Books About Bikers Novels & Stories

“That’s adorable. You really believe you guys can do that.” “We don’t go looking for trouble,” he says, then hesitates. “Okay — Jackson does. But that’s his thing.” Paintball shouts disaster — legally teaming a bunch of adrenaline-junkie small-brained men with competitive streaks against each other, while handing them a ticket to shoot each other with weapons — fake or not — is basically a recipe for chaos. And I’m fine with that. As long as I get to shoot the cocky biker right in his perfect, sculpted chest. Or his smug chin. Or his overeager dick.

The sound of loud laughter, rough rock music, and the constant clink of glass beer bottles filled the cool night air as the patched brothers of the Iron Reapers and a few of their allied motorcycle clubs celebrated the successful end of the very first day of the annual run. I stayed completely close to Stone’s side for most of the long evening, sitting tight against his broad chest on a wooden log, but despite my best efforts, my anxious eyes kept drifting across the clearing toward Siren. She was holding court near another large fire pit, surrounded by a tight circle of huge, rugged bikers. She was telling wild, dangerous stories of the open road that had several of the club brothers hangin

Jackie could not figure out why Clemont would have a sudden change of heart, but things would not end just because he said so now. They had no way of getting in touch with the blonde guy. As the light flickered, the bikers released their brakes, and their rides bolted off. Feeling the rush from the sounds of roaring engines, the crowd cheered. Most people pulled out binoculars to observe from a safe distance. The bikers sped ahead, and on the lead was Clarice’s black Harley-Davidson. They gasped in awe. “The female rider is something else.” “I’m impressed. She shows the need for speed.”

He explained. "Really?" Sam asked. "Yeah, I do. Don't you?" He asked. "I've never thought about it. But I figured bikers didn't do kids." Sam replied. "Bikers are like anyone else. Some do and some don't. Our club isn't into the illegal shit so I'm good with kids." Smokey explained. "So, give it some thought." Sam nodded. "Guess who's coming to the clubhouse this weekend?" Smokey asked. "Snake?" Sam asked.

Shit kickers that had seen way better days and never smiling. They were the kind of bikers that put fear in every man, woman, and child when they rode through a town one hundred strong. They kinda remind me of the gunslingers of the old West. Only these days, old man Mallory was a lot more refined. He wore silk suits and loafers and shit.

My gaze scanned his bike, and I saw that it had a realistic drawing of a silver-furred wolf with sharp golden eyes designed on the bike, along with a long line of smoky red flames drawn across the body of the bike. The biker was clad in a black leather jacket and putting on a sleek black helmet that looked different from the others. He gave off a different aura. A leader's aura I found myself being drawn to as I felt tingles between my legs. "Oh, my fucking goodness! Aleric Dolce came to college today?!" The girls squealed louder in whispers, blushing and barely controlling their excitement as they rushed forward to have a better view of the bikers.

"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."

I scoffed, setting my glass down hard on the wood. "You wanted the girls dead, Julian. I gave that to you. Which specific biker gang took them is absolutely none of your business. Whatever extra details I find out during my missions do not concern your office. But..." I paused, holding his gaze. I leaned closer. “If you want to know so much, let me give you a free piece of advice... avoid angering the bikers in this region. Those people contribute heavily to the underground safety of this entire pack. Your royal toy security alone cannot make this territory safe for everyone to stay. Leave them be. Next?"

Back home, my room felt like a quiet island. I sat by the window, watching the bikers outside. They were showing off their rides, engines rumbling low and loud, lights flashing in the early evening. It was like some kind of rough dance — leather jackets, tattoos, engines growling, engines roaring. They were wild, free in a way I could only dream of. I wanted that freedom. I wanted to be part of that world but without the pain. The sky was turning a soft blue-gray, the kind of color that promised rain or you know, a storm. We were in the rainy season.

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