Tmnt Mc Mikey Novels & Stories

"Michael. But you can call me Mikey." "Mikey, how fitting," he said, his goofy grin still present. "Oh and this amazing person next to me is going to be the next Bill Gates, I'm sure of it!" "Shut up, you turd," his friend yelled, hitting him in the head. Then he looked at him and gave a small smile. "Eric." And from that moment, Mikey knew that Anton Emma was something. He would be the key to reaching his goal in football.

Imogen This club/bar is really something else. We got picked up by the limo and a driver who calls himself Mikey Mike. Cute. Actually, he was such a sweetheart like a gentle giant with his bald head, gold hoop earring in his left ear and broad body but with the largest toothy grin you could possibly imagine. He held the door open for us and made sure Autumn and I were comfortable before driving off. Mikey Mike pointed out there was champagne on ice and some snacks if we fancied them.

"His family, huh? And how do we get to them?" Mikey paused, closing his eyes briefly before reopening them with a newfound resolve. "Santino's got a son," he revealed, his voice firm. "Eight years old, attends school. If you move fast, you can snatch the kid before Emilio even knows what hit him. Get the boy, and trust me, the rest of them will fall into line real quick. You have my phone, there's a picture of the kid to help you get him."

Teagan says, her head pulling into her shoulders like a damn turtle chicken. I smack her on the arm. “I told you not to say anything to him!” The door flies open and Mick is there in the entrance. He’s ready for a fight and everyone in the room can see it.

Torch asks from beside Lizzy. I shrug. “Ezra grabbed me. This whole thing is nuts, and to think I met that bald guy at the mall.” “What?” Lizzy’s eyes widen, Torch leans in. “You met Mikey, Guillion’s VP?” “I don’t know his name, but I saw the Guillion MC tattoo on his wrist. He asked me to tell Ezra and Ray that he’ll see them soon.” “And we have,” Torch adds, jaw tight. “I wish EJ blew the fuck out of his brains.”

“Jimmie?” The small voice made me look up. Just a few feet away stood Mico, rubbing his eyes, looking like an adorable pup who’d just stumbled out of sleep and gotten lost. “Mico?” I said, surprised. “What are you doing here? Why are you up so early?” He shuffled closer, his wide brown eyes shining with that innocent adoration only children had. “I love watching the guards do their morning patrol,” he admitted with a grin, “especially when they shift into their wolves.”

I kept the postcard in my bag. I can't wait for him to have a sibling. I'm six months along yet again and up for a very long vacation. He is already looking forward to it. This time, we are waiting to be surprised. I'm hoping Linc didn't beat me to it. But if he did, I'll probably know before the little one comes along. Mikey scored a job at a mechanical company thanks to aunt Leanna trying to prove not all the Bancrofts are monsters. He lives in New York and is dating a sweet girl. I'm waiting for the wedding.

Brick had no intention of assuming the old man's mantle, especially when the last thing he wanted was to be stuck amid the endless forests of Millwood, Minnesota. He had not been alone in his ideas as he found himself supported by pack members: Gunther "Gunner" Reeves, an old man that once ran with his father. Arthur "Gearhead"Carrey, the youngest mechanic with an obsession with cars and bikes alike. Ike "Ironclad"Eric Forman, a resident badass whom had been mostly muscle for the pack ever since he reached puberty. Jeffrey "Rooster" Allen BolMont, his godfather and father's best friend sent on the journey to "keep Brick out of trouble".

“Have a minute? Mikey's back and has some news.” I dropped my pen immediately and leaned back in my seat, looking up at him with my full attention. “For you and my best tracker, of course.” He opened the door fully and walked in then along with a tall, muscular black man with a shiny bald head and a solemn look on his bearded face. He was still dressed in his camouflage gear and looked very much like someone who had come right off the field. Both of them bowed, Mikey's own holding far deeper and longer than Fred's.

The fragile peace they’d been living in for the past week and a half felt like thin ice—beautiful on the surface, but ready to crack with one wrong step. “Yo, boss lady,” Mikey called from across the bay, his voice cracking with that awkward teenage enthusiasm. The nineteen-year-old prospect was sprawled dramatically across a workbench, pretending to fan himself with an oily rag. “If you keep making these bikes sound like angry demons, I’m gonna start thinking you sold your soul to the devil. Or worse—Reaper’s dick.”