Biker Wings Novels & Stories

I whispered. "Not just his club." Viper handed me binoculars. "Look closer." I did. My breath caught. Mixed in with the Devil's Reign bikes were others. Different patches. Different colors. "He called in every ally he has," Viper explained. "The Iron Brotherhood from Nevada. The Wild Kings from Arizona. Even the Nomads from Texas. He promised them all a share of my territory if they help him get you back." He lowered his voice. "Do you understand what that means? He is willing to start a war that will reshape the entire MC landscape. All for you."

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.

Always in a black leather jacket. • All of them are always armed (knives, brass knuckles, etc.). They reek of cigarettes, sweat, and cheap cologne. Fiercely loyal to Riko, they handle enforcement, intimidation, transport, and the "training" of new girls. They act like predators—some more sadistic than others. The Club Bouncers • Brick – The largest and most silent; never seen smiling. • Tank – Loyal only to Riko; takes pleasure in putting people “in their place.”

I dried my hands on a towel and walked to the window, telling myself I was being dramatic. Rain had started falling, big fat drops hitting the glass. The streetlights made everything look blurry and yellow. And then I saw it. Matte-black Harley, silver claw marks scratched into the tank exactly like the ones I just painted today. Exactly like the ones Knox put on my old bike when we were seventeen and stupid in love. The bike slowed down… circled once… twice… then rolled to a stop right in front of my building. My stomach dropped to my feet. The rider sat there for a second, rain pouring off his helmet. Then he reached up, pulled it off slow, and shook out wet black hair.

“Who are you riding with?” She looked at the two new custom bikes that had several Renegades on either side of them. The personality of each of her men was clearly embedded in their bikes. Touching the smaller one she smiled over her shoulder. “Ink.” Tank’s bike had a wider stance and shorter body. It was blocky and bulky with straight lines and thick short handles. It was flat black with black chrome. The only flashing on it was the black Roscoe Reagan Originals emblem. Ink’s bike was long sleek lines with graceful curves and decorative ape hangers. His was glossy black and chrome with a tribal design in black chromium, the shine changing colors in the sun. The Roscoe Reagan Originals emble

The other curved backward in a brutal sweep, thicker than Apollo’s and ridged along its length, as though designed less for ceremony and more for impact. His wings were folded tight behind him, but even restrained, they carried weight. They were not the flexible, membranous stretch of Apollo’s; they were denser, layered in plates edged with serrated bone. Each ridge caught the firelight and fractured it, casting sharp shadows across the stone. In battle, those wings would not glide. They would cleave.

The moment I heard my wings ripping off my back, it triggered my heart into rage. As if after I heard a snap, my mind went blank, and all I could think of was to rip all the wings off the healers who ripped my wings off. "Bastards! I will kill you all!" I loudly declared. I could no longer feel my wings, but I remained in the air. I used the other healer's body so I could continuously ride on them while I split and slashed their necks.

“Oh, come on. You’re my daughter and you’re beautiful. You mean to tell me no man at that bar has treated you right yet?” “They can hardly make it to the bar when you’re there,” I said. “How about those bikers brothers?” she asked. “How the hell is that even remotely relevant?” I asked. “Oh, come on, everyone’s noticed them. The five men with the jetblack hair and the piercing blue eyes? You know two of them are twins? I wonder if their cocks look the same.” “I’m not doing this. Nope,” I said. “Oh, come on and entertain your mother for a little while. I don’t have anyone to talk to today,” she whined.

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.

the commentator said. The crowd turned silent, all eyes on the two bikers on the screen, ignoring those who stopped halfway and others who were barely catching up to them. Dexter overtook Rider K half a mile in and the crowd roared in screams, but before they could relax, Rider K was close to the finish line, Dexter a few paces behind him. I was focused on watching Rider K. My eyes moved from his well tinted helmet to the gloves on his hand as he rolled the throttle of his bike. His movement was steady, precise and relaxed, like he knew he had this in the bag.