When Diesel returned with the supplies and water, Biggs had already moved and rummaged through five boxes. The ornery bastard. Diesel set up the chair by a coffee table, so Biggs wouldn’t have to stand as he rifled through boxes. An hour later, Diesel had cleared a path to the shelves, and they’d worked their way through, marked, and shelved a number of boxes, organizing by club business or member.

Diesel tore open another box, as Biggs said, “We just struck gold. Grab a chair, and get over here, D. I’ll show you some pictures of me and Tiny back in the day.”

Diesel pushed to his feet, set a chair backward beside Biggs, and straddled it.

Biggs was holding a handful of old photographs. The top picture was taken outside of Whiskey Bro’s. There were a bunch of guys wearing black leather jackets and vests, jeans, boots, and serious expressions. A few stood on the porch, slouched against the building, cigarettes hanging from their lips; others were leaning over the railing. Most had longer hair and scruffy beards, a sign of the times. There was no mistaking Biggs sitting on the third step, elbows resting on his knees, skull rings on three fingers, his keen eyes and gritty attitude as tangible as the picture itself. His thick hair and beard were dark as night, his young, powerful arms snaked with bright, not-yet-weathered ink. Tiny was also easily recognizable, not just for his size, but for that relaxed mask he wore so well. The man could look lost in thought, and in the space of a second he’d become as lethal as venom. He was sitting on a chopper motorcycle in front of the bar, looking at the camera. His bushy hair and beard were a shade lighter than Biggs’s. A red bandanna was tied around his forehead, his posture was rounded, and his arms inked.

“That’s you on the steps, right? And Tiny on the chopper?”

“Yup, and that’s Bud leaning on the railing with the sunglasses, mustache, and ridiculous-looking fiddler cap.”

Diesel chuckled. “He looks like a porn star. You look damn good, Biggs. You must’ve been younger than me in that picture.”

“A few years. Late twenties. Tiny was living in Colorado then. He came into town for a rally on that chopper. He loves that damn thing.”

“He still won’t let Dare near it,” Diesel said.

“I wouldn’t, either. I love my nephew, but he does some scary shit. He’d probably build a ramp and try to jump over a truck on the damn thing.”

“You’re not wrong.” Dare had always been a thrill seeker. But he’d taken it to new, terrifying levels ever since the death of his lifelong friend, who had been engaged to their other best friend—leaving her a shell of the woman she’d once been and leaving Dare to test the fates every chance he got.