Page 9 of Clay

I lean against the edge of the pool table, a beer in one hand, my cue in the other, watching Rusty line up a shot…

He’s half-drunk already, his busted lip twisting into a grin as he sinks the eight ball and crows like he’s just won the damn lottery.

“Pay up, Jace!” Rusty hollers, slapping the table.

Jace, still feeling his cracked rib, groans and digs into his pocket, tossing a crumpled twenty Rusty’s way. The room eruptsin cheers and jeers, a wild edge to it all that’s pure Wolf Riders—raw, loud, and unapologetic.

I take a swig of my beer, the cold bite of it cutting through the heat of the room.

This is my world—has been since I patched in at nineteen, before everything went sideways. The clubhouse is a squat brick bunker on the edge of Willow Creek, patched up with duct tape and grit, but it’s home. The bar’s stocked with cheap liquor, the pool table’s scratched to hell, and the couches sag under the weight of too many nights like this.

My brothers are scattered around—some arm-wrestling in the corner, others sprawled out with beers, a couple of the prospects flirting with the boys who always show up when the party’s rolling. It’s fun, messy, the kind of night that makes you forget the bruises and the blood.

Kreese sidles up beside me, his shaved head gleaming under the flickering lights, a whiskey neat in his hand. Without doubt my best buddy, my right hand, Kreese is the guy who’s had my back since we were kids boosting candy from the corner store. He’s got a scar running down his cheek from a bar fight years back, and tonight his grin’s wide, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Good haul last night, huh?” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Vipers won’t be sniffing around again anytime soon.”

“Yeah,” I grunt, chalking my cue. “They’ll lick their wounds and come crawling back eventually. Always do.”

Kreese laughs, a rough bark, and leans in closer, voice dropping. “Got something else for us. Word is, there’s a truck rolling through town tomorrow night—unmarked, coming up from thecity. Loaded with electronics, high-end shit. Easy pickings if we hit it right.”

I raise an eyebrow, setting my beer down on the table’s edge. “You sure?”

“Damn sure,” Kreese says, swirling his whiskey. “Driver’s a rookie, no escort. We jack it, strip it, sell it off before anyone knows it’s gone. Clean profit. We’re talking real fucking money here.”

I nod, running it through my head.

It’s risky—always is—but the Riders thrive on that edge.

A score like this could keep us flush for months, pay for repairs, maybe even get Jace that new bike he’s been bitching about.

“Set it up,” I tell Kreese. “Get the boys ready. We hit it fast, quiet. No fuck-ups.”

Kreese grins wider, saluting me with his glass. “On it, boss.”

My right hand man saunters off to round up the crew, and I take my shot, sinking a striped ball into the corner pocket. The game keeps going, the night stretching on with more drinks, more noise, but my head’s starting to drift.

I lean back against the wall, beer dangling from my fingers, watching the chaos unfold. Rusty’s dancing with some redhead now, spilling beer down his shirt, and Jace is arguing with a prospect over who gets the next shot.

It’s good—wild and free, the way we like it—but there’s a pull in my chest I can’t shake…

Dylan.

That boy’s been in my head since the diner, since that kiss that lit me up like a damn firework. I can still feel his lips on mine, soft and fierce, the way he grabbed my jacket like he didn’t want to let go.

Seven years, and he’s still got me twisted up…

I cut him off back then to protect him—didn’t want him tied to a convict, wasting his life on visits and letters. But seeing him last night, all grown up and gorgeous, flipped a switch I didn’t know was still there.

Dylan’s back in Willow Creek, back in my orbit, and I can’t stop thinking about him. The way his eyes flashed with anger, the spark when I touched his hand—it’s eating at me.

I need to see him again, sooner rather than later.

Not tomorrow, not next week…

Now.

The thought gnaws at me through the rest of the night, even as the party winds down and the boys stumble out or crash on the couches. I head to my trailer eventually, crash hard, but he’s there in my dreams—his laugh, his touch, the way he used to look at me like I was his whole world.

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