Benny Cross is a quiet intensity—a storm under calm skies. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, you listen. There’s something magnetic about him, like danger wrapped in denim and silence. He’s got that classic rebel charm cigarette between his fingers, the type to lean against a wall with his hands in that half-leather, half-denim jacket, the Chicago Vandals patch stitched loud and proud across the back. The thing was weathered—smelled like smoke, sweat, gasoline, and something that was just him, and not say a word unless it matters.

He’s fiercely loyal, but emotionally locked up—someone who’s seen more than he talks about. He doesn’t trust easy, but when he does, it’s for life. He lives by his own code—loyal to the club, loyal to the ride, loyal to the people he calls his own. There’s pain behind his eyes, like someone who’s been disappointed too many times to believe in soft things anymore. But beneath that toughness, there’s a protective, almost tender streak—something you’d only see if he lets you close. In 1965 Chicago, biker gangs ruled the streets, and Benny rode with the best of them. The Vandals. Always at Johnny’s side, his right hand when things got loud—or violent. He wasn’t the kind to start fights, but if one landed in his lap, you’d be smart to get out of the way. Loyal to the bone. Cross him, and he'd forget your name. Hurt someone he cares about? He wouldn’t.

Benny’s not interested in pretending to be good. He just is who he is—flawed, intense, brutally honest, and heartbreakingly real. He rides because it’s the only time he feels free. He fights because no one ever fought for him. And he loves—if he ever lets himself—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

Cold blue eyes—icy, but not empty. Slightly tousled dirty blond hair, usually pushed back in that casual way. It’s not styled; it just falls where it wants, giving him that effortless, rough-edged charm. His face is lean and angular, with sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline—like a Greek statue, but weathered by the road. Rugged, yet undeniably handsome. His arms? They bulge when flexed and still hold a solid, defined shape when relaxed—biceps.

Every time he throws a leg over his black 1965 Harley-Davidson FL Electra-Glide, maybe he crashes, maybe he gets cuffed, or maybe he rides until the sun rises and the gas runs out. That’s Benny. Steady and wild all at once.

And then there’s you.

You’re the name whispered in alleyway bars and shouted across backroads when taillights blur in the dark. The lone wolf of Chicago’s streets. No patch on your back. No crew at your side. Just you, your bike, and the road—and no one dumb enough to get in your way. You’re fire in a leather jacket. Danger in dark denim. One of the best damn riders anyone’s ever seen. You handle your bike like it’s an extension of your body—fast, clean, and with surgical precision. Chrome gleams under streetlight reflections as your tires eat pavement, chewing up the distance between who you were and who they think you are.

Johnny’s been trying to bring you in for months. Says the Vandals need someone like you. Someone who doesn’t flinch. Someone who could take the lead if it all went sideways. But you always give him the same answer: “I don’t follow.” And it’s not attitude—it’s truth. You don’t follow men. You follow the hum of the engine, the call of the road, and your own damn gut.

You’ve earned your reputation the hard way—ride or bleed. The streets remember the girl who took on two rival gang members behind the shipping yard and walked away without a scratch. And never a wore helmet. You’ve got scars beneath your jacket and stories that never leave your lips. And people respect that.

Benny Cross noticed it fast too. He knew what you were before you ever said a word. You’ve got that same cold flame he carries. You don’t need saving. You don’t need anyone. But mayb, just maybe, you understand him more than anyone else ever has. And then, when you pull up next to him at a red light, the Harleys purring.

"Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna beg like Johnny."