Novelas y relatos de Outlaw Motorcycle Gang Books

He asked, turning to face them. “What could the queen’s man possibly want to know about us?” Margo asked, tossing back a shot of whiskey. “How did the two of you end up affiliated with a motorcycle club?” He asked, trying not to laugh at the jab she had directed at him. “I was born into it?” Margo sighed, pouring herself another shot. “I got into it because we grew up together. Motorcycle clubs aren’t all bad, ya know. Why do you ask?” Dex sighed, sipping his beer.

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My ribs screamed with every breath—courtesy of Derek's boots three nights ago in that motel parking lot outside Tucson. "You cannot run forever, Jenna," he had said, his voice cold as winter. "I will find you again." But I had run. Again. A rumble split the air. Deep. Mechanical. The kind that made your bones vibrate. I lifted my head and saw them. Six motorcycles rolling down Main Street like they owned it. Leather. Chrome. The devil's head patch on their backs—red eyes, fangs bared. Devil's Reign MC. My blood turned to ice.

“Or are you just that stupid you can’t---!” Damn, this man was never going to let me finish an insult! My rib broke under the onslaught of blows, and I was finding it harder and harder to breathe. But still, I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed… I mean--- This was THE Blackwood Pack! The biggest and strongest pack in the south, with so much money they could use it like freaking toilet paper! Alpha Christian Blackwood was infamous for how he led his pack with an iron fist, and he was rumored to be absolutely ruthless and a coldhearted bastard. But I must say, that if everything he’d done to me so far was his worse…

“Say that again, and all I have to do is break your bones.” His grip gets tighter, a subtle promise to his words. But I shove aside my fear, and glare. “To hell with you and your—” “What is going on here?” We’re interrupted by a man. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and a motorcycle kutte with the name ‘Outlaws MC’. From his tag, he’s the president. Well, fuck my life. Two bikers, and one girl who just wants to get her food. “Let her go, Calvin.”

“Just trying to figure out these goddamned… these gosh-darned cribs. They all look the same, you see.” Bianca Morgan stared at the three of them, even more taken aback than her daughter at what was standing in front of her. All three men were sporting tattoos and huge boots, they were all wearing matching leather vest things with patches that read ‘Road Devils’. She almost passed out when she realized that she was face-to-face with real, live motorcycle gang members. The urge to grab her daughter and run was pretty strong, but she didn’t want to piss them off. “You’re – you’re crib shopping?” Bianca asked them, aiming for terrified politeness. “For – for one of your babies?”

My anger rises immediately. “Oh, Sinclair!” Thalia said, rushing over to her and hugging her. “Tally, I don’t understand this behavior. A rejected she-wolf is cast out of society? When did this become the standard?” she asked, crying. I’m fucking furious. I kneel in front of Sinclair. “This has never been the standard, Sinclair. Something is going on, and I’m going to find out what it is. If we have traitors in this pack and they are targeting you, they are dead.”

I kept a close eye on every underground media outlet I could find. Anything that reported on the biker crews around Lucas Corner was usually buried deep in unofficial blogs, anonymous pages and word-of-mouth posts that spread faster than anything legitimate ever could. It was risky to publish anything about those clubs openly, but that didn’t stop people from talking and ever since the way the biker brothers had rushed out of Jane’s apartment, I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was wrong and now I had proof.

Behind it, three more bikes were laying carelessly. They were made of black leather and belonged to the Vultures; my brothers. Smoke oozed off the first bike as the rider approached, his grin wide and careless. “Look who’s finally out. Still remember what freedom feels like?” I tried to smile but it came out forced. “Feels lighter than steel bars, I guess.” He pulled me into a hug. He smelled like oil and cigarettes. “We kept your girl tuned, didn’t think you’d want anyone else touching her.” He said gesturing to the bike behind him.

Nothing mattered anymore—not since they'd taken everything from her. Six weeks. Six weeks since Michael’s mutilated body had been pulled from the river, weighted down with chains, his fingers cut off and his tongue removed—the Diamondbacks' signature for dealing with traitors. Six weeks of police giving her the runaround, of leads going nowhere, of a system that didn't care about one dead biker. But Raven had spent those weeks learning, watching, preparing. She'd studied the motorcycle clubs, their territories, their wars. She knew exactly what she was walking into.