Motorcycle Night Rider Novels & Stories

He gestured toward the passenger window. I turned and followed his gaze. Parked a couple of spaces away, hidden in the shadows behind a concrete pillar, was a motorcycle. It was a black sport bike, as out of place as could be among the fancy cars of the hotel. “A ride?” He asked. He was offering me a motorcycle ride. The president of Night Reaper was offering me to sit behind him. I looked at the bike, then back at him. My heart skipped a beat. The wind. The speed. Just like that night.

The voices intensified as a beam of light lit up Jeremy on a higher stage. The rhythm he played started soft and slow but little by little the drums intensified. When the symbols crashed, a platform rose onto the stage with Kyung Jiho on it. Hae Mina grinned when she saw the white slivers light up under the black lights. On the back of Kyung Jiho's shirt was his name and on the arm was the Nightide emblem. The drum's symbols crashed and the next instrument joined. One by one, Nightide appeared on the stage with their parts. Hae Mina knew this was not her song to come in on because she had never been given a part.

​Sup, Boss. ​I didn’t look up. I stayed hunched over my bike, my knuckles bruised and stained with oil as I tightened a bolt. The sun was bleeding out over the horizon, turning the sky the color of a fresh bruise. Across the lot, the city was waking up, a swarm of suits and losers heading home to their boring lives. ​I’m good,I grunted, my voice like gravel being crushed. I stood up, wiping the grease onto a rag that had seen better days. We’re moving out soon. That rat Silas thinks he can duck me? We visit him tonight.

Four knew where we were. “North,” Kieran said. “Alaska. Yukon. _Nowhere_.” Gregor burst in. “Riders,” he said. We froze. “How many?” “One.” Kieran was moving before Gregor finished. We ran to the ridge. Below, on the dirt road, a motorcycle. And a man. No helmet. Black hair. Eyes like _void_. Project 1. He was _alone_. He was _walking_. And he was _carrying_ something.

The sound was deafening, it vibrated through my chest, I looked back and it was a massive black motorcycle, it moved into the parking lot, tires screaming as it drifted in a tight circle around us, kicking up smoke and dust. The rider was a giant. He wore a worn leather vest over a black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to reveal arms covered in thick, dark tattoos. He killed the engine, and the silence that followed was even more terrifying. He hopped off the bike, moving closer to us, I felt terrified at his frame. When he pulled off his helmet, I nearly fell over. It was the face again. Who the fuck did I offend, huh? But this version was different, more rugged. His hair was a wild, dark mes

Then I saw the motorcycle. It pulled away from the curb fast, faster than someone just casually leaving, and something about the way the rider moved made me lean forward without meaning to. He wasn’t wearing a full helmet, just one of those half-shell ones, and as he turned his head to check for traffic, the streetlight caught his forearm for exactly one second. There was a tattoo there. A compass wrapped in vines, wrapping around his wrist. My whole body went cold.

I was still catching my breath when I heard a loud rumble of an engine cutting through the silence. A motorbike slowed before me, the headlights flashed into my eyes. I had to turn my face so I wouldn't go blind. The rider killed the engine. I turned to take a proper look at him. He slipped out of the bike, his helmet under one arm. I couldn't see his face, he was standing under the shadows. He moved closer. His arms slowly came into view. Tattoos? I recognized them. And when I finally saw his face, I wanted to punch a rock. I gulped hard.

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,

As the car drifting event comes to a close, the focus shifts to the next thrilling spectacle - a high-energy bike race. Handsome boys, their faces hidden by helmets, rev up their powerful superbikes, their sleek machines gleaming under the moonlit sky. Among them stands a figure cloaked in mystery - a rider in a black balaclava, his aura of enigmatic allure capturing my attention. The race begins, the bikers tearing through the twisting track with speed and precision, their bikes weaving through the night like streaks of lightning. The balaclava-clad rider steers the course with unparalleled skill, his movements fluid and calculated as he gains ground on his competitors.

Chris pursed his lips as he asked, “How’s the review of surveillance videos coming along?” “Boss, I cannot steal Web Rider’s thunder, or he will skin me alive.” Night Rider scratched the back of his head. “Right you are...” Web rider walked in flamboyantly as if on cue. His appearance was a contradiction to all the other shadow guards. He had a strip of hair through the midline about 5cms wide and 3cms long that was dyed green, like a parrot’s tuft while the rest of his head was shaved clean. His clothing was just as ridiculous. He wore a bright magenta leather jacket and pants.