Biker Girl Quotes

Angelina leaned forward as Sara pulled Miki back to her, "You know what they say about curiosity? That it stabbed the annoying biker girl over and over and over again until she spit up blood.

I am Preachers little girl. And I'm gonna be just like him when I grow up. I'm gonna have a Fatboy but I want mine to be sparkly and I want a pink helmet with skulls on it. And instead of being the club President, I'm gonna be the club Queen cuz I'm gonna marry the biggest, scariest biker in the whole world and he's gonna let me do whatever I want because he's gonna love me like crazy.

This near enough? Whatcha gonna do, doll girl? Cry all over me?" Claire hid her eyes as the biker reached out for Eve with one tattooed hand. No," Eve said breathlessly. "I'm going to let my boyfriend beat the crap out of you." There was a dull thunk of wood meeting flesh, and a howl. Then another, much harder thunk, and a crash as a body hit the floor. The biker was down. Claire stared at him in disbelief, then looked past him, to the figure standing there with the field hockey stick in both hands. Michael Glass.

There was something familiar but strange about her - Snow White with a suntan. Cinderella in biker boots. Tough and delicate and magical and real all at once.

Beautiful girl; when I hit on women, they are fucking me in less than five minutes; last time I checked we still have our clothes on.

Day in, day out, you peel the layers back for me. Smart mouth, funny, sweet, wild in bed. Chattin' with bikers like they were insurance brokers. Holdin' my girl's hand, givin' her strength when her Mom's bein' a bitch. Keepin' your chin up when your people show in the middle of a full blown drama. But so fuckin' vulnerable, you're scared shitless of livin' life." "You don't know me, Tack." His head came up and his eyes pierced mine. "I know you, Tyra." "You don't." "Life's a roller coaster. Best damn ride in the park. You don't close your eyes, hold on and wait for it to be over, babe. You keep your eyes open, lift your hands straight up in the air and enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts.

So, what happened to your face?” Sara grabbed Miki by her T-shirt and jeans before she could dive over the counter at the Asian girl they called Kelly. Angelina leaned forward as Sara pulled Miki back to her, “You know what they say about curiosity? That it stabbed the annoying biker girl over and over and over again until she spit up blood.” Oh, yeah. That was subtle.

This is for all my dark romance girls who dream of being chased, choked, and eaten out by a tattooed biker with a vibrating tongue piercing. Jax is waiting to show you the five ways to ride a biker…

I am Preacher’s little girl. And I’m gonna be just like him when I grow up. I’m gonna have a Fatboy, but I want mine to be sparkly, and I want a pink helmet with skulls on it. And instead of being the club President, I’m gonna be the club Queen ‘cause I’m gonna marry the biggest, scariest biker in the whole world, and he’s gonna let me do whatever I want because he’s gonna love me like crazy.

Jesus, how much stuff can one girl carry around in here?” he asked, waving a tampon. “Got your friend, huh? This is probably a good deterrent. Try waving it in the air if you run into trouble. Nobody will mess with your shit. Believe me.

Swear to God, you come near us and–” “Like this?” The biker sidestepped a slash from the hockey stick, grabbed it on the way, and yanked it out of Eve’s hands. He tossed it over his shoulder to land on the floor with a clatter. “This near enough? Whatcha gonna do, doll girl?” Claire hid her eyes as the biker reached out for Eve with one tattooed hand. “No,” Eve said breathlessly. “I’m going to let my boyfriend beat the crap out of you.” There was a dull thunk of wood meeting flesh, and a howl. Then another, harder thunk, and a crash as a body hit the floor. The biker was down. Claire stared at him in disbelief, then looked past him, to the figure standing there with the field hockey stick in both hands. Michael Glass. Back from the dead, again, a gorgeous blond avenging angel, breathing hard.

I’m here for as long as you want me.” “What if that’s forever?” He asked. “Then I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

We need a country literally full of cat guys and cat girls, bikers, politicians, clergy, and everyone in between, in order to keep millions from dying without homes.

Baby girl, five minutes alone with me and you're gonna be begging me to taste your pie.

