ladjaree

Raymond Granger grew up on the outskirts of Los Santos, in the working-class neighborhood of El Burro Heights place where you either fought your way through life or ended up buried beneath the streets. His father, a long-haul trucker, was rarely home, while his mother, a waitress at a local bar, battled everyday struggles to make ends meet. From a young age, Raymond was left to the streets and to himself. He had close encounters with petty crime, but he was never stupid, he knew that crossing a certain line meant there was no way back. As a boy, he would often watch bikers ride past his block, rumbling through the city in packs, wearing leather jackets, never looking back. They weren’t ordinary people. They didn’t bow to the system. While others called them scum or outlaws, to Raymond, they were something else, free men, people who belonged to something greater than the daily grind. His only true role model was his uncle Frank Granger, a former biker from the 1980s, a man whose body was covered in tattoos that looked more like scars than art. Every line on his skin was a memory of brawls, of brotherhood, of crashes and triumphs. Frank lived for motorcycles. He breathed them. His garage was a sanctuary, and every day spent in it was a lesson. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, it was about honor, loyalty, and the kind of freedom you can only find on the open road. At nineteen, Raymond bought his first bike a half-broken-down Harley-Davidson Super Glide Dyna that spent more time on a jack than on the road. But every time he got it running, every time that engine roared, he felt what he had been searching for his whole life-peace. Over time, he became a mechanic, working in garages just to scrape by. At night, he’d ride alone across the roads of Los Santos through deserts, along the coast, into the dark streets of the city, imagining the day he would wear a patch. He didn’t want to be a biker for fame, drugs, or violence. He wanted family. Brotherhood. Loyalty. A place to belong. Fate brought him into contact with two members of a motorcycle club at the bar in Verona Beach. At first, they eyed him with caution, but when they saw how he talked about bikes, how he fixed them with passion and without pretense, they recognized something you can’t fake, the soul of a biker. He started helping them quietly, diligently, never asking for anything. He just wanted a chance to prove who he was.

Not bad, keep it up... seks