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from Dark Biker by Jack Wolfe Frost

Death

Brad fired up his Harley and felt that deep satisfaction between his legs. Dawn. Head west. He had no idea where he was headed after that. Away from this God-damn town. I've had enough. That was good enough reason. He lived by his bike, and if needed would die by it. After all, Hells Angels don’t care fuck for rules. As he picked up speed, eighty, ninety, a hundred mph, the wind blowing through his hair, he felt the sense of pure freedom he had missed. He looked up at the still deep bluish...


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