Booktok Motorcycle Novels & Stories

After days of thinking, Dominic finally found a way to earn money. He bought a secondhand motorcycle and said he would drive passengers between town and the village. “Honey, I can still make money,” he said, forcing a smile. “People always need rides. I’ll drive slowly and carefully.” The motorcycle had been modified before we bought it. The seat was much longer than usual, welded awkwardly to the frame. It looked unstable, especially on the winding mountain road that led back to our village. I frowned when I saw it. “Is this safe?” I asked. “Your leg hasn’t healed properly. What if something happens?”

Jake removed the sheet covering it and carefully pushed it out. This motorcycle fulfilled an old dream of his. As a teenager, he went to a motocross event with his friends and became fascinated by these metal monsters. He saved up his courage and his money for a long time, until finally, at the legal age, he bought this beauty. It was a Ducati cross-country motorcycle. Powerful and not meant to be ridden on the streets for pleasure, Jake would sometimes put on his helmet and head out of town, just to ride on sandy and dangerous tracks. There were plenty of them around the city, as the locals used to organise fun tours for tourists who wanted to ride ATVs.

“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

Aliyah’s POV The wind nipped against my face as I stood before the grand, graffiti-laced gate of M Spring Boots Racing Club. The rusted hinges creaked as I pushed it open, revealing a row of glossy motorbikes lined like soldiers at war. Engines purred in the background, the smell of grease and rubber mixing with the sharp scent of fresh-cut grass. My fingers curled tightly around the straps of my helmet. It felt like it weighed a thousand pounds on my palm. Every part of me wanted to turn around. But Papa’s words haunted me.

Thomas raises his eyebrows but does not oppose and departs with an “As you wish Mr. Barlow” Within minutes I hear the thundering roar of a motorbike. I can see the excitement in Mr. Barlow’s eyes. He wears his gloves, helmet, and jacket then hands me a jacket and a helmet. “Meet my favorite bike, Raya. My Harley Davidson Street Bob, sit tight and hold on to me as you are in for the ride of your life” he tells me as he sits on the bike.

I stormed out of there, I want to get this mission over with. I strode into my garage, the bright fluorescent lights casting a dull glow. My eyes locked onto the sleek, black motorcycle parked in the center of the room. It was a rare, customized model, designed for power and agility, and only top mercenaries could get their hands on a motorcycle like this. But, as it is, only I have this prototype. A hell of a masterpiece.

My eyes searched the many vehicles for the nice black motorcycle I saw when I left for school earlier that day. It had moved since I last saw it. No longer right up front, but off to the side with the other finished cars and bikes. Rick once told me that a row of finished cars represented his money. When the owner came to collect, so would he. The motorcycle was black all over except for a silver plate that read Kawasaki and the grey letters on the side that read Ninja. It stood apart from the other bikes on account of how clean and new it looked.

Loud, chaotic, and crawling with humans who think the worst thing in the dark is a drunk driver or a broken heart. Idiots. I pull up across the street and kill the engine. And there it is, just where I expected it. The motorcycle. Parked right out front, angled towards the curb like it belongs there. Sleek, black, and customized with just enough rust and character to scream Alaric. Her best friend. Her shield. The only one she ever seems to let close. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. They’re already here.

They were a newer model from the past year with blacked out windows, and all three of them were pulled to the side of the road, just outside of the city limits. I figured they were probably just stopping for a break of some kind and decided to pay them no more attention. Pretty soon I arrived and parked close to the barn. I could see that the lady Heather had been there. Some of the guys were walking along with piles of brownies in their hands, munching away. Heading into the barn I found Chip, taking the motor off of the wrecked motorcycle. “How did ordering go at the store?” I asked him. “Everything went good, so it should be here right on time.”

“You’re walking into the Annual Meeting with wolves who smell blood. If you’re going to survive biker politics, you need more than sharp instincts.” “I can ride,” she said quickly. “You’ve seen me.” “I’ve seen you ride,” I corrected. “I haven’t seen you command.” Her brows furrowed. “Hmmm, there’s a difference?” “Obviously,” I replied sounding almost sarcastic. “In this vast world of ours, motorcycles aren’t transportation. They’re statements. The way you ride tells everyone exactly who you are, either; weak, reckless, or untouchable.” She crossed her arms. “And you think I look weak?”