Biker Names Novels & Stories

"I don't get nervous easily. Takes more than some bikers drinking beer to rattle me." "Is that right?" He leaned forward slightly and I caught his scent. Leather and smoke and something else underneath that I couldn't identify. Something that made my pulse quicken despite knowing how dangerous this man was. "That's right. I've worked rougher bars than this." "I doubt that." His voice was quiet but there was steel underneath the words. "The Iron Horse in Portland is a biker bar but it's nothing compared to what happens here. The men who drink in this establishment have done things that would give your Portland bikers nightmares."

he said softly. Before I could respond, the front door of the bar swung open. A group of men walked in, and the atmosphere in the room changed instantly. They weren't wearing Vipers colors, but they were bikers—large, rough, and looking for trouble. One of them, a man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a coiled snake on his neck, scanned the room until his eyes landed on our booth. "Well, well," the man said, walking toward us with a swagger that made my skin crawl. "If it isn't Ruan Montague. I thought you only hung out in the city, Prez. What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

I replied, sliding a wrench into my back pocket. "Good. Because the qualifiers today aren't just about speed. It's a contact sport," he warned, nodding toward the far end of the pit. "The Ravagers brought their new ringer. They call him 'The Butcher.' He likes to see how much chrome he can peel off other people's bikes while they're still moving."

‘Let us help you carry your bags,’ one of them says. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t remember your names,’ I apologise. ‘I’m Boomslang,’ the larger guy wearing the blue bandana says. ‘I’m Taipan,’ the very slim, and shortest of the bikers, says. ‘Thank you for the offer, but I think I’m fine. This is all I have,’ I say, almost dropping the box, and Boomslang quickly catches it. ‘Well, maybe just a little help would be nice,’ I say, laughing.

He asked. “Sure. I don’t mind it.” She replied. The guy sat with her and started a conversation with her. She learned that his name was Damon. He was part of a biker gang called Lobo's. He had a low-rider cruiser made by Harley Davidson. When he learned that she rode an H2R Ninja, he was in awe. It’s rare when you find a girl, gorgeous and sweet, loving fast bikes. She enjoyed that evening having an innocent, but simple conversation with Damon. He didn’t know it, but he helped her forget about her problems for a moment. It was one of the best nights she endured since the second she left home.

I yelled through the wind and into his ear. He tilted his head to the side and back a tad, so I repeated myself. "Huh?" Ryker slowed down, so the rustling of air wasn't quite so loud. "Wilson. My last name is Wilson." It was an odd introduction, but everything about this scenario was odd. Ryker lifted his head in acknowledgment. "Davis." Ryker Davis. It suited him. "Is Ryker your real name?" I shouted. Now wasn't the time to have a get-to-know-you conversation, but somehow, the back of this bike felt safer than anywhere I'd been in recent months.

I sounded pathetic, and I knew it. “Go on then.” “Chris… Christopher Marley. He said everyone calls him Marley, though.” She didn’t need to say anything; I could tell instantly by the sympathy in her eyes that I wasn’t going to like what she was about to say. “He said he was a biker? Sweetie, there’s no Black Aces in town by that name. Not even a prospect… are you sure he said he was from here?” She felt sorry for me, and I hated it.

I inched my head sideways to look at him, my brows cocked. “Grace,” he smirked, “that’s what I named her.” And with that, he revved the engine repeatedly, his voice rising atop the noise, “Hold on tight!” I did as he said, and my eyes almost spun out of their sockets as he spun the motorbike with so much energy a few times, almost close to the ground. At that moment, I wondered how Damon had come to know my baptismal name. Grace? Who gives their motorbike a name like that? Had he done some digging on me?

“What’s your name?” He hesitates, like he’s deciding whether I’m allowed to know it. “Jude.” “Nice name,” I lie without blinking. The corner of his mouth twitches. Is that… a smile? I keep going. “So, Jude. This Reaper of yours. Your boss?” He tilts his head instead of answering. Then I see it. The motorcycle. My stomach tightens and I rub my wrist again. Motorbikes have always meant bad things for me. Broken doors. Raised voices. Leather jackets and fear. Last night, the alcohol made me brave. This morning, the nightmares reminded me who I really am.

I quickly supplied them with information. “Ok so he is a biker that’s good to know what does his patch look like?” The woman asked me. “His group is called the Devil’s Jesters. They have a big skull on the back with like a clown hat on the skull” I could see that as I started to explain the motorcycle club that this woman had some idea who she was dealing with.