Booktok And Bikers Novels & Stories

"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.

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.

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.

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.

What if he let it slide and the next man decided to go further than touch my wrist. Heavy doors creaked open, and I turned left, noticing the high-roofed hall just beyond the bar for the first time. Bikers rode in, moving their bikes into formation, while more started to leave their tables, hurrying towards this hall where it seemed the real entertainment was about to begin. Colt and the old man were whispering behind me now, but I really didn’t care much for what they were saying. My attention was completely arrested by the sight of two bikers standing on their bike, their chest tilted towards the tank, hips leaning forward, so their bikes were left standing on just one tire as they began t

Colt speaks before walking away. “Babes, bitches is a name for women in the bikers community, along with sugarbutt. It wasn’t an insult,” King smirks at me. “Insult or not, I won’t be called a bitch,” I argue. “Fuck Babe, calm it,” he laughs. “No, King, I won’t calm it, and stop calling me Babe,” I argue. “What’d ya rather I call ya? Bitch, sugarbutt? Miss? Professor, or teach?” His mouth kisses my neck. I go to argue and hear someone.

I finally let out, and he immediately retrieved his knife back. “Which direction?” he asked, putting the knife in the pocket. I didn't speak, just a look, and he nodded. He rushed back to the camp to take his arrows. I trembled but heard my bike roar, so I ran to it, only to find him on top. His black T-shirt showcased his perfectly drawn tattoo. I've seen male bikers, but not like this. “Hop on,” he spoke, hitting the engine one more time. “Huh?” I asked, not being able to understand, and he stopped. For a minute, silence prevailed.

the other one yells in response. "Y'all better get the fuck away from my bar!" The bartender shouts as he comes out of the bar with his shotgun in hand. The bikers scramble to get atop their bikes, and after a few minutes of difficulty, the bikers finally roar to life on top of their motorcycles and speed off through the town, a truck with Skinner inside following them. Sebastian pulls me into an alley, and we wait until the motorcycles can no longer be heard.

"They get turned after they get their member patch. But most of us were born werewolves." "Think of it this way," Gunner said, "not all bikers are werewolves, and not all werewolves are bikers. The other clubs around these parts are all human, and they don't know anything about this side of us." "So the Blood Dogs and the Bone Hills Howlers just sort of share the town?" I asked.

' We spent the night drinking and reminiscing, while our men spent their night enjoying the barflies, getting drunk and dancing to the band, but as the night sky turned from inky black to a beautiful myriad of dawn colours, more than a hundred Bikers were assembled in Gio's car park ready to ride. Juan and Miguel had also honoured their agreement with me, and as we headed for the confrontation, more and more Bikers joined us, and we made a formidable sight spread out riding down the highway. The road was empty, as we had called in favours to enable this, and it wasn't long before outriders had discovered where the FBI was hiding. I gave the signal for the men to surround it. Then, I ordered