Grease 2 Cool Rider Novels & Stories

It would definitely cost a lot to buy this in B City. “Are you the customer on Stormchase? Hop on,” Monique reached out her small face, blinking her bright eyes, then she went down and opened the door for that young man who had dumbfounded and standing there for a long time. “This is a Maserati! Are you Stormchase’s driver who has been taking requests?” The young man sounded amazed and opened his mouth wide in shock, that it could even fit a huge duck egg.

“You sound…. off. Something happen to your woman, or is she the one giving you fits?” “How do you… never mind, it’s nothing.” “It doesn’t sound like nothing.” “Can you tell me what these bikes are about?” And pull your nose back out of my shit? “Oh yeah, the bikes; since you’ll be riding through prime asshole territory, I thought it would be good for you to get your beak wet.” “Speak English, Lyon; I have no idea what the hell you just said.”

The rider soon pulled up into the neighbourhood with a cloud of dust behind him, flashing a powerful luminous headlight that outdid the street lamppost. The final destination was a wall covered with graffiti made with coal, cheap paints, blood and other human matter, that still smell through the arts, most likely the work of juveniles and junkies. The rider dismounted gracefully, clad head to toe in an all-black leather outfit, with every detail—from the reinforced boots to the armoured gloves, dark blackout Kala Carbon helmet and … a rubber duck keychain? Whoever, the unidentified rider was, they definitely had a weird taste.

My hot biker saviour. Every once in a while, Ryder would pass by, toss me a smirk, and say, “Still alive?” And I’d say, “Barely.” And we’d grin like idiots. ~ An older mechanic named Gus called me over after lunch. Big guy, deep voice, oil stains... “Let me show you something,” he said, pointing to a disassembled cruiser frame. “This here’s a V-twin engine. Heart of the beast... Haha. If you’re gonna work the phones, at least also know how the beast breathes.”

I would not beg. A motorcycle engine cut through the air, slow and deliberate. The sound pulled everyone's gaze toward the center of the yard. A sleek, black bike rolled forward, and my breath caught in my throat. The rider moved with a calm that spoke of power and control, as if the world bent around him. He dismounted with unhurried control. Kade Cross, they called him Ruin.

If he doesn’t focus, he’s gonna eat dirt at that sharp turn ahead. "Shit!" I curse under my breath, leaning forward instinctively. The Ghost Rider bastard grins, and it pisses me off even more. Max is panicking, his movements jittery as hell. Then it happens—a loud screech followed by the crunch of metal. The Ghost Rider’s tire slips, sending him skidding across the track like a rag doll. Max is sharp, though. He slows down just enough to let the asshole slide out of the way before speeding up again.

Max commented. “It's all a part of the Rider charm,” I said. “Let's hope so, because both you and I look like we are waiting for the love of our life to grace us with her presence.” “Funny, since we are doing the exact opposite. We are watching an enemy and trying to learn her moves.” I snarled. “We’ll get rid of her somehow,” I said looking up at the same window the creature was sticking her adorably scary head out of.

Grease angrily turned around and stomped toward the lady. "We are sons of the dark roads! We are hell riders we are not fucking businessmen! We don't collect! We take!" He yelled at her in a drunken rage-filled voice. The remaining three bikers shook their head in a tired embarrassed way. It seemed like they were also fed up with the bullshit and drama Grease brought to the gang. I understood that a gang had to have some sort of sacred creed but what is the point of a creed if everyone everyone? The way I saw it Grease had to go.

Jobs were scarce when your last name was Chen and everyone in Coldwater knew your father died owing money to half the town. The straightaway opened up before me, and I twisted the throttle. The speedometer climbed at eighty, ninety, one hundred. My competitor, a rider on a Yamaha R1 who went by "Razor," was half a bike length behind. I could feel his frustration radiating through the night air. He'd been winning these underground races for six months straight until Ghost Rider appeared three months ago. He had no idea Ghost Rider was a woman. None of them did. That was the point.