Page 1 of Clay

Chapter 1

Dylan

The diner’s neon sign buzzes faintly outside, casting a pinkish glow through the window where I sit, picking at the last crumbs of my bagel.

I can’t help but smile just a little bit. The bagel is good. Likeseriouslygood.

I’ve got a real sweet tooth, but there are times when only savoury will do, and this is most definitely one of them.

It’slate—way later than I usually stay out these days—but there’s something about being back in Willow Creek that makes me want to stretch time, to soak in the quiet hum of a town that never changes.

The city was all sharp edges and noise, a relentless machine that chewed me up and spat me out.

I spent four years in the big bad city, chasing stories as a news reporter, running from one deadline to the next, my byline stamped on articles I barely cared about.

And that’s even before getting into the fact that I felt like I was always overlooked for promotions due to a boss who was prettymuch the pits—and made no secret of his favorites either. Sadly, I was very much not one of those favorites.

I hated every second of city life—the concrete canyons, the way people moved too fast to notice you, the constant pressure to be someone I wasn’t.

And the so called Daddies I met…pfft.

It’s not like my entire life revolves around finding a Daddy, but I had hoped that in a city of millions there would at least be a handful of Daddies to choose from who would fit my needs.

Sadly, that wasn’t the case. Far from it…

All I met was money and status obsessed jerks who cared more about what they looked like with me on their arm then anything that actually mattered.

And they’d all act so tough, like being a Daddy was automatically some kind of free pass to being rude and aloof.

Yeah, itsucked.

Coming home was like taking a deep breath after holding it too long, a return to roots I didn’t realize I’d missed until I felt them under my feet again.

And here I am…

Chris sits across from me, his blonde hair shimmering as he sips his coffee, black as the night outside. Chris has been my anchor since I got back three months ago, the one person who didn’t bat an eye when I said I was ditching the city to write a novel.

I still can’t believe I pulled it off—landing a publishing contract before I even packed my bags. Don’t get too excited. I’m not about to become a millionaire author overnight. It’s a smallpress who pay small advances. Sure, nothing flashy, but it’s mine…

My first novel.

As I say, the advance isn’t huge, just enough to cover rent and groceries while I figure out how to turn my jumbled ideas into a story worth reading.

But the words are slow with a capital S.

I’ve got a notebook full of half-formed sentences and a deadline looming six months from now, and most days, the blank page stares back at me like it’s daring me to fail.

“Earth to Dylan,” Chris says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “You’re zoning out again. What’s up? Writer’s block or man trouble?”

I laugh, a little too loud, and it bounces off the diner’s chipped tables.

“Man trouble? Please. I’d need a man for that. This town’s got nothing but the same old faces—Tommy Grayson still lurking at the gas station, probably, thinking he’s God’s gift. I’m not desperate enough to date him again. He still thinks Axe body spray is a personality trait.”

Chris snorts, nearly choking on his coffee.

“Oh God, remember when he asked you for a date with that boombox outside your window?” Chris laughs. “Like he thought he was John Cusack or something. I swear, I can still hear In Your Eyes echoing down Maple Street.”

“Worst night of my life,” I say, grinning despite myself. “No, I’m just… I don’t know. Settling back in, I guess. It’s good to behome—the quiet, the trees, the way you can hear yourself think. But it’s weird too. Like I’m waiting for something to happen, some spark to shake me out of this rut.”

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