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Clay

“Let’s fucking do this,” I roar, my body and mind alive to the darkness around me. “Wolves! Wolves! Wolves Forever!”

The night air bites at my face as I gun my Harley down the winding backroads, the engine’s growl a steady pulse beneath me.

The Wolf Riders MC ride tight in formation behind me, a pack of shadows tearing through the dark, our headlights slicing the black like knives.

We’re rolling back from the city, fresh off a brawl with the Iron Vipers—a rival gang stupid enough to think they could muscle in on our territory.

It was a brutal fight, the kind that leaves your knuckles raw and your blood singing. Fists cracked against jaws, boots slammed into ribs, and the alley behind that shitty bar turned into a war zone.

Rusty took a nasty hit to the face—his lip’s split, and one eye’s swelling shut. Jace is worse off, clutching his side where a Viper steel-toed boot caught him, probably cracking a rib.

But we walked away, and they didn’t.

That’s what matters.

The Wolf Riders don’t lose.

No man, no gang, nothing crosses us and expects to get away clean. It’s a code we live by, one I’ve etched into my bones over years of loyalty and blood.

I’m out front, leading the pack, no helmet—just the wind tearing through my chestnut brown hair, streaked with blond from too many days riding under the sun.

It’s reckless, and I know it.

One wrong move, one patch of gravel, and I’d be done. But out here, with the road unspooling ahead of me like a promise, I don’t give a damn.

The cool April night air stings my skin, whips my eyes into a squint, and I lean into it, letting it strip away the city’s grime.

This is freedom—real freedom, the kind I swore I’d never lose again.

Prison took three years of my life, locked me in a cage of concrete and steel, where every breath tasted like rust and regret. I got out two years ago, and every second since has been about this: the open road, the hum of my bike, the wild rush that reminds me I’m alive.

I’ll never go back.

I might skirt the law, running with the Riders, dealing in the gray edges of right and wrong, but I know how to play the game.

Keep your nose clean when the badges are watching, your brothers close when they’re not, and your wits sharp always. That’s how you stay free…

The pack’s loud tonight, engines roaring as we hit the outskirts of Willow Creek.

The pines loom tall on either side, their shadows dancing in our lights, and the air smells of sap and damp earth. We’re a sight—ten bikes strong, leather and chrome gleaming, a rolling thunder that makes the town folk peek out their curtains and lock their doors.

The Wolf Riders MC isn’t just a club; it’s a legend around here, one we’ve built on grit, fists, and sometimes guns too.

Tonight’s victory only sharpens that edge. But as we near the split, the group starts to fracture.

Half peel off toward the clubhouse—a low, brick bunker tucked against the woods where the beer’s cold, the jukebox blares, and the party’s already starting.

I hear Rusty whoop as he veers right, probably eager to drown his pain in whiskey.

The others—Jace included—turn left toward home, ready to crash and lick their wounds.

I don’t signal, don’t wave. I just keep riding, the road pulling me forward like it’s got a mind of its own.

I’m not ready to stop. Not for the chaos of the clubhouse, where the boys will rehash the fight over bottles and smokes, or the silence of my trailer, where the walls close in too tight.

I need this—the solitude of the ride, the way it clears my head. I’ve always been like that, even back when I was a kid tearing around on a beat-up dirt bike.

The Wolf Riders are my family, my blood, but I crave my own space too.

Out here, it’s just me and the machine, the wind howling past, the world reduced to a blur of asphalt and stars.

It’s the only time the noise in my head quiets down—the memories of cell blocks, the clang of bars, the weight of choices I can’t unmake.

I push the bike harder, the speedometer creeping up, the vibration rattling through my chest. My hands grip the bars, knuckles still tender from the Vipers’ faces, a dull ache I ignore.

The road curves sharp, and I lean into it, tires hugging the pavement, my pulse syncing with the engine’s growl. This is my church, my sanctuary. Every mile I put between me and that prison cell is a prayer I’ll never have to say again.

I’ve done things—bad things, necessary things—to keep the Riders strong, to keep myself out of cuffs. I don’t regret them. Regret is for suckers who don’t know how to live with their scars.

The diner’s neon sign flickers into view, a pink-and-blue glow cutting through the dark.

It’s my spot, always has been.

Back when I was sixteen, I’d sneak out with a pocketful of change, sit at the counter with a Coke and fries, and dream of a life bigger than this town. Now it’s where I go when the world gets too loud, when I need to breathe.

