Page 22 of Clay

The Harley fires up with a growl, and I tear out of the lot, the wind biting my face as I cut through Willow Creek.

The town’s asleep, streets empty, houses dark, the river a black ribbon glinting under the moon.

My head’s a mess—Dylan, the heist, the promise I made him.

The money’s ours, the risk paid off, but I can’t shake the itch that this is just the start. Kreese will want more, the boys too—bigger scores, deeper shadows. I meant it when I said I’d dial it back, but this life’s got claws, and it doesn’t let go easy…

The ride’s fast, too fast, my pulse pounding with the engine as I turn onto his street.

Soon enough, Dylan’s cottage comes into view, a soft glow spilling from the study window, and I ease off the throttle, coasting to a stop.

The light’s on—he’s up, working, maybe—and my chest tightens.

I swing off the bike, gravel crunching under my boots, and stare at that window, hope and fear tangling up inside me.

Did he mean it—about us, the second chance?

Or has he had time to think, to see the mess I am, the danger I carry?

I pray he hasn’t changed his mind, hasn’t decided I’m too much to handle after all.

I take a breath, the cool air steadying me, and head for Dylan’s front door.

The heist’s done, the night’s ours, and whatever happens next, I’m here for it—for him.

I want to be his Daddy again. For real. And I want him to want that too.

“Here we go,” I mutter. “It’s now or fucking never…”

Chapter 10

Dylan

“Keep typing, keep typing,” I say, almost breathless with excitement.

I’m hunched over my desk in the study, my fingers dancing across the laptop keys, the words spilling out faster than I can think them.

The room’s a soft cocoon tonight—the fairy lights strung over the bookshelf twinkle like stars, casting a warm glow across the lavender walls and the tiny daisies I painted last fall.

The flowery curtain sways gently at the cracked window, letting in a whisper of cool night air, and the wildflowers in their chipped vase droop a little, their petals curling but still sweetening the air with their earthy scent. The lavender candle on my desk flickers, its vanilla undertone blending with the quiet, and my coffee mug sits empty, a faint ring of brown staining the inside.

It’s late—well past midnight, the world beyond my cottage hushed except for the occasional chirp of crickets and the rustle of leaves—but I’m wide awake, electric with inspiration.

The novel’s alive again, Chapter Seven unfurling on the screen, and it’s all because of Clay.

He’s my spark, my muse, the flame that’s reignited everything.

Clay was my Daddy before, and I want him to be my Daddy again.

Our second chance—the diner glances, the forest heat, last night tangled in my sheets—has cracked open a well I thought had run dry.

The man in my story isn’t just running from his past anymore; he’s chasing something, someone—a man on a motorcycle with piercing green eyes and a shadowed history that pulls him in.

The words flow fast, sharp and vivid, painting their tension, their longing, the way they collide like magnets too strong to resist.

It’s us—me and Clay—woven into fiction, our rekindled fire bleeding onto the page. I can see him in every line—the leather jacket stretched over his broad shoulders, the messy chestnut hair I’ve always wanted to run my fingers through, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters.

It feels good, damn good, to watch it take shape, to feel the story breathe again.

---