Biker Books Novels & Stories

I put on some coffee and leaned up against the counter. The whole thing was fucked. I didn’t much care about the guys that were after her. I’d dealt with plenty of fucking biker cunts in my time, left more than a few blood-stained and splattered on the road under my wheels. I could protect her no problem, and I actually looked forward to it. I wanted another fucking war. I wanted some fight, some excitement to break up the boring as fuck club business. I wasn’t built for peace, never was.

Screams and shouts from the Philanthropists and Socialites echoed through the night sky as the impish Bokken Riders landed on the roof of the Harrison Galleries. Tires screech, rubber burned as the magical bikers crashed the party. "Shit," Warren revved his engine and pushed his bike a little faster, "Please tell me you've called the calvary." Warren groaned. His ride went airborne and crashed into the roof of the Harrison Galleries himself.

Addie replied. "Well, not all bikers are bad. I should know, my brother is one. I also dated one for a while until I got bored with him." Paris explained. "Is your brother in the biker club that's here tonight?" Addie asked. "Yes, he is. His name is Ian, and he's one of their Sargent At Arms. His road name is Joker." Paris replied. "Road name?" Addie asked. "Yeah. It's like their nickname the club gives them." Paris explained.

The fourth biker says nothing. He is smaller than the others. He is covered in tattoos. And he has a gun. He points his pistol at Jim. I don't want Jim to die. Jim turns to face me, his eyes wide. "Run!" he says. "It's okay. I can take care of myself." I roll my eyes. "No you can't, human," I say. He looks so bemused. But he's going to look even more so in a second when I shift. Somebody else emerges from behind the wall of bikers.

Shit kickers that had seen way better days and never smiling. They were the kind of bikers that put fear in every man, woman, and child when they rode through a town one hundred strong. They kinda remind me of the gunslingers of the old West. Only these days, old man Mallory was a lot more refined. He wore silk suits and loafers and shit.

The bikers each took a step back as they sensed the threat drawing near. Scarface gulped audibly but still tried to appear brave. “You think you can intimidate me?” he asked with a shaky voice. I bared my teeth. “I don’t think. I know.” The air around us grew hard, and then before I could utter another word, one of the bikers launched himself at me. But I was faster, catching his upraised arm and flipping him onto his stomach with a twist before slamming his front half against the truck. The others were charging forward when Lysander was suddenly there, moving with the deadly speed of a well-schooled warrior.

Crowe, entry thirty one, matte black bike* I went and pulled everything. The surface layer was straightforward. Jaxen Crowe, twenty eight. Director and founder of the Moon Biker's Club, established four years ago as a regional outfit and expanded within eighteen months into something that made the industry pay attention. Clean record, no charges, no civil suits, nothing that would raise a flag on a standard background check. Tax filings current. Business registration clean. The kind of paper trail that belonged to someone who either had very good lawyers or was genuinely careful about how he operated.

A particular one on his arm caught my attention. It was a dragon spitting fire. "If we don't leave now, his friends would join us here." The Biker dude gestured towards his bike I didn't even notice was parked by my side. "Get on." "Why would I go anywhere with you?" I folded my arm across my chest, suddenly feeling wary of him. 'Who was that gun shooter and why was he aiming at me?' I wondered, having an answer as I stared at this dude in my presence. It was probably because I was with him, he was a Biker and probably a gangster as well.

The best in that business. But then, at that moment, he looked terrible. Although it was dark, the stench of blood was enough to let one in on the fact he was probably covered in one. His helmet even looked half broken, and it seemed he walked with a limp. “What happened?” “Long story.” The biker reached into his jacket pocket, retrieving a lighter which he lit, the fire brightening the darkness by a bit, but the moment he placed the end of the cigarette in it and turned it off, darkness was back again.

What then? "Damn you, you son of a bitch!" one man cries, and with one swift movement, he kicks the tall biker hard in the balls. He screams in agonizing pain and falls over on the ground, taking me with him. I stand up as quickly as I can and finally take a good look at the mess around us. Bikers and townsmen are punching, kicking, and throwing each other across the bar. A biker tosses a man onto a pool table, but a cowboy grabs a cue stick and slams it into his back, making him topple over in paralyzing pain.