His name was Banner, sporting a powerful body and no belly at all, a fact that was obvious because he wore only a tattered wifebeater that had more holes than it had shirt. His biceps were hard, inked, ropy like a statue of a man, but lined with scars and imperfections that made him feel so very real, and much sexier than all those smooth-bodied, perfect-faced twinks that Lance had been messing with. Banner felt like a motorcycle, brimming with power and uncontrollable heat, rough-edged and hard to manage. But his mere presence and the smell of his unkempt body made Lance hard.
From The Abilene Alpha
He was square-jawed and rugged, with a dense network of scars on his fingers. He said that was from getting angry and punching his fist through glass windows on several occasions. He was a bouncer at Lipsweet, a tough bar on the outskirts of town.
From The Bouncer
Banner Wilde was the other biker, the one who was now behind Lance, his face increasingly ashen as the crowd stampeded and caterwauled behind him. He was lanky for a biker, well-built but ropy and wiry, not bulky. That was probably a benefit for him, since he was light. Lance wasn’t much bigger. But Banner had a solid, squarish face like a brick, while Lance was more leanly muscled.
He was raven, with a thick mane of jet hair, scraggly and poorly trimmed, like he had had a beautiful amber head of hair like a Viking god but then fell to Earth and doused his head in brambles and mud, giving him a torn and tattered half-curled mop of dinge highlighted with brown and tan and a few strands of gray. His forehead was lightning-bolted with an ugly rill of scar tissue, his left eye droopy underneath it like it had been damaged in whatever incident left his eyebrow slashed. His front tooth was chipped too, and he ran his tongue over the jagged tip of it as he looked down Lance’s body.
Banner was powerfully built and strong without being heavy or bulky. He had that pseudo-nice face, like if he had lived a clean and wholesome life he’d be a leading man with a charismatic pair of dimples, but since he was craggy and worn all over, those dimples gave him an almost menacing aura, like he was trying to trick you by looking so handsome despite being as “ugly as a pile of dirt”, as his ex-wife had said.
He didn’t have a perfect body. Lance liked that, he appreciated men’s physiques and not just six-packed Hollywood-bikers with clean, combed hair. He liked his men meaty and rough-hewn. Banner was exactly that, all thick where it counted and firm everywhere, covered in stinky coarse hairs that tasted of motorcycle engines and group showers. His hair was a dense mop, perpetually uncombed, indeed it seemed likely Banner had never combed it, certainly not since his mother stopped forcing him to.
From The Biker
