"Rache, no, you can't do that," I say to my best friend from ever since high school.

"Tira, you need to learn how to chill. No biker is gonna be mad at me for snapping a pic on their bike. They would find it H.O.T.," Rachel enunciates the last part like her beauty would save her from anything.

Rachel McIntyre is the classic American girl next door. Her slim figure, big boobs, enormous ass, and golden locks have earned her the attention of every guy ever since we hit sophomore year. Boys and grown men would do anything for her, including the teachers. But she's 100% wrong when it comes to bikers and their motorcycles. They don't care if you're Miss U.S.A. or the President. If you touch their bikes without permission, you will be in a world of hurt, or worse, dead.

"Rachel, I'm serious. These guys are not to mess with," I warn and beg my friend at the same time.

But like always, she ignores me and hops on the classic black Harley Davidson to take several selfies since I won't do it for her. She's nuts. But this hasn't been the craziest thing she'd done. But it's up there, like me taking her S.A.T.s - well, that's the stupidest thing I've ever done since I got caught and expelled.

She presses her thick ruby-red lips into a firm line and reprimands me, "Asatira Bonnet, you need to learn how to live a little!"

She hops off the bike and walks up to me, and pushes me onto the bike. It's an easy feat for the Amazonian beauty due to my short, willowy frame.

"No Rachel. I don't want to take a pic...picture, especially on a bike," I protest once again.

"Fine."

However, Rachel does the unexpected, again, well, actually not surprising to me. She shoves me onto the bike - hard. I awkwardly land on it. The sound of countless hogs crashing onto the pavement fill the relatively silent night of East Village, San Diego. To add to my horror, I scrape my hands and legs, which teaches me not to wear short overalls. A sudden pain engulfs my head. I reach out to the source of the pain with my hand, and my fingers come back, stained with my blood.

"Rachel! What did you do!" My eyes widen at the woman who I can't believe purposely hurt.

"You made me do it Tira. You're no fun."

I try to stand up and wipe my dirty, bloodied hands on my clothes. But also, we need to get the heck out of dodge before -. Only, my escape plans are cut short when I see several angry, mean-looking bikers surround me.

"Rache, where are you," I try to yell, but the words come out all like the hinges of a rusty iron gate.

"WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO OUR BIKES!" one of the bikers bellows - right in front of my face.

"I-I-I'm so...so...so sor-ry sir. Som-some-one pu...pu...shed me", breath Asatira, remember your lessons, "and I-I. I'm sorry. Please don't hurt. Me." I put my hands in front of me in clear surrender.

"You're gonna pay for what you did, you fucking cunt," the biker bares his yellow teeth at me.

My eyes go big as a deer in the path of an oncoming 18 wheeler. Thankfully, my mind is still working and shoots an urgent message to get my body moving. My legs pick up speed. However, my short, very short sprint comes to a quick end when I look behind me - stupid.

The biker who was shouting at me tackles me to the ground. He's on top of me, yelling expletives about how I made him run for nothing. But I can't worry about that, I need to escape, or I'm dead. I try to buck him off my back but nothing. I groin - when you have a big booty for nothing.

My stutter makes a triumphant return, "P-p-please, please let me go. I pay. Damages."

"Yes, you're gonna pay for them, as our whore," the biker shouts at my ear.

If my eyes were like of a paralyzed deer now, they resemble that one time the San Diego War Dogs made it to the playoffs, a miracle sports journalists call it.

"Rach...Rach..., pp please help," I shout at the top of my lungs. But I can't hear or see her. There's no one around besides the bikers.

I stare back at my attacker with tears rolling down my face as I plead once again for him to release me.

"Please, don...don...don't do this. I'm sorry. Not my fault. Me pushed," my tears make it hard for me to beg him properly

"Who pushed you!" the biker asks.

I can't betray Rachel. She will be in the same boat as me if I give her up.

"Don't know. My back was to... towardts them."

"Well that sucks. For YOU!

The biker gets off of me and pulls me rather hard from off the ground. The rest of the men surround us, effectively blocking my escape path. My overalls are soiled with dirt, blood, and sweat. And not just only blood coming from the back of my head. But aunt flow picked the perfect time to visit.

The big guy who tackled me to the ground pushes me to one of his buddies and orders him to take me back to the room. He picks me up and throws me over his shoulder. I scream for help and try to wiggle out of his grasp but to no avail. The guy carrying, who probably has grown tired of me crying in his ear, puts me back down. Relief washes over, they're going to let me go, but that feeling is short-lived. The next thing I see is a punch heading my way, followed by complete darkness.

Well, what do you think of chapter 1 of my biker romance?