Biker Rules Novels & Stories

It’s loud, it’s ugly, and it’s exactly what I need to drown out the disappointment. I throw myself into the work. I grab a tray and start taking orders, weaving through the crowd like a shadow. I’m carrying heavy loads of beer and whiskey, my muscles aching, but I don't stop. If I’m just a waitress, then I’ll be the best damn waitress they’ve ever seen. I’m moving through the center of the floor, my tray balanced high, when I pass a table of lower-tier bikers. They are the regulars, below the gang chain. These are the ones who don't know the local rules.

And the first encounter was unforgettable. There's a bike parked in front of the mansion and I got on it. I was playing on the bike, suddenly someone pushed me off of the bike. I cried out and when I looked back, I first met Artemis. He's a twenty-four years old guy with a nastiest mind, deadly handsome face and figure and hot temper. From the beginning, he couldn't tolerate me at all. He wasn't happy that his father married my mother. But he wasn't like that toward my sister.

THE BIKER KING CALLS Despite how dangerous the atmosphere of the room felt, dinner was… quiet. Arthur stretched subtly in his seat, looking over at the plates set neatly on the long wooden table stretching through the center of the room. A single overhead light glinted off the rim of his glass as he sipped on his wine. Slowly, he looked around at the plain walls and the men standing at the dark corners of the room. A few had their arms folded, others rested their hands behind their backs. Every time they moved, their leather jackets would lift, revealing guns tucked into waistbands and knives strapped to their thighs. None of them spoke. None moved unless Victor told them to.

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.

“As much as I enjoy watching you all roll around in the dirt, I have something important to announce.” “Here we go,” Kara muttered. “The annual Biker Pack Tournament,” Felix continued, pausing for effect, “is officially around the corner.” A wave of excitement rolled through the field. Warriors began murmuring, some cheering outright. Even a few of the older fighters exchanged eager grins. Felix’s smirk widened. “I take it some of you still remember how it works?” “Do we look dead to you?” someone yelled from the back. He ignored the comment, continuing, “All packs from the region will be joining this year. Four in total. That means more competition, more glory—”

They were probably just as concerned as I was when I went drinking with Christian last night. And broke the single unspoken rule our friend group has managed to keep for years. Never talk about Damien’s business to Christian. Never talk about Christian’s business to Damien. Simple rule. Apparently impossible for me to follow after a few drinks. Bloody hell, Sebastian. Why must your tongue loosen the second alcohol enters the system? Damien is crouched beside the bike, practically covered in grease. His shirt is gone, tossed somewhere on the floor. The sight of his back still unsettles me.

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.

"We're here because we're one pack now, but we're struggling to understand each other. I'm going to help with that using my empathy gift. Who wants to go first?" Silence. Then Marina raises her hand tentatively."I'm confused about something." She looks at the Iron Fangs wolves. "Yesterday, someone offered me a beer at noon. When I said it was too early, they laughed. In the Academy, drinking during daylight was prohibited. Is that normal here?" "We don't have prohibition rules." One of the bikers, a woman named Tessa, explains. "If you want a beer, you have a beer. Time doesn't matter."

The only sound was the air conditioning ticking down. "What are we doing here?" I asked. My voice sounded thin. He didn't answer. He just turned to me, his arm resting on the back of my seat, his body already facing mine. His eyes were focused on me, dark and impatient. "You said you needed out," he said, his voice low and thick. "We're out." I knew what he meant. We were out of the house, out of the rules. We were alone, and the empty black space around us made the risk feel huge.

"It is everywhere. Simultaneous raids across seventeen states. Every major independent club. All being arrested for weapons trafficking, narcotics distribution, money laundering." Subject Seven moved to the window. "This is not coincidence. This is coordinated elimination. The boy is using federal law enforcement to dismantle every organization that could provide resistance." "Why bikers specifically?" Rebecca demanded. "Why target clubs?" "Because you are organized. Mobile. Independent of government oversight. You have communication networks that bypass standard surveillance. You have resources and loyalty structures that make you dangerous to centralized control." I pulled up my own phone.