Full Throttle (The Bikers of Boston #1)

Chapter 1

DIEGO

The streetlights flicker above me as the city of Boston hums with the distant echo of nightlife and the closer growl of motorcycles lining up along the Seaport District.

My heart is pounding in sync with the rhythmic thumping of the engines. It’s Saturday night, and the air smells like freedom and burnt rubber. Our usual cocktail.

The air is crisp now that it’s fall and the start of my final semester. The beginning of my last class. One credit short from graduating with a degree in chemistry, adjusting the load after my accident, and still trying to catch up.

Makes no difference as I’ll roll right into my Master’s program, then Ph.D., before working for big pharma or a biotech company. At twenty-two years old, the blueprint of my life is already laid out for me, so I don’t worry.

The extra semester gives me time to fuck around with my boys and lap up this last semester before shit gets real next spring. MIT for two years. Harvard for another four. Then I’ll be making bank.

It’s not about the money.

I come from money.

My parents come from money.

This is about making my own. A personal challenge to step out of the long shadows my last name casts to carve my path. To make a name separate and apart from those of my grandfather. I’d say I am the richest of all of us, except for Holli.

Hollister Prescott Morgan Harrington III.

Dude sounds like a law firm. But yeah, Morgan—from those Morgans—the American dynasty that created banking as we know it.

The other knuckleheads are from new money, something their families are proud of, even if old-money families at the club look down on them for it.

Another thing I don’t give a shit about. Social status, economic, and political crap. Holli is trapped in the middle of it, having to go to galas and fundraisers, unlike my family, who abstain from all the bullshit, while our summers are spent in the Hamptons.

The twins blast past me, signaling to something up ahead that catches their eye. They are the newest nouveau riche.

Too loud.

Too ostentatious.

Too wild for almost everyone I know.

Their first-generation wealth affords them all the toys they ever wanted, all the ones I’ve already had. The newness wears off faster than one might think.

Bringing up the rear is Dominic.

The smartest of us all.

That’s saying shit, considering we all attend some of the most prestigious schools in the nation. Dom already graduated from MIT, finishing in under three years, and has moved on to Harvard after finding “Princeton too liberal.”

He’s also the most calculating. His wheels are constantly spinning and analyzing every aspect of his life.

“Man, this strip never gets old, huh?” I yell over the roar to Holli when I catch up to him.

My grip tightens on the handlebars of my BMW S 1000 RR, a sleek black beast that’s gotten me through more street races than I can count.

Growing up racing bikes, I’ve taken my share of spills, broken bones, and laid down my bikes too many times to count. I had to give all that up after the last competition, where I came down wrong and heard my spine crunch. Several weeks in the hospital convinced me to become a leisure rider.

“Gets better every time,” Holli shouts back, flashing his trademark grin that is catnip for the chicks.

He’s the best-looking of us.

His confident smirk and charismatic personality get him laid far too much.

A revolving door of chicks to his apartment, sometimes two at a time, and getting noise complaints from his neighbors.

He’s idling next to me at the stoplight, astride his cherry-red Ducati Panigale that practically glows under the streetlights.

Of the five of us, Holli is the golden boy with a sharp jawline, dirty blond hair, and tatted sleeves. He lands more phone numbers than any of us when we hang out at our local bar.

Dominic pulls up next to me, leaning against his black Aston Martin AMB with sick red accents, arms crossed, surveying the scene with casual indifference.

“Look at those idiots.”

When his head jolts up, the edges of his lips twitch in the makings of a smile. His intense gaze casts straight ahead to the twins blasting through the light and leaving us behind.

Unable to tell which is which from this distance, their black, red, and neon green Aprilias are clown colors and identical. The same as their looks, haircuts, and all-black riding clothes.

One of them is standing on the saddle of his bike as it careens down the street. Arms are thrown out to the side, and he looks like a live cross with every bit of a death wish. They are the jokesters of our group, never taking anything seriously and always doing stupid shit.

Without leather and helmets, they’re risking it all. The knuckleheads act as though they’re invincible and give me shit for having an “old man back” despite my young age. They don’t know shit about the dangers of these bikes.

“Fucking fools.”

