Joker Harley Novels & Stories

I’ve got to get Luna out of my system in the only way I know how—get hammered and hammer some pussy. It takes me nearly forty minutes to get back home, and when I do, Callan and Warrick are nowhere to be found. I take a quick shower, dress in cleanish Levis and a Henley, and head out to hop on my fully restored Harley motorcycle, circa the mid-2020s. She’s a forty-year-old beast of a ride with high-performance capabilities and the loudest, most powerful engine this city has ever seen. If she were any faster, she could parasail across the swamp.

Bishop "What's with these cars you and Caelin are messing with?" Harley asks as I sit in the office with Jagger, telling her what parts we need ordered for some repairs we're working on. Jagger's eyes cut at me, then at her, and back to me. "Well, that's my cue. Let me know when the two of you are done and I'll finish putting in my order." He runs out like his ass is on fire. "Fucker," I yell after him.

Over the crest of the hill, headlights appear. Two. Then four. Then ten. Then twenty. A wall of light descends the ridge. The roar becomes deafening. It drowns out the whine of my Ducati. It drowns out the rain. The pack is here. I see the lead bike. It’s a massive black Harley. The rider is a giant in a shredded tactical vest. He rides with one hand on the bars and one hand holding a shotgun resting on his thigh. Drakon. He isn't alone.