Page 14 of Clay

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 fitsme, 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 hardenough 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, nocameras, 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’salwaysa 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’min. 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.

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