Midnight Riders Motorcycle Club Novels & Stories

I was able to hang with her and her best friend, Lyla, whom I adored the moment I met the loud mouth, hilarious country girl. After the spa day, Candice invited us to hang out with her boyfriend and his friends. Little did I know, her 'boyfriend and his friends' consisted of a fucking MC. The Nightmare Warriors are a local motorcycle club and after hanging out with them for a few hours, the fucking most awesome group of men this side of the Mississippi.

An officer entered the office, it was close to midnight, many of the guards would begin their rounds from King Cross to streets bordering the Thames, in the last nights, these men were accompanied by guard dogs, but always the man was more As smart as they were, some women left them alive but severely face marks, when questioning those women, they did not remember the face, since it was always covered with a ski-mountaineer to cover themselves from the cold of the London fog. Detective Macmillan, sir, we have made our rounds, the streets are in complete calm, only a fight of drunks who were leaving the brothel, they were not taken to jail since they both belong to the crown guard- the watchm

ZADEN The Blackthorn meeting point was a stretch of open land between our territories. My choice deliberately. Nowhere to hide anything or people. I arrived first. Damian beside me. Cade, one of my senior warriors on my other side. We stood in the open field at ten in the morning and I watched the Blackthorn vehicles arrive from the north and took the time to study the man who stepped out of the first one.

“The Biker Brothers, the five guys that ride with the Road Warriors? Black hair? Blue eyes?” “Couple of them twins?” she asked, yes. Those guys.” “I don’t know them, but I know their president is Adam Hunt. They’re right up her alley, aren’t they?” she asked. “Not helping. Though, the oldest the brother is the vice president of that club. I didn’t know you knew their president.” “Yep. Adam his name, comes and talks to me whenever I’m bartending and he’s there. He doesn’t frequent as much as his club is starting to but the shit with your mom is gross. Where’s she now?”

Shawn “Marcus, send word to the guards, they'll need to be out here on watch, while we continue.” I place the mug I had drunk from on the makeshift stool before me, the fire crackled softly, sending tiny whooshes into the air, and I stared at it. “When do we leave, Alpha?” “First thing tomorrow morning.” “Yes, Alpha”, he stands and walks away, two other delegates right behind him. We've been camping here for the past five days, a little far off from Red Valley, but not far enough to not spot any further intrusions from the territory.

Salt Lake City, Utah The Highway Hellions MC Clubhouse Two days later Wolf pulled up to The Highway Hellions clubhouse, hoping that he looked far more relaxed than he actually felt. He was sure that there were eyes on him right now, and he doubted that any of them were friendly. Taking his time, moving deliberately, he opened the car door – this was the first car that he’d bought since joining The Road Devils, and it was a second-hand piece of shit, and he was already missing his motorcycle like he’d miss air – and stepped into the parking lot. He looked around, noted the MC businesses (a tattoo studio and a bar, somehow both compulsory when talking about biker clubs), and just the sight of

The way he was spewing off like that, rallying up the crowd, he’d tire himself out before the first bell sounded. “All bets are closed!” Chance called out through the crowd. Some late straddlers started voicing their protest, but it was too late. Once he raised the red flag high in the air, it was done and dusted. “In the right corner, from the boundary of our beloved town,” Ricochet proceeded with the announcements, “we have Mad Dog, the President of the Hellhounds Motorcycle Club.”

I drifted right back into what felt familiar — the vices that had slept and woken beside me for two years. Violence. Rivalry. Control. I joined a motorcycle club. On the surface, it looked just like any other — about twenty adrenaline junkies obsessed with bike racing and supporting each other through life’s struggles. Actually, it didn’t. The name was Devil’s Machete MC and if that wasn’t suggestive enough, the motto read; “If you see the machete without a sheath, you have one second left to breathe.”

It's almost midnight, and although most people are snuggled in the warmth of their beds, the outskirts of Chicago is filled with individuals throwing in their money, making their bets on who they feel will win. That's the thrill of midnight street motorcycle racing; the betting. A slight grin creeps over my lips as I lean against the nearest structure, one knee on the wall, arms wrapped across my chest in my tracksuit. It's almost comical how natural everyone feels huddled around, watching something so illicit. And this is what I do at night—a motorcycle racer. I get to show off my bike skills to people who have too much money in their pockets. "Hey, Raven!" I beam as Irene walks over to me,

It made things honest. The motorcycle club sat back from the road behind a long stretch of battered fencing and sun-bleached mesquite, its low buildings and corrugated roofs half-hidden by the desert glare. Rows of bikes lined the lot like sleeping beasts, chrome dulled by grit and distance. A faded hand-painted sign hung over the main hall, the letters rough but proud. Her father’s place. His kingdom. Not elegant like Paris or controlled like Houston. This place was all steel, loyalty, and scars that never bothered pretending they were something else.