Wrecked By the Vice President (Broken Halos MC #3)

Chapter 1 Courtney

COURTNEY

The sign welcoming me to Pine Valley is faded, the green paint peeling back like sunburned skin to reveal the gray, weathered wood beneath. Fitting. Nothing in this town stays shiny for long. The mountains don't allow it. They grind everything down to its essential, raw core—people included.

My grip on the steering wheel of my rental sedan tightens until the blood drains from my hands.

I don’t belong here anymore. I made sure of that ten years ago when I packed a single duffel bag and ran from the smoke, the shouting, and the blood soaking into the gravel of the clubhouse lot.

I ran until my lungs burned and the skyline changed from jagged peaks to flat, suffocating city concrete.

But the Wade estate doesn't care about the smoke in my lungs. It sits on the edge of town, a rotting Victorian monolith my great-aunt left to me out of spite, knowing I’d have to come back to deal with it.

"Just sell it," James, the local attorney, told me over the phone yesterday.

His voice had been clipped, professional, but laced with a warning I couldn't ignore.

"The market is picking up. People from the city want vacation homes. But Courtney... be quick. The atmosphere here has shifted. The Gunnars are aggressive, and there’s tension with the families up on the eastern cliffs.

You don't want to get caught in the crossfire again. "

The Gunnars.

The name hits my stomach like a shot of bad whiskey—burning, heavy, and sickening.

I turn the car off the main paved road and onto the long, winding gravel driveway leading to the house.

The tires crunch loudly, a sound that echoes too far in the silence of the pines.

This is the Grizzly Peak District. It’s wilder here.

The air is thinner, sharper. It smells of resin, damp earth, and impending storms.

As the house comes into view, I let out a breath that rattles in my chest. It’s worse than I thought. The wrap-around porch sags on the left side, choked by ivy that looks more like a stranglehold than decoration. The windows serve as dark eyes staring back at me, judging me for leaving.

I kill the engine. The silence that follows is absolute. No city sirens, no hum of traffic. Just the wind moving through millions of pine needles, a sound like a collective hush.

I step out, my boots sinking slightly into the soft, neglected ground.

I’m not the scrawny, terrified eighteen-year-old girl who left.

I’m twenty-eight. I have a career in Chicago.

I have a life. I have curves that I’ve learned to dress, filling out a pair of dark denim jeans and a fitted black sweater that hugs the slope of my chest. I’m a woman grown.

So why do I feel like prey?

I walk to the trunk and pop it, dragging out my suitcase. I need to assess the damage, meet the contractor tomorrow, sign the papers with James, and get out. Three days. I can survive three days.

I’m halfway up the creaking stairs of the porch when the sound starts.

It’s low at first, a vibration in the soles of my feet rather than a noise. Then it grows, a guttural, mechanical roar that tears through the serenity of the forest. I freeze, my hand hovering over the rusty doorknob.

I know that sound. My body knows it before my brain even processes the frequency. It’s the specific, thumping cadence of a Harley Davidson modified for mountain roads. A heavy cam, a deep idle.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Ignore it. It’s a public road nearby. It’s just a biker.

But the roar doesn't fade. It gets louder, closer, turning down the long driveway I just traveled.

I turn slowly, my pulse thumping in my throat.

A black beast of a machine rounds the bend, kicking up dust and gravel. The rider is a dark silhouette against the backdrop of green and gray. He’s massive, broad enough to block out the sun, hunched forward over the handlebars with an ease that speaks of thousands of miles in the saddle.

He doesn't slow down cautiously. He rides aggressively, leaning the bike deep into the final turn before straightening out and bringing it to a halt right behind my rental car. The engine cuts, but the silence doesn't return. The air is charged now, thick with exhaust fumes and testosterone.

The rider kicks the kickstand down with a heavy boot.

He swings a leg over, dismounting with a fluid, predatory grace that contradicts his sheer size.

He’s wearing the cut—the leather vest that haunted my nightmares for a decade.

The patch on the back is visible as he turns: the winged skull of the Broken Halos MC.

He reaches up and pulls off his black helmet.

The world tilts on its axis.

It’s him.

Austin Gunnar.

Ten years ago, he was the boy who taught me how to skip stones in the creek, the boy who held my hand when I cried over my parents' divorce, the boy who looked at me with soft eyes while the rest of the world looked at me with pity.