My words are lost in the idling of our three engines.

Holli shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

He knows the risk, having lost a cousin a few years back to a motorcycle accident.

The guy was sideswiped by an eighteen-wheeler running a red light.

They had to scrape pieces of him off the front of the grill.

“Let’s save them from themselves.”

The light barely changes to green before he shoots off, his bike almost the fastest among us. Dominic blasts after him, taking my position in the formation we always drive in.

I follow slower, unable to deal with the twins’s bullshit again. I had to babysit their ass last weekend when they pissed off some guys at a new bar we stopped at to grab a beer.

Emilio or Massimo, one of the fuckers shot off their mouth to a group of frat boys. Despite their gym obsession and having a solid thirty pounds of muscles on me, we were outnumbered. I wasn’t looking to get my ass kicked right before school started again.

I’ve shown up to class enough times with bloody knuckles and bruises to know that teachers will make one judgment and seal my fate for the rest of the semester.

With Hollister willing to pull babysitting duty this time and Dominic flanking him, I ease into the ride—the loop.

Our favorite route, a winding stretch along the Charles River, offers the best view and the perfect curve that tests precision and speed.

Two things I live for. It’s where we lose ourselves in the blur of the city rushing past and the adrenaline of the chase.

The cool night air hits my face, and I inhale deeply, feeling calm. Riding has always been my therapy, my church, and my meditation. When shit gets real or deep, my bike is my escape.

Always loyal and always available.

There’s nothing like speeding down this historic stretch, with the modern skyscrapers on one side and the timeless flow of the Charles on the other. The odd contrast never fails to amaze me.

When I catch up with them, the twin forming the cross is now straddling his bike. Holli and Dom have talked some sense into them, forcing them back into the riding formation. As we weave through the lesser-known back streets, I take the rear, tires gripping the occasionally slick cobblestones.

The only sounds on these narrow streets are the rush of wind and the symphony of our revving engines. It seems we’re not the only ones drawn to the thrill tonight.

That’s when I see her.

A new figure on the scene.

She’s astride a MV Augusta.

So bold it could only belong to someone who knows how to handle it. Hot pink with a glossy finish that catches the shimmering lights of the city and a distinctive sticker—If You’re Gonna Ride My Ass At Least Pull My Hair.

I chuckle, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She’s dressed in all leather, her knee-high, heeled boots tucked tightly against the bike are things dreams are made of. Images of those boots hiked over my hips flash before my eyes.

Her helmet extends my laugh. A bright pink braid comes from the top. She makes good on her sticker to pull it, but offers no clue about who she might be.

“Whoa, check out that color!” Emilio yells, his eyes rippling with excitement, when he drops back toward me. “What does her bike say?”

Without a word, Holli accelerates, his competitive edge flaring as he aims to catch up with the mysterious rider. We all fall into formation behind him, curiosity piqued by the unexpected visitor. We’ve ridden these roads for years, knowing even the most casual riders.

But she is new bait.

Fresh game for any of us.

Except for Dominic, who already has a thing going on that he’s pretty tight-lipped about. Holli is the last person who needs to add another notch to his belt. He had a half-naked girl walking out of his place when I went by to pick him up for this ride.

The pink bike is fast.

Really fast.

The rider’s form is perfect, tucked low over the handlebars. Every move is fluid and precise. Completely unaware or uninterested in us, she’s splitting lanes through the cars, darting between lanes with the ease of a seasoned pro.

We all speed up, keeping pace with Holli, who’s trying to catch her. Emilio laughs, yelling over the scream of the wind and the roar of our bikes.

“She’s smoking us.”

The thrill in his voice, the challenge in his face, and the rev of his bike let me know he’s enjoying every bit of this. Reckless as it is, racing through these side streets, I push my bike harder to its limits as she is with hers.

It’s fascinating watching her lean into the curve, her gloved fingers caressing the black concrete that could end her life in seconds.

It’s the sexiest fucking thing ever.

“Did you see that?”

Em’s voice is hyper at witnessing her smooth stunt.

He’s the lover of stupid shit.

Probably the twin doing the cross on his bike, although his brother can be just as foolish and reckless.