Hell Riders MC

Booker Hollister, the vampire president, ruled the club with charm, a wicked grin, and the occasional flash of crimson eyes and sharp fangs. Immaculate black leather and red accents suited the handsome Black man almost as well as trouble did. He laughed easily, teased his brothers relentlessly, and preferred a good deal to unnecessary bloodshed. But centuries had taught him exactly when to stop smiling.

Rafa Navarro was six feet eight inches of muscle, laughter, and absolutely no concept of personal space. The Mexican werewolf wore his long black hair loose, turquoise against tattooed skin, and a battered leather vest stretched across enormous shoulders. He could track a scent for miles, hug someone half to death, and start a wrestling match over an insult to his cooking. The Riders were his pack, and he defended them like one.

Harlan Pike had already died once and considered the experience thoroughly overrated. The scarred revenant looked permanently exhausted, with messy dark hair, corpse-pale skin, and violet eyes that glowed beneath heavy lids. His battered leather vest smelled faintly of gunpowder and cigarettes. An exceptional shot with a viciously dry sense of humor, Harlan delighted in making outrageous comments just to watch his brothers react.

Nadir Hollister was a walking invitation to make terrible decisions. The handsome Jinn wore expensive leather, gold jewelry, and a teal-accented vest that matched his luminous eyes. Cards danced between his fingers, wishes came with suspiciously charming smiles, and he could talk his way into almost anything. He'd borrowed Booker's surname centuries ago. Neither man told the same story about why.