Page 5 of Clay

The Wolf Riders are my family, my blood, but I crave my own space too. Out here, it’s just me and the machine, the wind howling past, the world reduced to a blur of asphalt and stars. It’s the only time the noise in my head quiets down—the memories of cell blocks, the clang of bars, the weight of choices I can’t unmake.

I push the bike harder, the speedometer creeping up, the vibration rattling through my chest. My hands grip the bars, knuckles still tender from the Vipers’ faces, a dull ache I ignore.

The road curves sharp, and I lean into it, tires hugging the pavement, my pulse syncing with the engine’s growl. This is my church, my sanctuary. Every mile I put between me and that prison cell is a prayer I’ll never have to say again.

I’ve done things—bad things, necessary things—to keep the Riders strong, to keep myself out of cuffs. I don’t regret them. Regret is for suckers who don’t know how to live with their scars.

The diner’s neon sign flickers into view, a pink-and-blue glow cutting through the dark.

It’s my spot, always has been.

Back when I was sixteen, I’d sneak out with a pocketful of change, sit at the counter with a Coke and fries, and dream of a life bigger than this town. Now it’s where I go when the world gets too loud, when I need to breathe.

I pull into the lot, gravel crunching under my tires, and kill the engine. The silence hits hard, a sudden void after the roar, but it’s welcome. I swing my leg over the bike, boots kicking up dust, and stretch my arms high, working out the stiffness from the ride. My jacket creaks, leather worn soft from years of wear, and I roll my shoulders, feeling the pull of bruises I’ll find tomorrow.

Coffee. That’s all I want—black, hot, and strong enough to chase off the night.

I push through the door, the bell jingling overhead, and step into the diner’s warm glow. The place is quiet, just the hum of the fridge and the faint twang of a jukebox playing some old Fleetwood Mac tune.

Jenny’s behind the counter, wiping it down, and she perks up when she sees me. “Hey, Clay,” she says, voice all nerves, cheeks going pink. “Usual?”

“Yeah,” I grunt, but my eyes sweep the room out of habit—and then they stop dead.

Dylan…

It can’t be.

Except it definitely is…

He’s there, in a booth by the window, his dark hair catching the light like it’s got a life of its own.

“What the…”

For a second, I think I’m seeing things, a trick of the late hour and too much adrenaline. But then he turns his head, just enough for me to catch those hazel eyes, and my gut twists hard.

It’s him. There’s no mistaking him. Not now, and not ever.

He’s gorgeous—sexier than I remember, and I remember plenty. The years have sharpened his edges, filled out his frame in ways that make my mouth go dry.

The boy’s got a confidence now, a quiet strength that hits me like a punch. But it’s more than that.

It’sDylan. My Dylan. The boy who owned me, body and soul, seven years ago when I was twenty-one and reckless, and he was nineteen and fearless.

Dylan was the first to call me Daddy.

We worked through it together. We got each other in a way that’s so hard to find. Fuck, I haven’t come close to finding it since before prison.

We had a year together—a wild, perfect year of late-night rides, his arms tight around my waist, his laughter in my ear as we tore through the backroads.

Kisses under the stars, promises I meant to keep. he was the love of my life, the one good thing I had before it all went to shit. Before I got locked up, and I cut him off cold.

No letters, no calls, nothing.

I couldn’t let him waste his days on a guy doing time for damn near killing someone in a bar fight gone wrong.

When I got out, he was gone—off to the city, they said—and I took it as a sign. He’d moved on. I had to try and do that too.

But now he’s here, back in Willow Creek, sitting ten feet away like the universe is laughing at me.

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