Batman Arkham Asylum Harley 소설 & 이야기

Harley's determination to secure Alaric's affections drove her to take risks. As she approached a stall tucked away in a corner, a hooded figure emerged. "What do you want, lady?" he growled. Harley flashed a charming smile. "I'm looking for something... special. Something to ensure a man's undivided attention." The vendor raised an eyebrow. "You mean an aphrodisiac?" Harley nodded, her eyes locked on the vendor. "The strongest you have." The vendor vanished into the shadows, returning with a small vial. "This is Dragon's Breath. Potent, but unpredictable. Use with caution."

I’ve got to get Luna out of my system in the only way I know how—get hammered and hammer some pussy. It takes me nearly forty minutes to get back home, and when I do, Callan and Warrick are nowhere to be found. I take a quick shower, dress in cleanish Levis and a Henley, and head out to hop on my fully restored Harley motorcycle, circa the mid-2020s. She’s a forty-year-old beast of a ride with high-performance capabilities and the loudest, most powerful engine this city has ever seen. If she were any faster, she could parasail across the swamp.

"This is it." Harley pulled latex gloves from her back pocket, put on a set, handed the other to me, then moved to the back of the van and opened the double doors. My hands don't fit, but I try to shove them on. Though the truck was empty, Harley still climbed in to have a better look. "So what made you leave your pack?" Harley is trying to sound casual, but I hear the need behind her question and am about to take advantage of it; it's truth or dare time!

A son’s fatal flaw: believing he’s outgrown the monster’s shadow. “Él está aquí (He’s here),” she whispers. Thunder cracks, and the Harley’s roar answers—not the familiar purr of my Road King, but the guttural snarl of Esteban’s custom Fat Boy. He’d built it from scrap metal and spite, its pipes tuned to mimic a death rattle. A symphony for the graves he’d yet to dig. My hands shake as I recover my wrench. Its ridges bite into my palm like a lifeline.

Rick Harley, who was sitting across from me, plucked her wine from the table and nodded at me over the rim of the glass as she took a sip. “I heard that you won yourself a pretty slick car out there. A Saleen?” I nodded. “Sure did.” She shifted in her seat, and her eyes lit up with excitement. “You’ll have to show me.” “I can drive you home tonight if you need a ride,” I offered. Everyone at the table went quiet and looked at us. Harley did something I had never seen her do before.

he waved and trailed off. “You seem to have it all planned out,” I said. Was this a date? I dismissed the thought immediately. Asher Gray doesn’t do dates. But the two of us together again…I gulped and kicked away the errant thoughts. “I will keep my hands to myself if that’s what you were implying,” he grimaced, making me blush. I wanted to respond, but the words vanished as my eyes fell on his choice of vehicle for tonight. “Yo…you have a Harley?” I mumbled, my eyes widening. And not just some Harley, it was the Sportster S, my favorite.

Maybe boxing or karate. Alex's cry of “Ryan wait!" cut through my chest like a hot knife. He was seeing someone else? He was seeing someone else?!! I took the stairs slowly, not wanting the boy to suspect being followed. I came out of the building in time to see him latch his helmet while sitting astride a motorcycle. The perp owned a Harley. Brand New by the looks of it. They didn't come cheap. And neither did the watch on his left hand. Handsome, athletic and rich.

And Raul did his best to cover me. Just as I got to the place where my motorcycle was parked, I heard it. My K2 black panther main battle tank, approaching in its full speed. Proud of my investment, a humorous giggle escaped me. Harley and Izzy were mounted on the tank, fully armored, grinning like lunatics. The sight of them further warmed my heart. "We are bringing the war to you bitches!" Harley hollered. I laughed. The bike’s engine roared to life and I sped off.

Yeah, he probably wanted one of his own cigarettes pretty badly right about now. Too bad, so sad. Bastard. The smoke had the benefit of drowning out all the other scents in the car, too, and that alone made my headache recede a bit. The mix of Jack’s fresh, warm, alpha earthiness with Brent’s sharp, cheap-cologne-infused werewolf smell, not to mention the overlay of Hendler’s faint reek, had me nearly crawling out of my own skin. I opened my eyes at the sound of a loud, growly engine. A Harley pulled up by the curb, not turning into the Starbucks lot, but simply idling there. The rider had a full-face helmet on with a tinted visor, and his head had turned our way.

"You have been cooped up inside this concrete compound for days now. I thought you might really need some fresh air to clear your head." He led me out through the back door and into the bright sunlight of the yard, walking toward the long line of shiny motorcycles parked against the wall. His bike was completely unmistakable—it was a massive, heavy black Harley-Davidson motorcycle with bright chrome details that caught the sunlight and a large Iron Reapers skull painted right onto the fuel tank. He reached over, grabbed a black helmet from the handlebars, and handed it to me. Then, he stepped closer and helped me strap it tightly under my chin, his large, tattooed fingers moving with careful