I pull into the lot, gravel crunching under my tires, and kill the engine.

The silence hits hard, a sudden void after the roar, but it’s welcome.

I swing my leg over the bike, boots kicking up dust, and stretch my arms high, working out the stiffness from the ride.

My jacket creaks, leather worn soft from years of wear, and I roll my shoulders, feeling the pull of bruises I’ll find tomorrow.

Coffee. That’s all I want—black, hot, and strong enough to chase off the night.

I push through the door, the bell jingling overhead, and step into the diner’s warm glow. The place is quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the faint twang of a jukebox playing some old Fleetwood Mac tune.

Jenny’s behind the counter, wiping it down, and she perks up when she sees me. “Hey, Clay,” she says, voice all nerves, cheeks going pink. “Usual?”

“Yeah,” I grunt, but my eyes sweep the room out of habit—and then they stop dead.

Dylan…

It can’t be.

Except it definitely is…

He’s there, in a booth by the window, his dark hair catching the light like it’s got a life of its own.

“What the…”

For a second, I think I’m seeing things, a trick of the late hour and too much adrenaline. But then he turns his head, just enough for me to catch those hazel eyes, and my gut twists hard.

It’s him. There’s no mistaking him. Not now, and not ever.

He’s gorgeous—sexier than I remember, and I remember plenty. The years have sharpened his edges, filled out his frame in ways that make my mouth go dry.

The boy’s got a confidence now, a quiet strength that hits me like a punch. But it’s more than that.

It’s Dylan . My Dylan. The boy who owned me, body and soul, seven years ago when I was twenty-one and reckless, and he was nineteen and fearless.

Dylan was the first to call me Daddy.

We worked through it together. We got each other in a way that’s so hard to find. Fuck, I haven’t come close to finding it since before prison.

We had a year together—a wild, perfect year of late-night rides, his arms tight around my waist, his laughter in my ear as we tore through the backroads.

Kisses under the stars, promises I meant to keep. he was the love of my life, the one good thing I had before it all went to shit. Before I got locked up, and I cut him off cold.

No letters, no calls, nothing.

I couldn’t let him waste his days on a guy doing time for damn near killing someone in a bar fight gone wrong.

When I got out, he was gone—off to the city, they said—and I took it as a sign. He’d moved on. I had to try and do that too.

But now he’s here, back in Willow Creek, sitting ten feet away like the universe is laughing at me.

Jenny’s fumbling with the coffee pot, muttering something, but I don’t hear her. Dylan’s staring back now, his lips parted, eyes wide with the same shock I feel.

His friend leans in, whispering, but I don’t catch it. The diner shrinks, the walls falling away until it’s just us, the air thick with seven years of silence.

I don’t think. I move. My boots thud against the linoleum, each step heavier, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Dylan doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch, just watches me close the distance.

Up close, he’s even more beautiful—those hazel eyes searching mine, a flush creeping up his neck, his hair longer now, longer than it used to be anyway.

I want to touch it, see if it’s still as soft as it was when I’d tangle my fingers in it, pulling him close.

The boy’s friend clears his throat, loud and awkward. “Uh, I’m just gonna… bathroom. Yeah.” he slides out of the booth, shooting Dylan a look—worry, maybe?—and bolts toward the back. Smart move.

I don’t ask—just drop into the seat across from Dylan, the vinyl creaking under me.

Dylan’s still staring, and I’m staring back, and it feels like forever stretches out between us.

His coffee’s cold, untouched, his fingers gripping the mug like it’s a lifeline. I get it. I feel it too, like the ground’s shifted under me.

“Dylan,” I say, my voice rough, scraped raw from the road and the years. It’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud since I got out, and it burns going down, a shot of something strong and bitter.

“Clay,” he answers, soft but steady. His eyes flick over me—my jacket, my hair, the faint bruise on my jaw—and I wonder what he sees. The kid he loved? Or the man I’ve turned into?

I lean forward, elbows on the table, and the words spill out, heavy and sure. “We’ve got some talking to do. Some serious talking.”

Dylan doesn’t reply right away, just holds my gaze, and I see it—the storm behind his eyes, questions and hurt and maybe something else, something that still pulls at me.

I don’t deserve to ask for anything, not after I walked away, left him to deal with the wreckage.

But he’s here, real and close, and I can’t walk away again.

Not this time…