I never rode on the back of an old Chopper down the highway Holdin' on tight just him and I Makin' our getaway I've always been the good girl Walked the straight and narrow path all my life, I like a man with a tan and a twisted chrome kickstand Leanin' on a big old bike The low rollin' sound that'll shake the ground Comin' out of long pipes I like a tattoo or two Or even more if they're cool On the big old arms of a long-haired dude Inside of me, there's an all I wanna be Biker chick

When I tell someone that the most important thing a young woman can do to avoid being raped is to avoid places with lots of young men (and if you absolutely have to go to those place, don't drink) the dumb responses range from: 'Girls have a right to have fun' to 'You're just blaming the victim' all the way up to the ludicrous, 'A woman should be able to walk naked into a biker bar and not be bothered.' These are political ideals. They might even be the way the world should work. They are not the way the world actually works. The responsibility for self-protection has to rest with the potential victim because the potential rapist has no interest whatsoever in her safety or rights. The potential victim is the one who cares.

Soon enough it was explained to Buck Nance that Key West was a bad location to be making fun of homosexuals, and also African-Americans. This bulletin was delivered by a 275-pound biker who happened to be both gay and black, and owned a right hand that fit easily around Buck's stringy, hirsute neck.

It is now time to face the fact that English is a crazy language — the most loopy and wiggy of all tongues. In what other language do people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway? In what other language do people play at a recital and recite at a play? Why does night fall but never break and day break but never fall? Why is it that when we transport something by car, it’s called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it’s called cargo? Why does a man get a hernia and a woman a hysterectomy? Why do we pack suits in a garment bag and garments in a suitcase? Why do privates eat in the general mess and generals eat in the private mess? Why do we call it newsprint when it contains no printing but when we put print on it, we call it a newspaper? Why are people who ride motorcycles called bikers and people who ride bikes called cyclists? Why — in our crazy language — can your nose run and your feet smell?Language is like the air we breathe. It’s invisible, inescapable, indispensable, and we take it for granted. But, when we take the time to step back and listen to the sounds that escape from the holes in people’s faces and to explore the paradoxes and vagaries of English, we find that hot dogs can be cold, darkrooms can be lit, homework can be done in school, nightmares can take place in broad daylight while morning sickness and daydreaming can take place at night, tomboys are girls and midwives can be men, hours — especially happy hours and rush hours — often last longer than sixty minutes, quicksand works very slowly, boxing rings are square, silverware and glasses can be made of plastic and tablecloths of paper, most telephones are dialed by being punched (or pushed?), and most bathrooms don’t have any baths in them. In fact, a dog can go to the bathroom under a tree —no bath, no room; it’s still going to the bathroom. And doesn’t it seem a little bizarre that we go to the bathroom in order to go to the bathroom? Why is it that a woman can man a station but a man can’t woman one, that a man can father a movement but a woman can’t mother one, and that a king rules a kingdom but a queen doesn’t rule a queendom? How did all those Renaissance men reproduce when there don’t seem to have been any Renaissance women? Sometimes you have to believe that all English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane: In what other language do they call the third hand on the clock the second hand? Why do they call them apartments when they’re all together? Why do we call them buildings, when they’re already built? Why it is called a TV set when you get only one? Why is phonetic not spelled phonetically? Why is it so hard to remember how to spell mnemonic? Why doesn’t onomatopoeia sound like what it is? Why is the word abbreviation so long? Why is diminutive so undiminutive? Why does the word monosyllabic consist of five syllables? Why is there no synonym for synonym or thesaurus? And why, pray tell, does lisp have an s in it? If adults commit adultery, do infants commit infantry? If olive oil is made from olives, what do they make baby oil from? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian consume? If pro and con are opposites, is congress the opposite of progress? ...

