Page 16 of Clay

I’ve been parked here for over an hour, my coffee long gone cold in its chipped mug, my fingers hovering uselessly over the keys.

The story’s there in my head—a man fleeing his past, a man on a motorcycle who could be his savior or his downfall—but it’s stuck, the words knotted up somewhere I can’t reach. I’ve tried everything—re-reading my outline, sipping water, pacing the room—but they won’t come. They’re trapped, elusive, and every time I type a line, it feels flat, lifeless.

I lean back in my chair, the old wood groaning under me, and press my fingers to my temples, a headache throbbing faintly behind my eyes.

My publisher’s deadline is six months out, but at this pace, I’ll never hit it.

The advance they paid me—modest but real—sits in my account, a lifeline that’s starting to feel like a noose…

What if I can’t do this?

What if I’ve got my shot, my dream on a platter, and I’m choking because I can’t string a sentence together?

I close my eyes, letting my mind wander back to simpler days.

When I was a kid, this was all I wanted—to be an author, to weave stories that’d live on shelves and in hearts. I’d sprawl across the living room rug, my knees stained with grass, filling spiral notebooks with wild tales. Pirates battling storms, princesses outsmarting dragons, detectives cracking cases in sleepy towns like this one.

I’d stay up past bedtime, a flashlight tucked under the covers, scribbling until my hand cramped, dreaming of the day I’d see my name in bold print.

My mom would find me in the morning, pages scattered around me like fallen leaves, and she’d laugh, her warm hands ruffling my hair. “You’re gonna write a bestseller someday, Dylan,” she’d say, her voice full of that quiet faith I clung to. I believed her—through the awkward years of middle school, the late nights in high school crafting short stories for the literary magazine, even the grind of college and the city, where I chased deadlines instead of dreams.

And now here I am, twenty-six, with a contract from a small press, a cute study in a cottage I can call mine—and might even own one day— and I’m terrified I’m blowing it. All those years of wanting, and I might let it slip through my fingers because the words won’t cooperate.

The panic creeps in slow, a cold tightness spreading across my chest. I picture the call to my editor—his polite disappointment as I admit I’ve got nothing, the advance wired back, the contract shredded.

This cozy life I’ve built—the cottage, the wildflowers, the quiet—unraveling because I can’t deliver. I open my eyes, staring at the screen again, willing the story to move.

Maybe if I just push harder, force it out, something will click. But the cursor keeps blinking, relentless, and the worry kicks into overdrive…

What if I’m not good enough?

What if I’ve fooled everyone—my mom, my editor, myself—into thinking I could do this?

What if?—

A low rumble cuts through the spiral, vibrating up through the floorboards and rattling the vase on my desk. I freeze, my breath catching as my hands drop from my face. I know that sound—deep, throaty, a growl that’s as familiar as my own heartbeat.

A motorcycle. And not just any motorcycle.Clay.

Excitement surges through me, hot and electric, washing away the panic like a summer storm clears the air. I’m out of my chair in a flash, bare feet slapping the wood as I dart to the window.

I nudge the curtain aside, my heart pounding, and there he is—pulling up outside my house, the Harley gleaming black and chrome in the afternoon sun.

He swings off the bike, all leather and muscle, his chestnut hair a mess from the wind, and even from here, I can see the look in his eyes—green, piercing, brimming with a lust that sends a shiver racing down my spine.

My skin prickles, my pulse leaping as if I’ve just downed a triple espresso.

The study, the novel, the deadline—it all fades, drowned out by the wild, reckless pull of him…

I’m at the front door before he’s halfway up the walk, my fingers fumbling with the knob in my rush. I fling it open just as he hits the porch, his boots thudding on the steps, and up close, he’s overwhelming—broad shoulders filling out his jacket, stubble darkening his jaw, that look in his eyes burning hotter now.

He’s close enough that I can smell him—leather, road dust, a hint of sweat—and it’s like a match to dry tinder, igniting something deep in my belly.

My breath becomes fast, shallow, and I can’t look away, can’t think past the way he’s staring at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

“Dylan,” Clay says, his voice rough and low, gravelly in a way that makes my knees weak. “We need to talk.”

I should agree—nod, invite him in for coffee, sit him down on the couch and hash out whatever’s simmering between us.

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