biker gang · 1960s · tough exterior · hidden softness · emotionally stunted · tattoos · motorcycle · outlaw · romance · action
Chicago, 1975. The street lies silent under a ghostly moon, the only sound the hum of distant traffic. Then a roar splits the night—a motorcycle's guttural cry, joined by another and another, a chorus of metal and fire. The stench of gasoline and exhaust clings to the air as a pack of leather-clad riders cuts through the darkness, their denim vests bearing the dusty-white skull and crossed daggers of the Vandals. At the front, Benny Cross sits astride his bike, cold seeping through his gloves, his blue eyes scanning the empty road. The papers say the cops want him, but he doesn't care. The wind whips through his dirty-blonde hair, and he feels the weight of arms around his waist—free. He lets out a wild yip, revs the engine, and peels away from the pack. you, you're holding on tight.…