Page 4 of Clay

Clay

“Let’s fucking do this,” I roar, my body and mind alive to the darkness around me. “Wolves! Wolves! Wolves Forever!”

The night air bites at my face as I gun my Harley down the winding backroads, the engine’s growl a steady pulse beneath me.

The Wolf Riders MC ride tight in formation behind me, a pack of shadows tearing through the dark, our headlights slicing the black like knives.

We’re rolling back from the city, fresh off a brawl with the Iron Vipers—a rival gang stupid enough to think they could muscle in on our territory.

It was a brutal fight, the kind that leaves your knuckles raw and your blood singing. Fists cracked against jaws, boots slammed into ribs, and the alley behind that shitty bar turned into a war zone.

Rusty took a nasty hit to the face—his lip’s split, and one eye’s swelling shut. Jace is worse off, clutching his side where a Viper steel-toed boot caught him, probably cracking a rib.

But we walked away, and they didn’t.

That’s what matters.

The Wolf Riders don’t lose.

No man, no gang,nothingcrosses us and expects to get away clean. It’s a code we live by, one I’ve etched into my bones over years of loyalty and blood.

I’m out front, leading the pack, no helmet—just the wind tearing through my chestnut brown hair, streaked with blond from too many days riding under the sun.

It’s reckless, and I know it.

One wrong move, one patch of gravel, and I’d be done. But out here, with the road unspooling ahead of me like a promise, I don’t give a damn.

The cool April night air stings my skin, whips my eyes into a squint, and I lean into it, letting it strip away the city’s grime.

This is freedom—real freedom, the kind I swore I’d never lose again.

Prison took three years of my life, locked me in a cage of concrete and steel, where every breath tasted like rust and regret. I got out two years ago, and every second since has been about this: the open road, the hum of my bike, the wild rush that reminds me I’m alive.

I’llnevergo back.

I might skirt the law, running with the Riders, dealing in the gray edges of right and wrong, but I know how to play the game.

Keep your nose clean when the badges are watching, your brothers close when they’re not, and your wits sharp always. That’s how you stay free…

The pack’s loud tonight, engines roaring as we hit the outskirts of Willow Creek.

The pines loom tall on either side, their shadows dancing in our lights, and the air smells of sap and damp earth. We’re a sight—ten bikes strong, leather and chrome gleaming, a rolling thunder that makes the town folk peek out their curtains and lock their doors.

The Wolf Riders MC isn’t just a club; it’s a legend around here, one we’ve built on grit, fists, and sometimes guns too.

Tonight’s victory only sharpens that edge. But as we near the split, the group starts to fracture.

Half peel off toward the clubhouse—a low, brick bunker tucked against the woods where the beer’s cold, the jukebox blares, and the party’s already starting.

I hear Rusty whoop as he veers right, probably eager to drown his pain in whiskey.

The others—Jace included—turn left toward home, ready to crash and lick their wounds.

I don’t signal, don’t wave. I just keep riding, the road pulling me forward like it’s got a mind of its own.

I’m not ready to stop. Not for the chaos of the clubhouse, where the boys will rehash the fight over bottles and smokes, or the silence of my trailer, where the walls close in too tight.

I need this—the solitude of the ride, the way it clears my head. I’ve always been like that, even back when I was a kid tearing around on a beat-up dirt bike.

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