“Hey!” Penny called out, stopping him in his tracks. “Why don’t I know about this plan?”

“A guy’s got to have his secrets.” Quincy chuckled as he headed outside.

He straddled his motorcycle and rode to his apartment above Whiskey Automotive on the outskirts of town. As he turned down the long driveway, the sight of the four-bay garage brought a rush of mixed emotions. The painful clench of his gut and the swelling of his heart battled for dominance. Quincy chose to endure the familiar reality check on a daily basis rather than find another place to live.

There had been a time when he had lived through so many low points, he’d thought he was the only person on earth without a rock bottom to hit. But two years ago on Halloween night, he’d finally slammed into it. He had been severely beaten by a drug dealer and had collapsed unconscious on the lawn of the auto shop, where his brother, Truman, nine years his senior, had been working and living in the apartment Quincy now rented. Truman had spent six years in prison for a murder Quincy had committed and had gotten out only a few months before that night, when for the millionth time—and hopefully for the last—Truman had come to Quincy’s rescue. He’d gotten Quincy the medical attention he’d needed and had convinced him to go to rehab.

Quincy climbed off his bike and spotted Truman standing in one of the bays wiping his hands on a rag. He was talking with Bear Whiskey and his sister, Dixie. The Whiskeys—Biggs and Red and their adult children, Bones, Bullet, Bear, and Dixie—were like family to Quincy. Bear was a part-time mechanic at the auto shop and a talented motorcycle designer for Silver-Stone Cycles, Dixie’s husband Jace’s company. Dixie managed the auto shop and the bar, and she was also the face of Silver-Stone’s new Leather and Lace brand of women’s clothing.

Truman lifted his chin in greeting as Quincy sauntered into the bay.

Dixie flipped her long red hair over her shoulder and said, “Hey, Quincy.”

“Hi, Miss January,” Quincy said with a chuckle.

Dixie glowered at him. She was tall, tattooed, and gorgeous, and she graced the pages of next year’s Silver-Stone calendar. She was also a badass who took no shit from anyone, which was what made teasing her so much fun.

“I’m breaking into your apartment and burning that calendar,” she hissed.

“Go right ahead. I’ve got three more,” Quincy said, though it was a lie. He didn’t even own one. He’d bought a handful of calendars to support her, but he’d given them out to the guys he worked with at the bookstore.

“Dude, that’s my sister you’re plastering on your walls,” Bear snapped.

“Jealous?” Quincy teased. “Put your ugly mug on a calendar, and I’ll hang that up, too.”

“I’m glad you’re here, bro,” Truman said. His biceps strained against the sleeves of his shirt, blue ink covering his skin from knuckles to neck. His deep-set eyes had become less haunted in the years since Quincy’s stint in rehab, but they still held the prison-power to instill fear in the strongest of men with a single stare. His thick dark hair and beard added to his intimidating appearance, but Truman was the kindest man Quincy knew.