Maddy’s going to pop soon,” Cooper said, finishing his beer and getting ready to head out. “Tucker is attached to her. It’s pretty fucking adorable. The guy about wets his pants every time she makes any noise that might be labor pain.” “You’ll be an uncle soon.” “I’m already an uncle,” Cooper mumbled, sliding on his jacket. “I just can’t hold the kid yet.” “You and Farah still planning on trying?” “No planning. We’re just trying now. She’s off the pill. Whenever it happens, it’ll be cool. Farah worries she’ll suck at being a mom. Can you believe that shit?” Cooper asked as his dark eyes warmed at the thought of his wife. “The way she takes care of Sawyer and me and everyone else and she thinks she’ll be a bad mom. These girls with their shit families get all fucked up in the head and no logic is going to fix it. They just need to face their fears and see how amazing they are when their idiot parents aren’t around to fuck things up.” “Should I fix things for Lark?” “I don’t know. If it was me, I’d go smack her stupid brother and father around. I don’t know if that’d be a good idea though. Those fucks aren’t low life drifters like Farah’s parents. That Larry asshole is a respectable member of the community. If you want to smack him around, you’ll need to do it in a more subtle way. Of course, if he ever fucks with you, we can just remind Mister Upstanding how his kind doesn’t run Ellsberg. It’s us dirty biker types who keep his house from burning down or his head from getting cracked open. If it comes down to it, I’ll help you take him down. Pop says behave. I say I’ve got my bud’s back.” Grinning, I shoved him away from me. “Crap. I’m worried you might hug me next.” “I was thinking about it,” Cooper said, smiling. “Farah’s turned me all nice and shit. I’m getting manners too. It’s disgusting.” “Horrifying,” I teased. “Thanks for the offer, but I feel like Lark needs to make a move. If she needs me to, I’ll burn down houses and crack open skulls. Right now, I feel like maybe she needs to find her way back to me. If she does, I’m keeping her and ruining anyone who tries to take her away.” “Now, there’s the punk ass jerk I became friends with.

this place ain't so tough . . . I can beat up 1/2 the girls in here

I stretched my arms out to the side and closed my eyes. I was no longer a parentless child. Nor was I a burn victim. Or the girl who was being abused. I was simply Joey. And, I was free.

You’re fine, Aurora,” Frank says. “Just take my hand, follow me, and do as you’re told.” I scrunch up my face at that remark. And the way he calls me Aurora. I hate being called Aurora and anyone who knows me understands that. The Bombshell in me wants to come out. The white-trash biker-bitch farm girl is about to give him a piece of my mind when Kallie whisper-yells, “Aurora, we’re waiting for you.

Well, this is the second time you’ve had your hand around my throat, pinning me in place, and add in the fact that you told me that this isn’t over and I shouldn’t have come back, yada yada, I’m assuming you still want revenge for what happened,” I deduce. “Damn fucking straight I do,” “Well, come on then, biker boy, do your fucking worst,” “Don’t presume to know what I want, pretty girl ,” he says, ‘When you love someone, you’ll do anything for them.

You like me needing you, girl? You like knowing you’re the only woman in the whole fucking world I can imagine ever touching again?

This is for all my dark romance girls who dream of being chased, choked, and eaten out by a tattooed biker with a vibrating tongue piercing.

The moment Jace Calder saw his sister's face, he feared the worst. His heart sank. Emily, his troubled little sister, had been doing so well since she'd gotten the job at the Sarah Hamilton Foundation in Big Timber, Montana. "What's wrong?" he asked as he removed his Stetson, pulled up a chair at the Big Timber Java coffee shop and sat down across from her. Tossing his hat on the seat of an adjacent chair, he braced himself for bad news. Emily blinked her big blue eyes. Even though she was closing in on twenty-five, he often caught glimpses of the girl she'd been. Her pixie cut, once a dark brown like his own hair, was dyed black. From thirteen on, she'd been piercing anything she could. At sixteen she'd begun getting tattoos and drinking. It wasn't until she'd turned seventeen that she'd run away, taken up with a thirty-year-old biker drug-dealer thief and ended up in jail for the first time. But while Emily still had the tattoos and the piercings, she'd changed after the birth of her daughter, and after snagging this job with Bo Hamilton. "What's wrong is Bo," his sister said. Bo had insisted her employees at the foundation call her by her first name. "Pretty cool for a boss, huh?" his sister had said at the time. He'd been surprised. That didn't sound like the woman he knew. But who knew what was in Bo's head lately. Four months ago her mother, Sarah, who everyone believed dead the past twenty-two years, had suddenly shown up out of nowhere. According to what he'd read in the papers, Sarah had no memory of the past twenty-two years. He'd been worried it would hurt the foundation named for her. Not to mention what a shock it must have been for Bo. Emily leaned toward him and whispered, "Bo's… She's gone.

For the next few minutes, I made great shots until a creepy biker guy stood too close and I missed. Cooper took the stick and studied the remaining balls. “Don’t cry when I beat your ass.” “Hell yeah,” the biker said, laughing. “Some girls just love it rough.” Giving me a quick glance, Cooper glared at the guy. “Who the fuck are you?” “I know your pop.” “Good for you, but if you don’t back off and stop skeeving out my girl, my pop and I will be attending your funeral.

