m not comin’ round the club no more. I’m out. Peace.

I sit, staring into the empty shot glass, running my finger slowly around the rim, drowning in my own sorrows, crying like the bitch I am.

Big: Where you at?

Why does it matter? I turn off my phone, and I lay my head on the bar. The cool varnished wood helps numb the pain that has curled itself into my soul and locked itself there. My. Life. Sucks!

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