Biker Books Novels & Stories

The world turned orange as the blast ripped through the silence, sending a shockwave that rattled my teeth. "GO!" Ruan bellowed. The Phantoms surged forward, a wall of black leather and chrome screaming into the light. Gunfire erupted—not the muffled thuds of the assassins, but the heavy, rhythmic roar of the bikers' weapons. It was a symphony of chaos. I watched from the ridge, my heart in my throat. I saw Ruan dive off his bike while it was still moving, sliding across the asphalt and firing his revolver with a precision that was haunting. He was a god of the road, a creature of fire and lead.

We looked at the pack land together in the early morning, and I thought about the highway in the dark and the bond reaching toward something it couldn't reach yet, and I thought about what it meant to be the thing it was reaching toward without knowing it. "I want to ask you something," I said. "Okay." "The riding." I paused. "The motorcycle. You've been doing it your whole life. What is it about it." He thought about this for a moment. "It's the only thing where the speed is inside the experience rather than outside it," he said. "In a car you're watching the speed. On a bike you're in it. Your body is part of the physics." He paused. "During the feral years it was the only time the noise i

I thought. Here I was thinking the bar area would be somewhere I haven't seen before, only for it to be the same place I was taken to by that young biker yesterday. It still had the same smell of alcohol and weed, but it wasn't as choking as yesterday...the windows were all open. Three plus four plus two is nine. Why was I seeing only eight men? "Hey beautiful, are you here to meet someone?" One of the bikers who sighted me first asked with a cocky grin.

My ribs screamed with every breath—courtesy of Derek's boots three nights ago in that motel parking lot outside Tucson. "You cannot run forever, Jenna," he had said, his voice cold as winter. "I will find you again." But I had run. Again. A rumble split the air. Deep. Mechanical. The kind that made your bones vibrate. I lifted my head and saw them. Six motorcycles rolling down Main Street like they owned it. Leather. Chrome. The devil's head patch on their backs—red eyes, fangs bared. Devil's Reign MC. My blood turned to ice.

Every single breath he took felt like a shield keeping the dangers of the outlaw world far away from my skin. I knew that the morning would bring more club business, more dangerous meetings with the highway brothers, and the constant threat of the Devils gang lurking at the edges of our territory. Tank was still locked away in the dark basement cells, and the memory of Raven's bitter eyes was a warning that the trouble was never truly gone. The life of a biker president was always going to be written in blood, gasoline, and violence.

what? Did I just think of Knives as hot and sexy? Because dirty thoughts and bikers should NEVER be breathed in the same sentence in my mind! I hated bikers! They were the reason why my life had turned into a living hell, and the whole point in trying to get away from here was to never set eyes on another biker, EVER!

His chiseled jawline was carefully sculpted, and his deep brown spiky hair spread across his face, dancing in the wind and slightly hiding his emerald eyes. Each of them wore similar clothing;. Typical characteristics of bikers. They were in jeans, boots, and a vest that displayed their club color. [WILD HOGS]. They also wore a red neckerchief, the ends clasped with a sliding knot ornament. Gold chains hung on their necks, with earrings attached to their ears. In total, they were the word Perfect itself.

“They say that if the pipes are loud, ongoing traffic will hear them, but the sound from the exhaust goes straight out of the back end. All it does is make them go deaf prematurely—” “And piss pedestrians off,” Brennan grumbled. As the bike approached, I tilted my head to the side, recognizing that it wasn’t a Sunday rider on the back of it. “Biker,” Conor confirmed. “No tags,” I murmured. “Does there need to be? Nearest MC to us is the Sinners,” Brennan pointed out. “He’s not wearing a cut.” I lifted my cellphone and as the biker drove by, I snapped a photo, full frontal and a real beauty, then immediately sent it to Conor, whose own cell buzzed as he received it.

"But you can't come because Crispin will kill me." "No, the bikers will kill you first." Crispin would bury her and then dig her back up and do it again. It is the stupidest idea I've ever heard from Katy, and from the sounds of it, she has a lot of stupid ideas. Still, I can't let her go wandering off into a clubhouse by herself. I haven't met the bikers myself, but I guarantee they won't find her peeking in windows and then invite her inside for a spaghetti dinner. In college I read Motorcycle Club romance books. I have a pretty good idea what goes down in biker clubs and it isn't a bunch of reformed criminals falling in love.

But deep down, I already knew the answer. Nothing. Not a single message. I stared at the empty chat for a while, feeling the silence settle heavier in my chest. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I was a fool for trusting a piece of shit like him. I knew what bikers were. Everyone said it, playboys, liars, men who lived by no rules but their own. I should’ve known better. I should’ve stayed away. But I didn’t. I gave him everything, my trust, my heart, my body, and now I was the one left bleeding.