You’re not touching us,’” Eve said, and raised her voice. “Shane! Shane, get your ass up here now!’” There was a touch of panic in her voice, although she was putting on a good front. Her hands were shaking where they gripped the hockey stick. The man glided around the end of the bed, prowling like a cat. Six feet tall, at least, and as broad as two of Eve, maybe bigger. His bare arms were ripped with muscle. His blue eyes looked shallow and hungry. Claire heard the thump of footsteps outside, and then a bang as Shane fetched up against the locked door. He rattled the knob and pounded hard. “Eve! Eve, open up!’” “She’s busy!’” the biker yelled, and laughed. “Oh yeah, gonna be real busy.’” “No!’” Shane screamed it, and the door shook with the strength of the blows he put into it. “Stay away from them!

He's a big bad-ass motherfucking biker who rules his kingdom with an iron fist and yet can love on a girl so soft and sweet, she sees God in all his heavenly glory. 

You’re the kind of girl who deserves way more than a one-night stand.

But beneath them all, at the very bottom of the stack, is a worn and slightly tattered magazine called African Mamas Sucking Hog. I flip through it real quick; a bunch of young black girls dressed like Kenyans giving fat-ass bikers blow jobs. I smile at this; Elroy the scholar. Elroy the sicko masturbator.

Steph, I’m really not in the mood this morning for your attitude,” I growled.   “Too bad,” she shot at me. “Your girlfriend spent the night on my couch.”   “What?” My reaction got a snide little smirk out of her. I pushed my annoyance to side and questioned her about Bella.   “She’s fine. So far. Stubborn girl that one.” She pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head, pushing her chestnut curls out of the way of her eyes. “She told me about her kid.” Her voice dropped and she walked around her Camaro until she was standing in front of me. With the sun just starting to rise, her face looked soft. Like it used to before so much hatred and pain settled in her expression.   “Why is she by you? Why isn’t she here?” I sunk my hands into my front pockets, trying to keep my voice civil. Getting all hard on Steph would only send her packing back up into her car and heading out without giving me any information. And if Bella was hiding out there, Steph would make the fucking place a fortress to keep me out.   “She doesn’t want to see you, or want your help.” She leaned against her car. “Apparently, her friends are involved on the wrong side of this shit storm, and she doesn’t have anyone else.”   We never talked about family. She knew about my brother, but she didn’t talk about her family. Did she even have anyone other than that fucking ex of hers? “Did she finally get a hold of Ashley?”   “Yeah, well, sort of. Not that it was any help. The important call she got was from Shadow.”   “Shadow called her?” My hands came out of my pockets, balled into fists, and I took a step toward her. Stella weathered more than one shit storm, as she liked to call them, while married to Jaxson, she kept her ground, not even flinching.   “Yeah. He’s got the little girl. The fucking prick.” Her eyes widened and her mouth went taught. Jaxson never could get her to quit cursing like a biker, but I think it was one of the things he found so damn irresistible about her. She didn’t take shit from anyone, but she could sure as hell dish it out when she needed to.   “What did he want?”   “He wants to meet her. Said he’d give her back the kid if she meets him this morning at eleven.”   The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Bella wasn’t as seasoned as Stella.

I read. A lot. I read so much that some might call me a book whore. I can read about a book boyfriend who is a gritty biker in a motorcycle club or a sexy drummer in a world famous band. He can be a military man with a bad case of PTSD or a billionaire with a fetish for bondage and spanking. Any way you slice it, multiple book boyfriends are a hell of a lot safer to my feelings than one living, breathing, idiot who will eventually break my heart. I

The girl wasn’t joking when she said her dad raised her to be badass. I guess that’s one of the benefits of growing up around bikers.

…you’re like a biker princess or rock goddess, wrapped in a fat ass, shiny Do Not Touch tape that only makes everyone wanna touch it more. You’re a little hood but still a Cali girl. They want to be you, imitate you, but they don’t know how. They have fancy clothes and cars and Daddy’s plastic, but no matter what they do or buy or who they pay, they can’t reach your level, and they know it. You’re this lethal ass combination of girl they never knew they wanted to be until now but couldn’t match if they tried.

I knew my girl the way a biker knew his Harley, the way a man knew how to grill meat and catch a ball. No, more. I knew Loulou Garro the way one soul knew another. It was intangible and intractable, one of those ways’a the universe no one ever knows how to give words to.

