Page 22 of My Dream

The rest of us took our seats at the long table. Yarder sprawled into his chair at the head of the room, and his hands rested heavily on the table as he gestured toward Clay. “Let us know what things you want to go over,” he said, his voice even but loaded with enough authority to fill the room. “You know, since you’re the one who is in charge.”

I leaned back in my chair and smirked at the fact that Yarder didn’t offer the guy a seat. That was intentional, no doubt. Clay had to know he wasn’t on equal footing here—not even close.

Clay cleared his throat and plastered on a thin smile as he launched into his spiel. “Uh, well, we just need to go over what you guys have planned. A schedule. We need about forty more hours of film, which, of course, will be cut down, but we need all the footage we can get. What we have so far is fine, but we need something more… exciting.”

Exciting? I almost laughed. The thought of letting his precious camera crew witness some of the shit we’d been through lately—like the US attorney general trying to kill us—might qualify as exciting, but it wasn’t the kind of excitement we’d be broadcasting to the world.

“We don’t have a schedule,” Yarder said flatly and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Well,” Clay drawled, dragging the word out like it might buy him time to think, “we need to come up with one. I need to know what kind of filming we’ll be doing. And if you guys can’t come up with a schedule, I can. I’ve got some ideas of things I think the audience would like to see. I’m working on a script for a couple of them.”

That stopped me in my tracks. “Script?” I asked and sat forward. “I thought this was supposed to be a reality show.”

“Yeah,” Aero added. “You want to script out reality? That makes zero fucking sense.”

Clay waved a dismissive hand like we were the idiots for not understanding his vision. “This sort of thing happens all the time. It’s not like you’ll be reading lines word for word. It’s more about crafting a general direction for the show, you know? Like an idea of where it’s going and what you’ll be doing.”

Yarder let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “Let me get this straight. You think you can script what we do?” His voice had a dangerous edge to it, the kind that made even us sit up and pay attention.

Clay opened his mouth to respond, but Yarder cut him off, pointing a finger at him. “We’re not doing any of the bullshit you’ve got up your sleeve. You and that TV show have zero fucking idea what it’s really like to be in an MC. And that,” he said and gestured to the room, “circles back to the reason why you’re here in the first place. You want to see what we do, right? Well, this is what we do. Right here. Right now. It’s not pretty. It’s not scripted. It’s real. If that’s not good enough for your show, you can pack your shit and get out.”

The room was silent for a beat, with the weight of Yarder’s words settling over all of us. Yarder wasn’t fucking around anymore.

“Look,” Clay said after a moment, “I get that you want to keep things authentic. But the network has expectations. They want action. Drama. Something that’ll keep the audience hooked.”

Throttle snorted, leaning back in his chair. “Let me guess. You want us to stage a bar fight or some bullshit like that?”

Clay didn’t respond right away, and that was the answer enough.

“You’ve got no clue what you’re talking about,” Aero said, shaking his head. “You think you can just roll in here and turn our lives into some kind of soap opera? That’s not how this works.”

Clay’s face reddened slightly, but he stood his ground. “I’m not trying to turn it into a soap opera. I’m just saying we need to make it engaging. Look, the network thinks we’re missing an opportunity to show more of the—uh, interpersonal dynamics within the club.”

I laughed out loud at that. “Interpersonal dynamics? What the fuck does that even mean? You want us to sit around talking about our feelings?”

Stretch chuckled beside me and shook his head. “Good luck with that.”

Yarder’s voice cut through the laughter like a blade. “Enough.” He leaned forward and pinned Clay with a look that would’ve made most men shrink back. “You think we care about what the network wants? About what you want?”

Clay swallowed hard, but before he could answer, Yarder pressed on. “This is our club. Our lives. We let you in because we thought maybe, just maybe, it’d be a good way to tell our story and line our pockets with some cash. But if you think for one second you’re going to come in here and turn us into something we’re not, you’re dead wrong. You want action? Drama? Stickaround long enough, and you’ll get all the excitement you can handle. But it’s going to be on our terms. Got it?”

Clay nodded quickly. “That’s what I want. We both want the same thing here, Yarder. I want to keep my job, and you guys want to keep the money. You give me something to shoot, and we both win.”

“Deal,” Yarder said and leaned back in his chair. “Now, unless you’ve got anything else to say, I think we’re done here.”

Clay hesitated like he wanted to argue but didn’t dare. Finally, he gave a tight-lipped nod. “Understood. The camera crew will be here this afternoon, and the cameras around the clubhouse will be back on within the hour.”

Yarder motioned toward the door. “Fine. Now, get out. We’ve got things to discuss before that happens. Compass will walk you out.”

Clay didn’t need a second invitation to leave. He turned on his heel and headed toward the door. Yarder caught my eye and gave me a quick nod. “Compass, follow him.”

Jesus.

First, I couldn’t even enjoy my breakfast because of this idiot, and now I had to play babysitter. I shoved my chair back with a grunt and trailed after Clay as he walked into the common room.

Fallon, Adalee, and Sloane looked up from whatever they were doing, and curiosity lit their faces, but none of them said a word. Clay must have sensed he had overstayed his welcome because he didn’t even bother with his usual smug commentary. He pushed open the front door and stepped outside. Just as he turned back, likely to throw some last-minute remark my way, I slammed the door in his face without so much as a goodbye.

“Oh boy,” Sloane said from the couch, clearly amused. “Church wentthatgood?”

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