Page 6

Clay

The Harley’s engine growls low as I ease to a stop outside Dylan’s cottage, the gravel crunching under my tires and the feeling of handling such a powerful steed never growing old.

The forest ride still burns through me—Dylan’s hands gripping my waist, his lips hot against mine, the way he surrendered to the heat between us like no time had passed.

I kill the engine, the sudden quiet ringing in my ears, and he slides off the bike, his legs wobbling just a touch as he steadies himself. His dark hair’s tangled from the wind, his cheeks pink with that post-ride glow, and those hazel eyes catch mine with a spark that hits me square in the chest.

Dylan’s gorgeous—always has been—but right now, he’s something more, something raw and untamed that I can’t tear my eyes from.

The boy steps closer, his fingers brushing my arm, and I lean down, drawn in like a moth to a flame.

Our lips meet, soft and slow, a kiss that’s less about fire and more about feeling—a quiet ache that lingers as he pulls back.

Dylan’s smile is small, almost shy, and it twists me up inside.

He turns toward his house, hips swaying just enough to make my throat tighten, and I watch him go, the screen door creaking as he steps inside.

I grip the handlebars hard, fighting the urge to chase him, to kick that door open and lose myself in him again.

But I don’t.

Not yet…

Dylan. Christ, I want him more than ever.

More than I did at twenty-one, when I was young and dumb and thought I could give him everything.

Prison stole three years from me—locked me in a box, cut me off from the sun, from him—but he’s still the same boy I loved.

The one who’d tease me over burnt toast in my shitty trailer kitchen, who’d climb on my bike with a grin and no questions, who’d curl up against me under the stars like I was his safe place.

I’d never try and say that time didn’t change people. It does its thing to us all.

Dylan’s different now, sure—settled, law-abiding, chasing a quieter life with his writing—but the magic’s still there, alive and electric, crackling between us like a live wire. I felt it in the forest, in that kiss just now, in every damn second he’s near me…

He might not fit my world on paper, but he fits me , and that’s what’s got me hooked.

The door shuts behind him, snapping me out of my thoughts, and I rev the engine hard, the roar shattering the stillness. I peel out, the wind slamming into me as I tear down the road, needing the rush to clear my head.

The town fades fast—little houses with peeling paint, the gas station where Tommy Grayson still pumps fuel like a creep, the river glinting silver under the midday sun.

I take the long way, veering onto the backroads where the pines crowd in tight, their shadows flickering over me. The bike’s a beast under my hands, all power and growl, and I push it harder, the speed bleeding off the edge of my want.

My knuckles ache from the ride, still tender from the Vipers fight, but I don’t care.

Out here, it’s just me and the road, the one place I can breathe, where the weight of everything—prison, the club, Dylan—doesn’t crush me.

By the time I roll up to the clubhouse, my head’s clearer, but Dylan’s still there, a ghost in the back of my mind.

The lot’s packed with bikes, chrome gleaming in the sun, and the faint thump of music seeps through the brick walls. I swing off the Harley, boots kicking up dust, and head inside, the door banging shut behind me.

The place is a madhouse—Wolf Riders in full swing, the air thick with cigarette smoke, whiskey fumes, and the sharp crack of pool balls. Rusty’s at the table, half-drunk, his busted lip twisted in a grin as he sinks a shot and crows like a rooster.

Jace, still nursing his cracked rib, tosses a crumpled twenty his way, cursing loud enough to draw laughs from the bar.

Kreese spots me as I step in, his shaved head catching the dim light, a beer in one hand and that scarred grin splitting his face. “There he is!” he calls, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to jostle me. “Thought you’d gone soft, disappearing all morning. Where you been, man?”

“Out,” I say, shrugging off my jacket and tossing it over a chair. “Needed a ride.”

He snorts, not pressing, and jerks his head toward the back room. “Come on, got something for you.”

I follow, weaving through the chaos—Rusty’s arm-wrestling a prospect now, biceps bulging, while Jace flirts with a brunette in a tight t-shirt and even tighter shorts, his laugh cutting through the noise.

The bar’s a mess of empty bottles and ash trays, the jukebox blasting some old Metallica track that shakes the floor.

It’s wild, alive, the kind of night that makes you forget the bruises and the blood.

