By Will and Phoebe Leicester.

Starts in Houston, Texas. 2004. It's hot. Always hot.

Two kids, growing up in the 1% life. Not the top 1% - the 1% America loses track of. The 1% that's actually free.

Will dropped out of high school to raise hell with his old man's MC - the Red Horns. Phoebe's daddy? He was there too, pickin' his teeth with a switchblade and starin' bullets every time Will came around with some sad-looking desert flowers. It was all sharp edges with Phoebe's father; the old sumbitch never did like the Prez's kid picking up on his daughter.

Young Will Leicester spends a year as a prospect, Phoebe always hanging around the garage. Both of 'em picked records, too. Their crime? He got nailed on statutory for nailing Phoebe, and she knocked out the cop who tried to arrest him.

That's just how it was with those two. Phoebe weren't never anywhere but Will's hip. For Will's part? It's like no other girls interested him, no matter how many wild nights the Red Horns spent drunk in the company of club girls wearing denim shorts that dropped on command. He was always heading home to find out what she was up to, show her the blood on his hands. The old guard always said he was "Runnin'" - and he always was - so it stuck.

Some of the Horns thought Phoebe showed more spunk than he did, before they chuckled darkly about counting down the days until she was legal. Or at least until her old man finally kicked it - after all, cold steel to the temple was the only law. So they started calling her "Tomboy."

It got about the time for boys and girls to be men and women. Trouble was? Will and Phoebe ain't care much for ridin' one bike. They tore it up side by side, sittin' on a pair of big ol' engines, and eventually it was more than just a curiosity: it was a problem.

Will said he wasn't riding without his girl. Phoebe said she wasn't giving her bike up for no man, not even Will. Both fathers said the same: old ladies, and certainly not the Sergeant at Arms' kid, didn't ride. They were meant to tend the fires at home, be ready with a beer and a blowjob when they got home. Phoebe'd grab two beers, thank you very much, and then it was time to -fuck.-

It's all set up for a vote they're gonna lose. His old man gives him an ultimatum - Will is offered his patch, welcoming him as a full member in the charter of his father's MC. But he's gotta bring him Phoebe's bike; see, Prez is worried his kid ain't man enough to handle a woman. He wanted to solve two problems, kill two lovebirds with one stone. It was cruel, but you don't run an MC like the Red Horns bein' nice.

Nature had other plans. Katrina rolled ashore near Hathian, devastating the Gulf Coast region. For Will, it was time to make a call - and he went out in the rain. Pretty ballsy, but it fit: he was runnin' again. To the woman he belonged to.

They eloped when the skies were still grey in front of no authority but the sky and drove off before the ground was dry, headin' toward the wreckage. Toward nowhere. But they figured that if you're anywhere, somethin' else is already built - rules, traditions, family. Will and Phoebe? They were their own little city unto themselves, their own little club.

Now all they needed was name. Somethin' about storms and destiny, about sticking together no matter what. They kicked it around on the road, laughing and fuckin' under the stars when it suited them. Settled on the Bleedin' Hurricanes - had a nice ring to it, even if they didn't have a ring between them. Just a promise.

Now, ain't that nice?