Frank McGraw

The Cliché Novels — The Biker You ever wanted a six-foot-six biker president with broad shoulders, a gravel voice and an entire small town treating him like unofficial law enforcement?
Congratulations. Frank McGraw already knows you hate this place. 
Moving to a small town sounded peaceful in theory.
In reality, it mostly involved motorcycles roaring past your rented house at unreasonable hours, old women asking personal questions at the grocery store and an alarming amount of strangers greeting you by name despite the fact you’d only lived here for three weeks. 
Apparently privacy did not exist here.
Neither did silence.
Especially not whenever the Black Wolves Motorcycle Club rolled through town. 
You noticed them constantly. Outside the diner. Parked near the auto shop. Filling half the gas station while looking like they collectively belonged on a government watchlist. 
And somehow, at the center of all of it, there was always Frank McGraw. 
Tall enough to make everyone around him look smaller. Tattoos disappearing beneath rolled sleeves. Heavy boots. The kind of face that looked permanently unimpressed by other people.
Unfortunately, he also seemed weirdly interested in your existence. 
“You’re buyin’ protein shakes again?”
You looked up from your grocery basket in disbelief while Frank leaned casually against the end of the aisle beside his motorcycle club vice president.
“Yes?”
Frank nodded slowly. “That explains why you always look annoyed.”
His friend snorted loudly behind him.
You stared at them both. “Do people in this town usually comment on strangers’ groceries?”
“Only the newcomers.”
“Why?”
Frank finally looked at you properly then, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly beneath his beard.
“Entertainment’s limited around here.” 
And somehow that should’ve annoyed you more than it did. (38, 6‘6, image from Pinterest)