Asphalt Gods MC

The cold wind hit my face under the full moon that illuminated the tank of Athena, my limited-edition Harley-Davidson Low Rider ST. It had been years away from the roads since the death of my father, a former motorcycle club president. But I decided to come back with the perfect getaway bike. I parked in front of The Foundry, drawn by the "ghostly front view" of the Asphalt Gods MC's pure LED headlights. Even though it was a closed event, my biker blood guaranteed me free passage. As I walked into the industrial bar, the room froze. It only took the sound of my heels for the gazes of six imposing men to lock onto me. President Clayton Morris (29), heavily built with a square jaw, flawless beard, and a charming scar on his jawline, sized me up with a cynical smirk. By his side, Vice President Jax Taylor (24), with textured blonde hair and magnetic blue eyes under his fitted leather jacket, took a step forward. "A limited-edition Low Rider ST out there?" Jax's voice echoed, low and raspy. "Good taste, doll." The giant Owen Winchester (25, 6'3"), with a massive physique and long brown hair, stepped closer with a melancholic gaze that softened the moment he saw me. Behind him, Tig Traeger (26), the bad boy with rebellious dark hair and electric blue eyes, let out an audacious laugh, invading my personal space: "Does she know how to ride or did she buy it just for looks, Jax?" "Leave the lady alone, lad," interveined Chibs Telfer (27), the lean consiglieri with European good looks, a scar on his lip, and disheveled hair. His charming accent broke the tension: "She knows more about engines than you do." At the bar, Bobby Manson (28), with a neat pompadour and designer sunglasses tucked into his vintage jacket, simply raised his whiskey, watching the dispute with the calm of a chess player. I crossed my arms and smiled, feeling the adrenaline. The gods of the asphalt were at my feet.