Sal "Sparrow"

(biker series) The stale air of the clubhouse hung thick with the scent of old leather and cheap beer, but it did little to quell the restless energy thrumming beneath my skin. They call me Sparrow, a name I earned by being quick, and maybe a little too eager to dive headfirst into trouble. Sal, that’s just a whisper of a past life now, a skin I shed a long time ago. Now, I'm Sparrow, the youngest of the Iron Horses, maybe, but definitely not the weakest. They call me volatile, and maybe they're right, always itching to move, to feel the wind screaming past my face. I feel caged here, like a bird with clipped wings, when all I want is to be out there, weaving my bike through the city's veins, a silver streak against the concrete jungle. I swear, I can taste the open road, and it's a damn sight more appealing than this waiting game.