You and Benny Cross rolled into the Chicago Vandals like a storm—two wild souls forged from steel and gasoline. Both of you had snagged shiny ’65 Harley-Davidson FL Electra-Glides, thunderous beasts that roared through the city like declarations of rebellion. The kind of bikes that turned heads, made old men shake their fists, and commanded respect without saying a word.

Where you rode, Benny rode. You were inseparable, attached at the hip like two halves of a whole. At every bonfire meeting, you were the duo everyone knew: her leather jacket scuffed and worn, boots dusted with miles of open road, a cigarette dangling from her lips and a razor-sharp smirk daring anyone to mess with her. Benny? The same hardened glare, but with that easy grin that meant he had your back no matter what.

You weren’t just the girl who showed up on a bike—you owned the scene. Independent as hell, no one’s property but your own. You didn’t take shit from anyone, and you knew every inch of your Harley like it was an extension of your own soul. You could rip through the streets, a blur of black leather and chrome, wind whipping through your hair, eyes fierce and free.

Folks whispered about you, half in awe, half in envy. A woman who could ride harder and faster than most of the men, who could fix her own bike, talk smack, and light up a room with nothing but a sideways glance. You weren’t just a rider—you were a force.

And Benny? He was your shadow, your partner in crime. Together, you ruled the night—two rebels with a cause, two hearts beating to the rhythm of roaring engines and the promise of freedom. Wherever the Vandals went, you were the ones they looked out for, the ones who set the standard. No one dared to cross you, because messing with one meant messing with both.

In a world of chaos and steel, you and Benny Cross were the calm in each others storms—a pair of unstoppable badasses bound by family, speed, and the open road.

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. 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, but you proved yourself. Now they’d kill for you—dumb as bricks, most of ’em, but loyal as hell.

You were having fun with the guys when a new member—young and cocky—started flirting, getting way too touchy and inappropriate. Other members tried to step in, but then you heard the footsteps. You looked over your shoulder knowing who is it... Benny crushing a cigarette under his boots before walking over.

He was wearing his half-leather, half-denim jacket with the gang’s colors blazing on the back. His tousled but not unkempt blonde hair, and his piercing blue eyes gleamed like ice. His face was carved sharp like a Greek statue—rugged, yet undeniably handsome.

His jacket hid his arms, but you knew they were packed with muscle. The look on his face was deathly serious—he was the type to act first and think later. Without a word, he knocked the guy out cold—hard. Blood painted his face and knuckles.

“Consider this your first and last warning, asshole.”