She Rides, He Falls: All Female MC

Luke: The diner reeked of scorched coffee, fryer grease, and cheap ketchup that bled onto the chipped Formica tables. The ceiling fan above us clicked with every lazy rotation, doing not a thing to fight the stagnant heat pressing in like a second skin. Rodriguez, my partner, sat across from me, devouring a triple bacon burger like it held the secrets to eternal life. "I'm telling you, bro," he mumbled around a mouthful of fries, "if I go out with Alyssa, she will be the death of me. I can already see it laid out in her damn tarot cards now." I stirred my iced tea with the straw, the ice cubes clinking against the sides as I let his words wash over me. My eyes scanned the windows, a weird buzz crawling under my skin. It wasn’t the heat. It wasn’t the bullshit case folder we just dropped off. It was something else—a shift in the air, subtle but sharp, like ozone before a lightning strike. Rodriguez kept talking. "I thought she was chill, y'know? But she started talking about manifesting our future kids' names on the second date." I gave a half-laugh that never made it to my eyes. That’s when I heard them. The low growl of engines. It rolled down the block like a war drum. Heavy. Relentless. The kind of sound that makes your gut clench before your brain catches up. My fingers curled around the glass of tea. Rodriguez paused mid-bite. "s**t," he muttered. "Speak of the devil." I turned toward the windows, and there they were. Motorcycles. Six of them. Not the polished kind weekend warriors ride to feel tough. No, these were monsters in chrome and matte black, snarling and scarred from real street mileage. And the women riding them? They didn’t just pull up. They descended. Like they owned the pavement. My eyes snagged on the last one. She rode in slow, deliberate. Her black-and-blue Harley purred like a beast under control, and when she slid off the seat, the world f*****g stopped. 5'4. Petite, but curvy. Dark waves of Indigo spilling out of a matte black helmet. Red lips like blood smeared across porcelain. Aviators hiding her eyes, but the smirk on her mouth said she saw everything. Leather jacket undone just enough to tease the edge of a tattoo inked across her collarbone. Jeans hugged lean legs. Her boots looked like they’d stomped more than just asphalt. The girl next to her said something, and she laughed. Deep. Unapologetic. And something inside me broke open. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t need to. I knew she could feel my eyes on her. The whole diner felt her presence. A slow hush rippled through the space. Waitresses froze. Cooks leaned over the pass window. Every damn person looked. Siren Syndicates. I’d heard whispers. An all-female MC that played by no one’s rules. Vigilantes. Outlaws. Ghosts in leather who showed up when s**t needed burning. They didn’t follow territory. They followed blood. And there she was, at the helm. No colors patched on her back. Just presence. Dominance. That ring on her middle finger caught the sun, a glint like a blade drawn slow. Rodriguez leaned in. "Pretty sure they torched a chop shop last month over in Clay County. Left nothing but scorched rubber and a dickless bastard zip-tied to a lamppost." "Allegedly," I said, my voice tighter than I intended. My eyes locked on her as she pulled off her helmet and hung it on her handlebar. Her hair spilled out like a promise and a warning. She leaned back against the bike. Crossed her arms. Sipped from a to-go cup one of her girls handed her. Like she had all the time in the world and knew time would wait for her. And then she looked right at me. A glance. A pause. Then that f*****g smile. Not sweet. Not inviting. Predatory. My heartbeat kicked like it wanted out of my chest. Rodriguez side-eyed me. "You know her?" I shook my head, still caught in the stare. "Not yet." He rolled his eyes. "Golden boy, don’t be stupid. That woman would rip your spine out and use it as a kickstand." I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. She moved again, slow, almost catlike. Every motion controlled. Calculated. She walked inside with the others. They filled the back booths, loud and unbothered. One of them slapped a jukebox until it moaned out an old indie track. I stayed seated. Pretended to sip my tea. Pretended not to watch her laugh, toss her head back, steal the f*****g oxygen from the room. Ten minutes later, she walked back out alone. Coffee in hand. She leaned against her bike like it was a throne and scanned the street. Her gaze passed over mine—and this time, it lingered. A passing moment. Then another. That same twisted smirk pulled at her mouth. She kicked the bike into gear. The engine roared. She peeled out with a flick of her wrist. Controlled chaos. Her taillight glared red, and just before she turned the corner, I saw it. The plate. SIREN-13 Rodriguez said something else about Alyssa and her crystal collection. I wasn’t listening. No. I was already chasing a ghost in red lipstick. And I wasn’t about to let her disappear.