Greasers Outsiders Novels & Stories

Richard became just another rough-faced laborer. They left their noble selves folded in a trunk in the stable, stepping out as different people into a different world. The Outskirts weren't just a part of Cinderfell; they were its grim, forgotten underbelly. The breathtaking views of the lake and sea were hidden behind a tangled web of leaning, ramshackle buildings built on rotting docks. The air hummed with the buzz of flies and the low din of desperation. Here, the wealth from the cliffs above trickled down only as grime and misery. Children with hollow eyes played in the filth, and hard-faced men watched the newcomers with a predatory stillness.

Chapter 159: The Logistics of the Underbelly The entrance to the grease-traps wasn’t a door; it was a rusted, horizontal throat built into the concrete foundation of the mid-tier overflow wall. It smelled of rancid palm oil, old battery acid, and the stale, hot breath of five million people living directly above us without legal ventilation. The pink and green neon from the Scrapper Slums couldn’t penetrate more than three feet into the dark aperture, leaving the wet, black brickwork inside to slick over with a grease so thick it looked like living skin.

Even from this distance, I could see the fear creeping across her face. People walked by without saying a word. Some looked away. Others crossed the street entirely. Nobody wanted trouble. Not when motorcycles gangsters were involved. That was the problem. To this town, a biker was simply a biker. Nobody cared what patch he wore. Nobody cared which club he belonged to. Bishop’s men had spent years terrorizing Greystone, and somehow every crime they committed stained all of us equally. I pulled the truck to the curb and climbed out. The sound of my boots against the pavement made one of them glance over his shoulder.

Meanwhile, I lay sprawled on the cold floor, clutching my swollen cheek, too drained even to shed a tear. I braced myself against the wall and slowly stood up. Head lowered, I said numbly, "Since I'm so worthless, I'll leave. From now on, just pretend you've lost a maid. That way, I won't be an eyesore to you anymore." Papa let out a cold snort. "Getting bold enough to threaten me, are you? Walk out that door and don't expect to get another cent from this family!" He was about to hurl more insults when Francesca suddenly shrieked, "Oh no! My precious Pico seems to be coughing!"

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.

spat an obese man in a biker vest and sunglasses, flanked by more than ten men. They were clearly from a biker gang, a local menace in Oaklandia. "Jasper, let it go." A foreign woman ran out from the kitchen, gently tugging Grasshopper's sleeve. "They can't get a free meal every day, Karina. They must pay today," insisted Grasshopper, his eyes sharp and unwavering. "Hey, your wife is quite pretty. We'll take her too," the man with sunglasses jeered, reaching for Karina.

The grease and grime on the men across from me didn't bother me; it was the sheer lack of originality. They looked like they’d been plucked straight from a low-budget mafia flick—all scarred knuckles, faded ink, and cheap leather. A collection of bottom-feeders and back-alley muscle. Exactly what I needed to burn Havenfall to the ground. With Nathan deep in the trenches elsewhere, the city was a wounded animal. I’d be a payout-chaser myself if I didn't exploit the gap.

One minute, he was my tormentor, the next, my shadow. When we reached the outskirts of the forest, my stomach dropped. Bad luck must have been written all over me tonight because standing there, leaning against a rusted lamppost, was the last person I wanted to see—Jonan and his gang of pricks. “Well, well, look who finally decided to crawl out of the woods.” Jonan grinned, his dark eyes locking onto mine with the same sick amusement I’d grown used to. “What were you doing out there, wolfless? Trying to summon your non-existent wolf?”

I cleared my throat, “What did Samantha tell you?” “It wasn’t true.” “What?” “I never extorted money from others.” For a short while, I felt grateful. I was relieved. Though Yuji wasn’t really the approachable type of person, I still couldn’t see him behaving ruthlessly. But, what if he was lying? What if he’s telling me this just so I wouldn’t avoid him anymore? “I was never on good terms with the guys in my classroom. I never really hang out with them. You see, it was great because of my family’s social status. There are a lot of things we can’t afford and, and,”

I pulled it tighter anyway, nose wrinkling. “This is it,” I muttered, throwing my hands up. “The glorious escape of Alpha Gregor and the tragic twin. We’re not fugitives. We’re beggars. Beggars with a fashion crisis.” He growled low in his chest. “Keep your voice down. Humans are staring.” “Oh, please. They’re not staring because I’m loud. They’re staring because you look like the Hulk shrunk in the wash.” Gregor shot me a withering glare. “I’d rather smell like this coat than smell like your jacket.”