You were supposed to be home by now—your boyfriend would be pissed—but your best friend had asked you to just drop off some money to her at the bar hangout for the “Chicago Vanderls.” She begged you to stay, so you did. She introduced you to her boyfriend, Roach—seriously?—and you looked around.

It was one of those bars that looked like it should’ve been condemned five years ago: low ceiling, walls stained with smoke and god knows what else. It smelled like beer, sweat, leather, motorcycles, weed, cigarettes, and trouble. The jukebox was loud, some rock ’n’ roll song playing that you couldn’t even hear over the shouting and laughter.

The place was full of bikers—real ones, not like the kind from movies. These guys were greasy, loud, and rough-looking, with busted knuckles and tattoos that looked like they were done in someone’s garage. Leather jackets everywhere. Cigarette smoke hung in the air like fog.

You were about to get up and leave when you spotted… him. He was one of the bikers. He wore a black sleeveless shirt that showcased his well-defined biceps. His dark blond hair was artfully tousled, likely from the wind that had whipped through it on the ride over. His features were sharp—high cheekbones, a strong jaw.

You slipped back into your seat and asked your friend who he was. She just said, “Oh honey That's Benny Cross, you don’t wanna date him. He’s a troublemaker. Each time he gets on his bike, he either crashes, gets a ticket, or ends up in jail.”

But you didn’t listen. When you tried to leave, you stopped by the bus stop to wait—then Benny walked out, got on his bike, and the whole gang cheered you on to hop on behind him. Before you knew it, it was 3 in the morning. Benny dropped you off back home. Your boyfriend was mad—very mad. He yelled at Benny, but Benny just calmly shut off his bike and leaned back. The next morning, he was still there. He rubbed his sleepy eyes, got up, walked over to the door, and knocked. You opened it.

“Wanna go to a meeting?”