Biker Books Novels & Stories

As the car drifting event comes to a close, the focus shifts to the next thrilling spectacle - a high-energy bike race. Handsome boys, their faces hidden by helmets, rev up their powerful superbikes, their sleek machines gleaming under the moonlit sky. Among them stands a figure cloaked in mystery - a rider in a black balaclava, his aura of enigmatic allure capturing my attention. The race begins, the bikers tearing through the twisting track with speed and precision, their bikes weaving through the night like streaks of lightning. The balaclava-clad rider steers the course with unparalleled skill, his movements fluid and calculated as he gains ground on his competitors.

The bike stops right in front of us, so close I feel the heat from it. I can't map out the rider, but they feel scary. “Hey, what the fuck, man!” the brunette snaps, irritation edging into his voice. The biker swings a leg off, never turning the lights off. They lift something long and solid. Is that a bat? They roll it once in their hand, casual. Almost bored. “Who’s first?”

I said to them, trying to step away, but I stepped into another biker that stood behind me. I hadn’t even noticed him until that moment. He had his arms folded across his chest and he was looking down at me with his helmet covering his entire face. “Please…” I said to them. “Just let me go—” “I don’t think we are going to do that,” the first biker said. “Not until we have a little bit of fun with you.” “What is it that you want?” I asked. “Money? I don’t have much but—” “Oh, we don’t want your money. But I think you know what we do want,” one of the men laughed.

Now that was the Ty I knew and loved. "We still haven't seen him yet but if you tracked him here and that book ties in then there are only so many places around here he could be hiding out. We'll get to the bottom of it. Just one more player, he should be here..." Just then Chaz opened up the gate and a whole fucking crew of bikers came riding in. The leader dismounted off his custom made top of the line ride with his wife's name emblazoned on the side and headed for us. One smooth motherfucker this one, and the shades just tipped that shit over the edge.

"Seriously? Can't we just wait for him out here, in the parking lot?" Krystal turned to me, her hand reaching for the visor. As she adjusted her blond hair and fluffed it out, she effortlessly pulled down her push-up bra, accentuating her cleavage in the sparkly black tank top that barely contained her assets. "What's the matter?" she asked, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. "Nervous about stepping into a biker bar?" "It's more than that, and you know it." The place had a notorious reputation, plagued by gangs, fights, drug dealings, and prostitution.

I felt disposable, easily replaced and forgotten, and my children were treated the same. But the night after Grace reappeared suddenly when I needed her the most, I started to dream about X, a mysterious biker whose face I never saw but who somehow made me feel safe and precious. My children never appeared in my dreams; it was always just X and me. My favorite dreams were the ones where I held on tightly to him as he rode through our small town so fast that it felt like we were flying, and nothing else mattered. I knew he wasn't real, just an image my mind had created based on the romance novels I read. Someone like him couldn't exist in our small town. Our paths would have crossed at one po

In fact, she had the same banner plastered to the wall of her apartment too. There were motorcycle helmets stacked perfectly behind the door, and a punching bag stood in one corner, looking worn out from use along with some dumbbells laying under it. On the shelves, tucked behind trophies and medals from games he had won, were books. Real books. They also looked worn out from reading, and she recognised some classics. They were books she loved, but never imagined a boy like him would ever touch. There was an open sketchbook on another drawer, with a half-finished sketch of a bike. She gasped, fascinated at how good he was. She reached down and slipped open the previous page of the book, and

The man who thought he’d never pay for what he did. By the time I arrived, the place was alive with roaring engines and the buzz of excitement. Bikers milled around, their cuts stitched with patches of pride and reputation. Spectators lined up behind barriers, cheering as bikes revved in anticipation. I spotted them immediately—their matching leather vests, their cocky grins. And at the center of it all, like a king among peasants, was Alexander Stone. Tall. Broad shoulders.u Dark hair slicked back. The kind of man whose presence alone commanded attention. And I hated him for it.

I burst through the doors and hit the street. I ran until my feet bled. I threw my heels into a bush and kept going, my breath hitching in my chest. I scrambled toward the highway, desperate to get away before the black cars found me. I was halfway across the old bridge when I heard the roar of an engine. A massive black motorcycle came screaming around the bend. I didn't even have time to jump out of the way. The rider slammed on the brakes, the bike sliding sideways and coming to a stop just inches from my legs.

"When I was fourteen, I started riding with the older guys in the club. Terrified. Shaking. But I acted like I owned the place." "You were a delinquent. That's different." "I was confident. Confidence is confidence." Duke caught her shoulders. "Emma. Look at me." She turned. His daughter. Dark-eyed and stubborn and trying so hard not to show how frightened she was. "You are the toughest kid I know," Duke said. "You've grown up with bikers, handled a blended family, dealt with things most fourteen-year-olds never face. High school is nothing compared to what you've already survived."