Page 15 of Clay

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…

Chapter 7

Dylan

“Hmmm…” I muse.

I sit at my desk, the soft glow of my laptop screen washing over my little study room, a sanctuary I’ve carved out in this cottage.

It’s my favorite space—small but perfect, tucked off the living room with just enough room for a desk, a bookshelf, and a faded armchair I scored at a flea market last month.

The walls are a pale lavender, a color I picked to soothe my nerves, and I spent a whole weekend painting tiny daisies across them, each petal a little lopsided but charming in its own way.

The curtain at the window is flowery too—white with pink roses, fluttering gently in the breeze that sneaks through the cracked pane.

A chipped ceramic vase sits on my desk, stuffed with wildflowers I gathered from the overgrown patch behind the house, their sweet, earthy scent blending with the lavender candle flickering on the shelf.

A string of fairy lights drapes over the bookshelf, casting a warm twinkle across the spines of my favorite novels—Anne Tyler, Stephen King, a dog-eared copy ofJane Eyre.

It’s calm here, quiet, a flowery cocoon designed to coax my imagination to life, to make the words flow for this novel I’m supposed to be writing.

But today, it’s failing me…

“Pffft,” I groan, inspiration nowhere to be found.

The cursor blinks on the screen, mocking me from the middle of a half-finished sentence in Chapter Five.

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