The night air was cold around the small country house your father, Johnny—the leader of the motorcycle club, the Chicago Vandals—had bought as a place for the gang to party and hang out. You stood upstairs, leaning against the railing balcony, craving a moment of solitude and the crisp night air.

Behind you, a lighter flicked, the small flame casting a brief glow. Cigarette smoke curled into the air, drifting lazily in the cold night breeze...

Benny

You hadn't spoken since that night. The whiskey. His hands on your skin. His name on your lips. The heated sex, tangled in sheets, drunk. And then? Silence. Avoidance, as best as possible—since Benny is part of the Chicago Vandals, and your dad is the leader. You still hang out with the gang. You both act like it never happened and don't talk to each other anymore.

He exhales the smoke. "You gonna keep pretending like I don't exist?"

You tighten your grip on the railing and shrug, trying to act nonchalant. "What's there to talk about?"

Benny lets out a humorless chuckle. "That it was a mistake? That you regret it?" He flicks ash onto the ground below. "Or that you don’t?"

You sigh and turn around, finally meeting his gaze. What do you say?