Page 4

Clay

“Yeah!” I holler, casting my eyes around, feeling the blood course over my body. “Wolves! Wolves! Wolves!”

The clubhouse is alive tonight, a chaotic swirl of laughter, clinking bottles, and the sharp crack of pool balls slamming into each other.

The Wolf Riders MC are in high spirits, still riding the adrenaline from last night’s dust-up with the Iron Vipers. The air’s thick with cigarette smoke and the tang of spilled whiskey, the jukebox pumping out some gritty AC/DC track that rattles the walls.

I lean against the edge of the pool table, a beer in one hand, my cue in the other, watching Rusty line up a shot…

He’s half-drunk already, his busted lip twisting into a grin as he sinks the eight ball and crows like he’s just won the damn lottery.

“Pay up, Jace!” Rusty hollers, slapping the table.

Jace, still feeling his cracked rib, groans and digs into his pocket, tossing a crumpled twenty Rusty’s way. The room erupts in cheers and jeers, a wild edge to it all that’s pure Wolf Riders—raw, loud, and unapologetic.

I take a swig of my beer, the cold bite of it cutting through the heat of the room.

This is my world—has been since I patched in at nineteen, before everything went sideways.

The clubhouse is a squat brick bunker on the edge of Willow Creek, patched up with duct tape and grit, but it’s home.

The bar’s stocked with cheap liquor, the pool table’s scratched to hell, and the couches sag under the weight of too many nights like this.

My brothers are scattered around—some arm-wrestling in the corner, others sprawled out with beers, a couple of the prospects flirting with the boys who always show up when the party’s rolling. It’s fun, messy, the kind of night that makes you forget the bruises and the blood.

Kreese sidles up beside me, his shaved head gleaming under the flickering lights, a whiskey neat in his hand.

Without doubt my best buddy, my right hand, Kreese is the guy who’s had my back since we were kids boosting candy from the corner store.

He’s got a scar running down his cheek from a bar fight years back, and tonight his grin’s wide, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Good haul last night, huh?” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Vipers won’t be sniffing around again anytime soon.”

“Yeah,” I grunt, chalking my cue. “They’ll lick their wounds and come crawling back eventually. Always do.”

Kreese laughs, a rough bark, and leans in closer, voice dropping. “Got something else for us. Word is, there’s a truck rolling through town tomorrow night—unmarked, coming up from the city. Loaded with electronics, high-end shit. Easy pickings if we hit it right.”

I raise an eyebrow, setting my beer down on the table’s edge. “You sure?”

“Damn sure,” Kreese says, swirling his whiskey. “Driver’s a rookie, no escort. We jack it, strip it, sell it off before anyone knows it’s gone. Clean profit. We’re talking real fucking money here.”

I nod, running it through my head.

It’s risky—always is—but the Riders thrive on that edge.

A score like this could keep us flush for months, pay for repairs, maybe even get Jace that new bike he’s been bitching about.

“Set it up,” I tell Kreese. “Get the boys ready. We hit it fast, quiet. No fuck-ups.”

Kreese grins wider, saluting me with his glass. “On it, boss.”

My right hand man saunters off to round up the crew, and I take my shot, sinking a striped ball into the corner pocket. The game keeps going, the night stretching on with more drinks, more noise, but my head’s starting to drift.

I lean back against the wall, beer dangling from my fingers, watching the chaos unfold. Rusty’s dancing with some redhead now, spilling beer down his shirt, and Jace is arguing with a prospect over who gets the next shot.

It’s good—wild and free, the way we like it—but there’s a pull in my chest I can’t shake…

Dylan .

That boy’s been in my head since the diner, since that kiss that lit me up like a damn firework. I can still feel his lips on mine, soft and fierce, the way he grabbed my jacket like he didn’t want to let go.

Seven years, and he’s still got me twisted up…

I cut him off back then to protect him—didn’t want him tied to a convict, wasting his life on visits and letters. But seeing him last night, all grown up and gorgeous, flipped a switch I didn’t know was still there.

Dylan’s back in Willow Creek, back in my orbit, and I can’t stop thinking about him. The way his eyes flashed with anger, the spark when I touched his hand—it’s eating at me.

I need to see him again, sooner rather than later.

Not tomorrow, not next week…

Now.

The thought gnaws at me through the rest of the night, even as the party winds down and the boys stumble out or crash on the couches. I head to my trailer eventually, crash hard, but he’s there in my dreams—his laugh, his touch, the way he used to look at me like I was his whole world.

Morning comes fast, the sun slicing through the blinds too damn early. I’m up, though, adrenaline buzzing under my skin. I throw on my jeans, a black tee, my leather jacket, and I’m out the door, the Harley rumbling to life beneath me.

The ride into town is quick, the cool air waking me up, the road stretching out like an old friend. I don’t know what I’m doing, not really—just following the pull.

The diner’s my first stop, same as always, and I pull into the lot just as a beat-up blue Toyota rolls in from the other side.

Dylan steps out, and my heart kicks hard. The boy is in jeans and a faded green t-shirt, his dark hair loose and catching the light, and he looks like he belongs here—soft against the hard edges of this town.

He freezes when he sees me, those hazel eyes locking on mine, and I swing off the bike, boots hitting the gravel with a crunch.

“Hey,” I say, walking toward him, hands shoved in my pockets to keep from reaching out. “You, uh, grabbing breakfast?”

Dylan blinks, then nods, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah. Just a coffee, maybe a muffin. You?”

“Same.” I hesitate, then take the plunge. “Wanna eat together ?”

His smile grows, just a little, but it’s enough to make my chest tighten. “Sure.”

We head inside, the bell jingling behind us, and grab a booth near the back. Jenny’s there, smirking like she’s got a front-row seat to a soap opera, but she takes our order—coffee and a blueberry muffin for him, coffee and eggs for me—and leaves us be.

Dylan’s across from me, stirring sugar into his cup, and I can’t stop watching him. The way his fingers move, the curve of his neck, the way he glances up at me through his lashes.

The spark’s still there, electric and undeniable, humming between us like it never left.

“So,” Dylan says, breaking the silence, his voice soft but steady. “You’re back in town for good?”

“Yeah,” I reply, leaning back, trying to play it cool even though my pulse is racing. “Been out two years now. The Wolf Riders keep me here. You?”

“Three months,” he says, sipping his coffee. “Left the city. Needed a change.”

I nod, and we fall into an easy rhythm—small talk about the town, the weather, nothing heavy. But under it, there’s more. Every look, every brush of his hand against the table, sets me off. He’s beautiful—more than that, he’s Dylan , the boy I’d kill to protect, the one I let slip away.

I know one thing to be true. Our kiss wasn’t a fluke.

It was a fuse lighting up something I’ve buried too long…

I want him. Bad. Not just his body—though Christ, the thought of him under me, all that heat and softness, is enough to drive me crazy—but him. All of him.

The laugh he used to let out when we’d ride too fast, the way he’d call me out when I was being an ass, the quiet moments when it was just us against the world.

I fucked it up once, cutting him off, thinking it was noble. But he’s here now, close enough to touch, and I’m not letting him go again without a fight.

Our food comes, and we eat, the conversation flowing, but my mind’s racing ahead. I need to tell him—about prison, about why I did what I did, about how he’s still the only thing that’s ever made sense.

Not here, though.

Not with Jenny eavesdropping and the morning crowd trickling in.

Soon though.

Dylan finishes his muffin, wipes his hands, and looks at me, that spark flaring in his eyes. “This was nice,” he says, and I hear the unspoken question—what now?

“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “It was.”

I want him. And I’m damn sure he feels it too.

But one of us is going to need to make the next move. And make it soon…