Claimed By The Biker Giant Novels & Stories

"Look, the way I see it, you benefit from this more than us. Those with bikes who call into our clubs will be given your information for modifications, custom bikes and such. We gain custom from those driving through wanting a quick pit stop. You have issues, we sort them." "Okay, I will agree. I'm still cautious, the Caddel brothers are well known, and while having your name tied to this could be amazing, it could bring some issues." He looks at me now. "What issues do you worry about?" "We don't deal with anything illegal, we're essentially tying ourselves into it." I nod, understanding him. I know a way to fix it. "The biker clubs we own will be cleared of drugs, they will purely be biker

Zealot scoffed, "They probably don't know we are here." "If they were a regular biker gang, I would agree. The Bokken Riders are Tinkerbells and can use magic. I wouldn't put it past them to enchant their bikes." The eyes of Zealot went wide, and he shouted, "I want every available man to the second floor. Griff, I want you to block passage to the roof. The rest of us will flush the Tinkerbells out." Warren explored the second story for the roof hatch. He peered around a corner, and there standing next to the ladder to the roof, stood the female gigas."

The kind of road that suggested serious money and serious maintenance. “They keep it nice,” Maddox explained, parking his bike near the growing crowd. His voice carried a casual confidence that suggested he’d been here a hundred times before. “Can’t have good racing on bad roads. It defeats the purpose.” The space was enormous—a repurposed section of an old highway that had been closed off for years, now transformed into a place for underground racing. Neon lights illuminated everything in bright shades of blue and pink, creating a surreal, almost dreamlike vibe. The crowd was already gathering—bikers wearing club jackets I didn’t recognize, spectators pressed against the barriers, and booki

said Khali. "Seriously? What type?" Vincent asked "It's a 125cc Ninja street bike," Khali replied. "Kawasaki, right!" said Vincent. Khali nodded. "Yeah," Vincent's got a beer, and he played with the bottle in his hand. "It's a sport-type bike. This type is cooler, whether black or red. "Vincent says. "Mine is black," Khali said ****** "You don't want to fire this employee?" Kaleb asked.

the motorcyclist proposed, his deep and resonant voice calming me. You can trust him, a little voice spoke in my mind. I sighed, nodded, and hoped I hadn't just invited a psychopath to sit in my broken-down car with my three young children. I watched the biker closely as he sat in the passenger seat, removed his helmet, and called the local mechanic. It sounded like they knew each other and had a cordial relationship. According to the handsome man beside me, Jack Turner agreed to be here within the hour and would give me a tow free of charge.

“They say that if the pipes are loud, ongoing traffic will hear them, but the sound from the exhaust goes straight out of the back end. All it does is make them go deaf prematurely—” “And piss pedestrians off,” Brennan grumbled. As the bike approached, I tilted my head to the side, recognizing that it wasn’t a Sunday rider on the back of it. “Biker,” Conor confirmed. “No tags,” I murmured. “Does there need to be? Nearest MC to us is the Sinners,” Brennan pointed out. “He’s not wearing a cut.” I lifted my cellphone and as the biker drove by, I snapped a photo, full frontal and a real beauty, then immediately sent it to Conor, whose own cell buzzed as he received it.

That only leads to mistakes, which leads to news articles all over the web, which leads to the General finding me. "I didn't enter this one," I told Junior as he grabbed a competition number. "You'll have to represent both of us." He chuckled and mentioned something about a cat, but took his seat at the table where a few rather large bikers were sitting. At the revv of an engine, the competition was underway with one biker seemingly drinking mugs of beer as if they were shots. Thirty seconds later, the biker was named champion and Junior looked a little bit green. "You ok there?" I asked as he stepped my way.

She was nine, wearing a shop apron three sizes too large, with paint on her hands and the clipboard she'd been carrying for two years in the way some children carry stuffed animals. "Hi," she said. "I can show you around. What kind of bike?" He looked down at her. "A, uh. A 1978 Triumph Bonneville." Her eyes did the thing. "Original engine?" "Parts of it." "Come on." She turned and walked toward bay three, fully confident he would follow. He did. Hunter appeared from under a Ducati chassis and gave the Triumph a professional look and offered a preliminary structural assessment that the client seemed both startled and reassured by.

I chuckled. “Of course. The only biker who can race more than I do is the Masked VA.” As she spoke, she had a look of admiration on her face. “You know the Masked VA?” I asked her curiously. She gave me a weird look. “Every biker does. He is the king of biking, I dare say. I hope to meet him someday.” She smiled with a fawning voice. “Good for you.” I shrugged. “You don’t seem impressed.” She observed.

I grin to myself, hoping she will let me give her a full back massage back at the estate later. I glance back toward the pine tree and see a pair of big, dark doe eyes peeking out at me while I stand there buckling my leather vest. I let out a cocky smirk when I realize her eyes are taking in every single inch of my frame. Her gaze lingers low on my waist. My inner boss lets out a dark chuckle. He is starting to take over the wheel. I hold onto the reins of control as tight as I can as I mount my bike. I drop my boots onto the footpegs, my hands gripping the handlebars. My brothers and I all ride massive, custom-built choppers with heavy frames. It comes with the territory of running the hig