Biker Wings Novels & Stories

The city blurs — streetlights stretching into streaks of gold and white as I tear through intersections as if rules are optional suggestions. I hear the other bikes behind me, engines snarling, keeping up — or trying to. The song crashes into my head uninvited, loud and relentless, every lyric punching straight through my chest. Oh, oh whoa whoa oh whoa I’m an angel with a shotgun Fighting til’ the wars won I don’t care if heaven won’t take me back My jaw tightens. I lean forward, push harder, wishing like hell I was on my speedbike instead of the scrambler. The road feels too small. My body feels too full.

I can't change the color, but I like the dark shimmery blue of my wings. I can shape it into spikes sharp-edged appendages to hurt and maim. And a trick I know is that I can separate my wings from my back temporarily. It hurts a little, but the stunts I can do by doing so are worth it. Like scaring Mike. He seriously thought my wings came off when I first tried this trick. His expression was priceless. Also, they're bulletproof. Not actually, but when the wings and bullet meet, the bullet is in for a surprise. Not to mention, somebody as klutz as me can use two extra hands, which my wings are more than willing to meet as a requirement.

And his voice— His voice promised war. "Two days, and you'll see exactly how much those rules have changed." He turned. Sharp. Aggressive. And his wolves fell in behind him. The Beta hesitated. Just for a second. Like he was going to argue. But Shianne revved her bike. Loud. Pointed. And he moved. The bikers formed a loose escort. Not touching. Not threatening. But there. A wall of leather and chrome and barely-contained violence that made it very clear—

CHAPTER 1 The Knights MC The Knights Motorcycle Club is made up of 18 guys retired from special forces, thier name is Knights MC. Due to their love of motorcycles and wanting to continue the team mentality like they had when they served, the club was born. They have three teams of six men each. They call them teams A, B, and C. Team A has Prez, Scribe, Cash, Doc, Chopper, and Data on it. Team B includes VP, Soldier, Rocket, Patch, Edge, and Hacker. Team C has Radar, Tracker, Ace, Navy, Jammer, and Gamer on it.

His eyes lingered on my bloodied shirt. "I'm okay, really. I healed. I just want to get out of here." "Alright, hop on, let's go." A few more motorcycles pulled in behind us. Cole handed me his helmet. I swung my leg over. I traced the wings on his black leather jacket. I'd never gotten a chance to see them up close. It was an intricate embroider of a curvy woman with angel wings bent forward, blowing a kiss. Above it in scripted writing read "Ardor Brothers."

Alice I push the bike harder than I should through the wood track, twisting the throttle wide open. Those two bikes behind me are gaining fast, and I recognize the logos on their jackets even in the dark. It is Jackal's underground dogs, the ones who run his dirty races, who do his enforcer work.

I knew it before Jag even whispered it. Blaise’s smile deepened, like he felt it too. “Figures,” he said with a knowing grin, pushing off the bike. “You look like a girl who knows freedom when she tastes it.” His hand brushed the handlebars with something close to reverence. “Bikes… they’re more than machines. They’re the only things that never lie to you. You ride, they make you feel like you have wings. Soaring to your next dream.”

Mason replies. " You know the lives of bikers. Dangerous missions, alcohol and women. That's our lives. It was my life before I met you. I don't need to pretend to be something I wasn't. I used to fuck,alot. Different women every time. Some who just wanted to be fucked by a biker, others who were trying to get into a relationship. I don't want to sugarcoat things for you, Hera. What you see is what you get." I assure her. She stares at me with an unreadable expression. I can't decipher what's going through her mind. Her thoughts.

In fact, she had the same banner plastered to the wall of her apartment too. There were motorcycle helmets stacked perfectly behind the door, and a punching bag stood in one corner, looking worn out from use along with some dumbbells laying under it. On the shelves, tucked behind trophies and medals from games he had won, were books. Real books. They also looked worn out from reading, and she recognised some classics. They were books she loved, but never imagined a boy like him would ever touch. There was an open sketchbook on another drawer, with a half-finished sketch of a bike. She gasped, fascinated at how good he was. She reached down and slipped open the previous page of the book, and

“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.