The back room’s a stark contrast—quiet, just a scarred table, a few chairs, and walls covered in faded ride maps and a couple of bullet holes we never bothered to fix.

“So, talk…” I say, expectantly.

Kreese shuts the door, leaning against it as he pulls a crumpled paper from his pocket.

“Truck’s set,” he says, spreading it out—a rough sketch of the highway, marked with times and routes in his messy scrawl.

“We’re good for 2 a.m., rolls past the old mill road.

Unmarked, like I said—electronics, high-end shit.

TVs, laptops, maybe some phones. Driver’s a rookie, no escort.

We hit it here—” he taps a sharp bend where the trees choke the road—“block it with the van, take it clean. In and out, twenty minutes.”

I lean over the table, studying it. It’s a good plan—Kreese has a nose for this shit. The mill road’s a ghost town at night, no cameras, no lights, just shadows to swallow us up. “How much we looking at?” I ask, crossing my arms.

“Hundred grand, easy,” he says, eyes glinting. “Maybe more if we’re lucky. Split ten ways, that’s ten each, minimum. Could be a game changer, Clay. Fix this dump up, get new bikes, bankroll some bigger plays. We pull this off, we’re golden.”

One hundred grand. My mind races with it—money like that could shift everything for the Riders.

Patch the roof that leaks every spring, replace Rusty’s piece-of-shit ride, build a stash for when the cops get nosy.

It’s a big score, the kind that doesn’t come around often, and the thought of it fires me up, a grin tugging at my mouth.

“Risks?” I ask, because there’s always a downside.

“Driver might freak, call it in if we’re slow,” Kreese says, sipping his beer. “Cops could get a tip after, sniff around. But we’ve pulled worse and walked. You in?”

“Yeah,” I say, firm. “I’m in . Brief the boys, keep it tight. No mistakes.”

He nods, folding the map back up. “Done. Tomorrow night, we ride.”

We head back out, the clubhouse swallowing us whole—shouts, laughter, the clack of pool balls.

I grab a whiskey from the bar, the burn hitting my throat hard, and settle into a chair by the table, watching the game. Rusty’s losing now, swearing up a storm as the prospect sinks a shot, and Jace is egging him on, grinning through his pain.

It’s my crew, my life, rough and rowdy and mine.

But as the whiskey settles, warm in my chest, my thoughts drift back to Dylan.

What if it goes south?

The hijack’s clean on paper, but shit happens—a jittery driver, a random patrol, one of us slipping up. If it blows up, if I get nabbed, it’s back to prison. Back to gray walls, stale air, the slow bleed of days into years.

Three years nearly broke me last time—longer, and I’d come out a shell. I could take it, maybe. I’ve got the scars to prove I can.

But Dylan? What would it do to him?

I see him in my head—standing in his doorway, that soft smile, the way he kissed me like I’m still his…

He’s back in my life, close enough to touch, and if I go down again, it’s not just my ass on the line. He’d be left hanging, hurting, picking up pieces I’d scatter all over again.

I cut Dylan off once to save him from that, and it gutted me.

Doing it again—watching him fade because I fucked up—would be worse than any sentence. he’s not made for this life, not the way I am, but he’s here, pulling me in, and I’m too damn selfish to let him go.

We need a real talk—honest, no bullshit. Lay out the past, the club, what this could mean. I owe him that before I drag him deeper into my chaos.

I’m an asshole, but I won’t be an asshole to Dylan.

The boy needs to know what he’s walking into, if he’s walking in at all. But not tonight. Tonight’s for the Riders, for the plan, for the high of what’s ahead. I’ll find him tomorrow, after the truck’s ours, and we’ll sort it out.

Kreese calls for a toast, holding his beer high. “To the Wolf Riders! To the haul of a lifetime!”

The room roars, glasses clinking, and I drink deep, the whiskey chasing off the doubts. Kreese tosses me a cue stick, grinning. “Your shot, man. Don’t choke.”

I stand, chalking the cue, the weight grounding me. “Never do,” I say, lining up my cue. The ball cracks, scattering the rest, and the game’s on.

The clubhouse pulses—loud, wild, home—and I let it pull me under, one eye on the table, the other on tomorrow.

Dylan’s out there, and so’s the truck.

Two risks, two roads, and I’m riding both harder than ever…