Jackson Teller Harley Davidson Novels & Stories

Jackson looked at both of us before sitting down. "The tattoo isn't connected to any gang." I frowned. "So no criminal record?" "No." "Then how does your investigator know it?" Jackson rested both hands on the table. "He recognized the man." My heartbeat quickened. "From where?" "He said he’s visited Conrad Holdings several times over the last year." I stared at him. "An employee?" Jackson slowly shook his head. "No." "A client?" "No." "A consultant?" "Nothing like that." I frowned. "Then who was he?"

I held my stomach tightly, mindful of the growing bud in there. After making sure we were fine, I sprinted to the garage to look for a usable motor. The keys to these vehicles are also just in the garage, so it wasn’t a hassle to look for them. I chose a Harley Davidson and put on a helmet, putting my duffel bag on my back as I revved the engine. Time to go. — Jett

"Michael Jackson is a big bully," Joe Hale says. He squeezes his small screen tight. He sits on his wooden stool and stares at the paper note his brother’s mate, Hazel Hale, sent over this morning. The big bold letters on the top say: FUTURE ALPHA KING MICHAEL JACKSON SPOTTED RIDING NEW UNRELEASED HALE WOLF RIDERS GUILD MACHINE. Joe clicks the little video button. Michael’s very handsome alpha face fills the screen. "You never ride a Hale Wolf Riders Guild machine before, Lord Jackson," the scribe from the Moonfang Chronicle says on the video. She looks very shaky and smiles too much at him.

“You keep telling me that. You are right, as I choose reality, I choose being positive. As you already discovered I go off on my own. The picture always in my head, this little old lady with one big ass Harley Davidson all chrome monster of a motorcycle.” Jack burst out laughing, then stopped surprise about the sound. Jazz instantly reach out and touch his hand looking into his eyes. “Guess what Jack, I can see picture you also on a Harley. But at the moment I am a bit in conflict.” “About what?” he just had to asked. “I know I am cool and collected. You I still have to decide between raspberry grey or smooth silvery.” “Are you saying you can actually picture me already as an old man? I can’

Handing the picture to his manager, he said, ‘I found the real owner. ‘Shit!’ ‘Exactly.’ Derrick stared at the photograph, his eyes nearly as wide as his gaping mouth. ‘You think the tarot reader stole it?’ Jackson shrugged in answer, not wanting to voice the words that made him feel as if he’d been sucker-punched. ‘ She’d have to be crazy to steal something this valuable, then turn around and display it in her store.’ ‘I know. That’s the one part I don’t understand.’ Jackson pressed his mouth into a thin line. ‘Has Andy come up with anything?’

I'd been so careful for months, and now everything was ruined in one moment of mechanical failure. Then I heard the sound that made my blood run cold, the deep rumble of multiple motorcycles approaching. Heavy bikes. Harleys, from the sound of them. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as five riders rolled into the circle of light cast by the spectators' headlights. The lead rider dismounted with predatory grace. Even in the dim light, I recognized him. Everyone in Coldwater knew Dax Steele. Six-foot-three of leather-clad muscle, dark hair pulled back in a knot, and eyes that could cut through steel. The Vice President of the Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club.

It had only made her angry. The convoy rolled out. Jax led the charge on his prized Harley Davidson— the same motorcycle he’d rebuilt piece by piece after Riley died, the one that had carried him through every war, every loss, every dark night for the past six years. It was more than metal to him. It was history. Twelve Iron Sons riding hard, the van trailing behind. The target was a Viper stash house on the outskirts near the river, supposedly holding fresh guns and product. Revenge for Brick and Toro.

Jackson also silently locks his eyes on it, his jaw tight, like it has personally insulted his leather jacket. His silence means something is already off. The name on the side reads Scott VII. Big … not huge, but very luxurious — made of money. White with personalized sails — a colorful sunset with a motorcycle silhouette. Not something your average man can afford. “Did you kill someone?” I ask as calmly as possible. “Did you steal something? You two have that we-did-something-insane-and-stupid-and-no-one-can-know look.”

I look by the side and close to some muscular men who are seated with two girls ech fondling their chest and bleating like goats in the name of chuckling, I see Harley. She has a pad in her hand and I presume she went to take the order of a customer. “How was it? Hope you didn’t say something wrong” she booms at me with her eyes showing the eagerness and urge to know what transpired between Atlas and I. “Can you imagine he made me his personal assistant? Like can you just imagine the audacity?” I bang at her as though she is the one who did the deed. “And now he has asked me to get him vodka. The impetus is top notch though.” I add and frown. I actually have a masters degree in theatre arts

"So these are yers? That's pretty cool. Does your job have an oven like this?" "We have a makeshift one with a UV lighting system we put together ourselves. It does the job nicely, but when we have a special project that we absolutely can't fuck up, we bring it here," Tony said as he motioned to the floor. "And yes, these are the panels to my '93 Harley Ironhead Sportster. Her name's Harley. She got a bit scuffed up when I backed up into a damn Honda. That's ok, though. I've been itchin' for a reason to do a redesign."