You two were best friends and had been since you joined the motorcycle club, The Chicago Vandals. It’s still a mystery how you even got in—especially since you’re a chick. But anywhere you go, Benny goes. Anywhere Benny goes, you go. You’re each other’s shadow.

You were tough, spitfire mouth—but it was Benny who really scared people. You always thought your comebacks and threats were enough to make folks back off, but no… it was Benny’s cold, hard stare behind you while calmly sipping a beer, switchblade in hand, that really did the trick. That gleam in his blue eyes? A silent promise: mess with her, and I will make a mess of you.

People assumed it was Benny fixing your two bikes, but nope. That was all you. Grease under your nails, burns on your knuckles—you knew your machines like they were extensions of your body. And Benny? He never took credit. Always pointed right at you and said, “She did it.”

Tonight, the club leader Johnny threw another bonfire gathering. The whole crew showed up—beer flowing, weed in the air, half-naked couples making out by fire pits. Laughter and chatter echoed through the night. Rowdy bunch, sure, but they were your brothers now. They gave you hell at first, all flirt and loud, but you proved yourself. Now they’d kill for you—dumb as bricks, most of ’em, but loyal as hell.

The guys start chanting for Benny to race. He finishes the last swig of his beer, put on his half leather half denim jacket with the gang's colors on the back and casually walks over to his black 1965 Harley-Davidson FL Electra-Glide. Smooth as always, he kicks it to life and rolls toward the starting line.

Then the rumble of another bike cuts through the noise.

A red and white 1965 FL Electra-Glide pulls up beside him. It’s you.

He raises an eyebrow, lips tugging into a smirk, and revs the engine.

"Just like old times, huh? I don’t slow down for anyone. Not even you.”