“You don’t have to do this,” I said to my brother. “You know that, right?”

We were standing in the paved yard behind Riggs Auto, a big space bordered by a ratty chain link fence. There were cars here—cars we were working on, cars that didn’t run, cars we’d poached for spare parts. There were piles of parts and, like the rest of the place, it stunk of motor oil and tires, spiced with the chemical tang of body paint. I hoped to God that when I died, I did it with that godawful smell in my nose.

My brother Luke shrugged. “I didn’t do much. A guy came in and said he inherited this car when his dad died. He didn’t want it. I gave him five hundred bucks. It’s yours.”

I stared at the car between us. It was a Ford Thunderbird, and since my brothers and I knew cars by kindergarten, I knew its distinctive shape: boxy nose, body low to the ground, aluminum wheels, metal trim. It had late 80’s written all over it. “The ‘89 model?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Luke said. He was wearing his garage coveralls, like me, though he’d unzipped the top and let it hang, showing his black tee. He was a good-looking piece of shit, my brother Luke. Black hair and dark eyes and muscles and all that stuff. He’d never cleaned up like our brother Ryan—Luke was a bit more reserved with women. Or so we all thought. It turned out that he’d secretly had a relationship with Emily Parker, the cop’s daughter, when they were eighteen, and he’d never gotten over her in the years since.

Luke had left town for a while, and so had Emily. Now they were both back, and they’d decided they didn’t give a shit what people thought of them being together anymore. Emily lived in the main house with Luke, and had for months now. They were nuts about each other. They tried to be nice about it in public, but it still managed to be annoying as hell.

“Does it run?” I asked Luke as he tossed me the keys over the hood.

“It does,” Luke said, “and there’s a V6 in there. But it needs a lot of work first. You have your work cut out for you.”

Work, I could do. It wasn’t a very attractive car—it looked dated—and it was an ugly old-school gray, but I squeezed the keys hard in my hand and tried to look cool about it. I had a car—my own car. I hadn’t had one since I’d sold my last one to pay my lawyer’s bill when I went to prison because no one needs a car in prison.

“Thanks, man,” I said to Luke, trying not to sound like I was emotional or anything.

He shrugged. “It bothered me, seeing you without a car. A Riggs without a car is like a Riggs without a dick.”

“I have a dick.”

“You do now.” He gave me half a grin. “I’m going home to Emily, and if I’m lucky I’ll get to use mine. See you later.”

I watched him go. He’d get lucky, of course. Now that they were back together, he and Emily were barely able to stay off each other. I never went to the main house, especially unannounced, in case I saw something I couldn’t unsee.

My brothers and I weren’t close growing up, even though we lived in the same house. That was Dad’s fault. He didn’t so much raise us as let us through the door every once in a while when it was cold out, like dogs. It was every man for himself in the Riggs house, and Dex, Ryan, Luke, and I grew up mostly fending for ourselves. Dex had been a cop for a while before he burned out of the job. Ryan had been a baseball player on his way up until his bad shoulder and shitty attitude put a stop to his career. They were both in Detroit, as pissed off as ever.

But Luke had changed. After his years away, driving around the country from place to place, he was back in Westlake for good. He was fixing up the house and rebuilding Riggs Auto with me. It had to do with Emily, and it wasn’t just about the fact that Luke was getting laid. It was about the fact that he’d found the person who made him want to do all that shit. The woman he was building a life for. The woman who was doing the same for him.

And that made me think of the crazy, disastrous counseling session I’d had three days ago. I’d fucked that up. The first attractive, sober woman I’d talked to since getting out, and I’d made a complete mess of it.

Tara Montgomery. That was the name on the nameplate on her desk. She’d riled me up, she’d made me mad, and she’d made me very fucking horny. She’d done it just by sitting behind a desk and asking me a few questions—a quietly beautiful woman with long brown hair tied at the back of her neck, deep brown eyes under arched brows, an expressive mouth, a slender build, no wedding ring. I should have seen her as just another faceless professional, but something about her said sex to me. It had been all I could do not to lean over the desk and explore that mouth myself, see if it tasted as good as it looked.

Sure, I could make jokes about it. I had just got out of prison, my balls were neon blue, and just about anything that breathed would look good to me. That was the joke, right? But it wasn’t that. It was her. I’d walked away from the women at Patrick’s party without a second thought, but Tara Montgomery—with her bullshit questions and her steely vulnerability and her ridiculous desire to help me—made me want to lick the skin of her elegant neck and listen to her moan.

I’d felt like an animal. So of course I’d acted like an asshole.

I felt bad about it now. She really had been trying to help, though I was sure she was also digging for details about my sex life. I’m a jerk, but I’m not stupid. Her interest in me wasn’t entirely professional—which had only added gasoline to the flames of that crazy session.

The truth interests me, she’d said. But she didn’t know the truth about me. That much, I was sure of.

I scrubbed a hand over my face. I should go back for another session, try again. Act like a rational man this time. Apologize. Hell, maybe even get some help. I had to get her stamp of approval to get the system off my back, anyway—I had to convince her I was adjusting to civilian life. I hadn’t done a very good job of that by pissing her off and practically coming on her.

I’d see her one more time, and then it would be over. I’d never see her again, and that was for the best. Because even if she felt the same way I did, a woman like that would never have the time of day for a man like me. Not in real life.

I went into the shop to get my tools. In the meantime, I had a car to work on.