روايات وقصص ضمن Biker Or Not

he paused, and I felt a chill run through me, “survival means being what they claim you are.” My throat was tight. He wasn’t denying it. He was confirming it. In his own subtle, brutal way. This wasn’t just a simple biker gang. This was something far darker, far more primal. A shiver, colder than any I’d felt before, went through me. My mind replayed his words: ‘what they claim you are.’ Did they claim they were dangerous, and he simply lived up to it? Was I now part of that ‘they’? “So… yes?” I managed, my voice trembling.

Like it was built to keep people out. As we walk, I notice the others. Men scattered along the grounds, some near motorcycles parked in neat rows. The sound of an engine roars in the distance, and I turn to see a group of riders speed past the gates. Black leather jackets, helmets, the glint of chrome. My chest tightens. A biker gang. I don’t need anyone to explain it to me. The signs are all here. The mansion. The heavy security. The bikes. This client is definitely not a regular person.

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.

My voice sounded desperate even to my own ears. Axel pulled a spare helmet from the seat. "Now you do." "I can't," I said, taking a step back. "I haven't been on a bike in years." Axel moved toward me slowly, like I was a spooked animal. "It's like riding a bicycle." "That's not the same thing," I protested. Axel stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You afraid of the bike or afraid of me?"

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."

I didn’t want him to think I was ogling him as the package and not the bike-- oh God no! I still can't have anything to do with any man until I've done away with Oliver for good. It'd be unfair to cheat emotionally with whoever I'll be with right now and a biker? Damn, that's far from it. They tend to be wild, dangerous, toxic- I've read a lot of biker romance and good Lord, it's about biker gangs and shit. No, thanks, I'll pass. I turned my head to steal glances at him again when I suddenly saw the biker's helmet right next to my window.

"The motorcycle club, where the bikers hang out." At her words I jump forward, sitting on the edge of my seat. "Katy," I whisper as if somebody else could hear us. "You can't break in and look around a motorcycle club." They were bikers, for god's sake. With leather chaps and shit. I don't care what Anessa says about them being her best customers. There are limits. Snooping in on a mobster with good pasta okay, I'll consider it, but this is too far. Everyone knows bikers don't know how to cook. "This is why I didn't want to tell you."

he explained, his voice rough and low like always. Bike? “Look…” he pointed to the dark trail on the pavement. “It’s not one. Two.” “No one in the pack used bikes. I mean, they did, but definitely not someone who could come here.” But then something clicked. Dom. Dom uses bikes. A biker. He was— It couldn't be Dom. No way. What would he be doing here at this time? “So… who do you think it could be?” I asked, even though I already had a suspect in mind.

NORA’S POV A biker. Zane was a biker. And a fucking famous, wealthy good one at that. I watched him hum through his obstacles, swerving excellently with perfect precision around hoops. People cheered and chanted his name, but all I could think about was how many times I had spread my legs, how often I had held my phone in my hands, eyes on his pictures and videos as I rubbed my clit.

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.