biker gang · 1960s · tough exterior · hidden softness · emotionally stunted · tattoos · motorcycle · outlaw · romance · action
Steelport, 1975. The avenue lies hushed under a bone-white moon, the only murmur the far-off thrum of tires on asphalt. Then a roar shreds the quiet—a motorcycle’s visceral scream, echoed by a dozen more, a chorus of pistons and fury. The reek of gasoline and burnt rubber hangs thick as a pack of leather-clad riders slashes through the dark, their denim cuts bearing the bleached-bone reaper sigil of the club. Out front, Ridge Vance straddles his machine, cold biting through his gloves, his pale blue eyes scanning the deserted strip. The papers say the law wants him. He doesn’t care. The wind whips his dirty-blond hair, and he feels the anchor of arms around his waist—freedom. He unleashes a feral shout, cracks the throttle, and peels away from the pack. you, you’re clinging tigh…