The man standing twenty feet away is not a boy.

He is a fortress of muscle and ink. His shoulders are terrifyingly broad, straining the seams of a black t-shirt worn under his leather cut.

His jaw is square, covered in rough, dark stubble that highlights the hardness of his face.

His hair is dark, wind-blown, falling over his forehead in a chaotic way that makes my fingers itch to push it back.

But his eyes paralyze me. They are the same stormy gray I remember, but the softness is gone. In its place is a cold, burning intensity that feels like a physical weight pressing against my skin.

"Courtney."

His voice is gravel and smoke, deeper than I remember. It vibrates in the air between us, resonating in the hollow of my womb.

"Austin," I manage to whisper, though I doubt he hears it. I clear my throat, trying to summon the Chicago professional, the woman who negotiates contracts and stares down CEOs. "I didn't know you were... patrolling this far out."

He walks toward me. He doesn't rush. He moves with the inevitable, crushing pace of a landslide. His boots thud heavy on the dirt, then strike the wood of the bottom step.

"I’m not patrolling," he says, stopping at the base of the stairs. Because I’m two steps up, we are almost eye level, but he still feels like he’s towering over me. "I’m welcoming the neighbors."

"I’m not a neighbor," I say. My voice betrays me, thin and strained.

I smell him—leather, hot engine oil, pine, and a musk that is entirely, uniquely male.

It triggers a flood of memories and a sudden, sharp spike of heat low in my belly that I haven't felt in years. "I’m just here to sell the place. I’ll be gone in three days. "

Austin’s eyes drop. He scans me, slowly, deliberately.

He starts at my boots, moves up the denim clinging to my thighs, lingers on the curve of my hips—wide, soft, demanding to be held—and then travels up to my chest. His gaze feels like a touch, hot and branding.

My nipples harden instantly against the lace of my bra, an automatic reaction that makes my breath hitch.

When his eyes finally meet mine again, they are darker. Dilated.

"Three days," he repeats, the words rolling around his mouth like he’s tasting them. "You think you can undo a hundred years of rot in three days?"

"I have a contractor coming," I say, clutching the handle of my suitcase tighter. "It’s a hot market. It’ll sell as is."

"Not if the roof leaks," he says. "Not if the foundation is cracked. Not if the local MC decides they don't want strangers moving in next door."

My spine stiffens. "Is that a threat, Austin?"

He bares his teeth in a wolf's grin. "No, Court. That’s a zoning issue."

He takes another step up. He’s in my personal space now.

Too close. I should step back, retreat to the safety of the rotting porch, but my feet are nailed to the wood.

My body wants him closer. It recognizes him in a way my mind refuses to accept.

It remembers the way he used to look at me when we were eighteen, right before everything went to hell.

"You look..." He pauses, searching for the word. His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to reach out. "Different."

"I grew up."

"You filled out," he corrects, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a rough purr. "You were always skinny. All elbows and knees. Now..." His gaze drops to my hips again, heavy and starving. "Now you look like you were made for trouble."

"I don't want trouble, Austin. I just want to sell the house."

"You left without saying goodbye." The playfulness vanishes, replaced by a jagged edge of old hurt and simmering anger. "Ten years, Courtney. Not a call. Not a letter. Just dust."

Acid burns my throat. "I couldn't stay. You know what happened. I couldn't be part of that life."

"My life," he says. He taps the patch on his chest, the Vice President patch clearly visible. "You couldn't be part of me."

"I was eighteen. I was scared."

"And now?" He steps up again, crowding me against the railing.

I feel the heat radiating off his chest. He places a hand on the wooden post beside my head, effectively boxing me in.

His arm is thick, corded with muscle, tattooed with black ink that disappears up his sleeve. "Are you scared now, Courtney?"

I look up at him, my heart thumping so hard it hurts. "Yes."

"Good." He leans in, his face inches from mine. I can see the flecks of gold in his gray eyes, the tiny scar above his lip. "Fear keeps you sharp. The mountains eat the careless."

"Why are you here, Austin?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "Did you follow me?"

"I saw you turn off Main Street," he says, his tone unapologetic. "I knew you were coming back. James told the club the estate was being liquidated. I’ve been waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"To see if you’d bring him," he says, his jaw tightening.

"Him?"

"The husband. The boyfriend. Whatever city trash you picked up to replace us."