I adore my little man, yet I find myself eyeing the soft bellies of washed up athletes, engaging the chatty middle-aged hotheads who wage daily war at the coffee stand, smiling for the tattooed, misunderstood biker-giants. I lift my weight 18 ... weights at the most run-down gym in town for a chance to be around the old, milky-eyed Marine who won’t stop showing up the young guys, loading a bar with every forty-five in sight and bending it above his cracking, brittle back.

Nothing to be sorry for. A girl’s no girl at all for her sisters if she doesn’t get that sometimes a sister has to share the hurt, sometimes hold it close. That happens, a girl’s gotta stand by her sister the way she needs her, not the way that girl needs to do it.

You know what they say about curiosity? That it stabbed the annoying biker girl over and over and over again until she spit up blood.

Mateo comes for Maggie one shining Hawaiian morning on his motorcycle. He brings her to a motorcycle club meet-up that begins with a potluck breakfast in the verdant hills. Maggie is the only girl of her age. The other women are biker chicks in dusty black leather with stringy hair. She feels out of place, but gloriously so.

Later, I sat down drunk on the corner of Carondelet and Canal Streets, listening for the rumble of the streetcar that would take me back uptown to my apartment, watching the evening sun bleed from the streets, the city shifting into night, when it truly became New Orleans: the music, the constant festival, the smell of late evening dinners pouring out, layering the beer-soaked streets, prostitutes, clubs with DJs, rowdy gay bars, dirty strip clubs, the insane out for a walk, college students vomiting in trash cans, daiquiri bars lit up like supermarkets, washing-machine-sized mixers built into the wall spinning every color of daiquiri, lone trumpet players, grown women crying, clawing at men in suits, portrait painters, spangers (spare change beggars), gutter punks with dogs, kids tap-dancing with spinning bike wheels on their heads, the golden cowboy frozen on a milk crate, his golden gun pointed at a child in the crowd, fortune-tellers, psycho preachers, mumblers, fighters, rock-faced college boys out for a date rape, club chicks wearing silver miniskirts, horse-drawn carriages, plastic cups piling against the high curbs of Bourbon Street, jazz music pressing up against rock-and-roll cover bands, murderers, scam artists, hippies selling anything, magic shows and people on unicycles, flying cockroaches the size of pocket rockets, rats without fear, men in drag, business execs wandering drunk in packs, deciding not to tell their wives, sluts sucking dick on open balconies, cops on horseback looking down blouses, cars wading across the river of drunks on Bourbon Street, the people screaming at them, pouring drinks on the hood, putting their asses to the window, whole bars of people laughing, shot girls with test tubes of neon-colored booze, bouncers dragging skinny white boys out by their necks, college girls rubbing each other’s backs after vomiting tequila, T-shirts, drinks sold in a green two-foot tube with a small souvenir grenade in the bottom, people stumbling, tripping, falling, laughing on the sidewalk in the filth, laughing too hard to stand back up, thin rivers of piss leaking out from corners, brides with dirty dresses, men in G-strings, mangy dogs, balloon animals, camcorders, twenty-four-hour 3-4-1, free admission, amateur night, black-eyed strippers, drunk bicyclers, clouds of termites like brown mist surrounding streetlamps, ventriloquists, bikers, people sitting on mailboxes, coffee with chicory, soul singers, the shoeless, the drunks, the blissful, the ignorant, the beaten, the assholes, the cheaters, the douche bags, the comedians, the holy, the broken, the affluent, the beggars, the forgotten, and the soft spring air pregnant with every scent created by such a town.

Suddenly Guy appeared in the doorway. Emma was surprised to see he had his jacket on, a black leather biker-style one he wore with the self-consciousness of a girl in her first pre-teen bra.

A strange feeling of protectiveness rises in me. It has happened more the last  weeks, as I was watching her every day, looking for signs of mistreatment on her. It had become a part of my routine as well, a step I must do, otherwise I will be on edge, like a fucking new OCD, looking at my phone compulsively, even though I knew she wouldn’t be in her room before nine each day.

She wants me to read? I’ll fucking read her my whole bookshelf if she wants me to.

How can I tell her that she's been on my mind like a damn drug, that every time I close my eyes, all I see is her face and her blue eyes filled with that spark that ignites something deep inside me? How can I admit that she’s the first person I’ve allowed myself to feel this way about since losing my family? It scares the hell out of me.