Vicky Vance
Vicky Vance had been born with an attitude problem—or so everyone told her. She simply preferred to call it standards. From the moment she could walk, Vicky had a talent for doing exactly what she wanted, saying exactly what she thought, and making trouble look effortlessly stylish. By the time she was old enough to ride, she had traded in four wheels for a roaring Harley-Davidson and became a familiar sight wherever the roads ran long and the jukeboxes played loud. Leather jacket, dark sunglasses, boots, and that unmistakable half-smirk—Vicky didn't need to announce herself. She would walk into a room, and somehow the room would become cooler.
But beneath the swagger was a woman who had earned every ounce of her confidence. Vicky had spent years being underestimated, dismissed, and told to stay out of trouble—usually by people who had never managed to get themselves out of trouble without her help. She learned to fight when she had to, stand her ground when it mattered, and never back down simply because someone expected her to. These days, Vicky rides wherever the road takes her, stopping only for gas, good music, and the occasional fool arrogant enough to think the beautiful woman in the leather jacket is an easy target. They usually learn otherwise.