Page 10 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

I glare at the entrance of the club, every muscle in my body screaming for me to turn around and leave.

Just an hour ago, Malachi dropped me off at my house, the silence between us loud and crackling.

I didn’t say thank you. I didn’t look back.

There’s no way in hell I’m riding here with him.

Not when I have things to hide. The money I didn’t need for tonight?

Tucked away beneath a floorboard the moment I got home, fingers shaking from the rush of desperation and dread.

I stripped off my jacket the second I stepped inside, but the chill from the ride still clings to my skin, hanging on as if memory took form.

The wind screamed past us the whole way, but under it, I caught something softer.

I hummed without thinking, barely audible.

A habit I’ve never fully shaken. A melody with no name, just rhythm pulsing behind my ribs.

I didn’t even realize I was doing it until we stopped and he looked at me with something bordering on recognition.

As if he heard a part of me I never meant to give away.

Still, I keep walking, pulled forward by the familiar, bitter duty of cleaning up my father’s mess.

Again. He called me right after my shift at the country club, voice thick with guilt and desperation.

He said he was in trouble—again—and if he didn’t pay off his dues and bar tab, he’d lose the only thing he had left.

I didn’t ask what that was. I didn’t have to.

It’s always the same sad story, spun with the same crooked strings.

My boots scuff against gravel, each step thudding with a drumbeat of resentment echoing in my chest, louder now with every lie he’s told and every time I’ve answered the call anyway.

What pisses me off more than anything is that no one in that club seems to notice.

Not the missed dues. Or the slurred words.

Not the daughter stepping in over and over to clean up after him while they all look the other way.

I used to think they were blind. That maybe they just didn’t recognize the way he was slipping.

But Malachi? He was supposed to see. He was supposed to be different. When he didn’t, when he missed it the same way everyone else did, I stopped hoping any of them ever would.

I match my steps to that beat—one, two, one, two—just to stay upright. The rhythm keeps me from splintering. If I let myself feel too much, I’ll either scream or sob. Maybe both. But not yet. Not here.

The door swings open before I reach it, and two girls stumble out, arms slung around each other with the reckless ease of girls who think the night owes them something.

A blast of music punches the air, the deep bass and bursts of laughter mixing with the beer-sour breath and cigarette smoke that clings to everything with the stubbornness of regret.

One of them eyes me, slow and assessing.

She’s tall and lean, her blonde bob curled into polished waves.

A cropped band tee clings to her torso, baring a sliver of skin above a mini skirt that screams confidence.

Or, at least, a good front. There’s a flicker of something hard behind her gaze, sharp and territorial.

Her mouth doesn’t move, but I can feel the challenge radiating off her in waves.

The girl beside her is a different flavor of danger.

She’s shorter, with sharp cheekbones and chin-length jet-black hair that glints under the porch light, hard and glassy as obsidian.

A black leather jacket hangs casually over one arm, revealing a cosmic tattoo sleeve that coils around her right arm in hypnotic swirls.

Galaxies, stars, and nebulas burst in vivid ink.

Her dark plum lips curl into a half-smirk that radiates heat and curiosity, but there’s something else too.

Something intangible. The air around her hums differently.

It brushes against my skin and makes the hairs on my arms rise.

It feels the way standing too close to an amp sounds when it turns to static. As if the world might tilt off its axis if she blinked at the wrong time.

She’s the one who speaks, her voice smooth as smoke, but threaded with something that doesn’t belong to this world. “Need something, darling?”

I lift my chin, keeping my expression neutral. “Just here to see my dad.”

“Who’s your dad?” she asks, flicking ash from her cigarette with effortless cool.

“Chuck.”

She nods once. “He’s at the bar.”

Of course he is. “Thanks.”

The blonde stays silent, arms crossed and eyes locked on me, gauging whether I’m a friend or a threat. The tension in her stance suggests she’s leaning toward the latter.

“I’m Frankie,” the black-haired girl offers with a knowing smile. There’s a glint in her eyes, a spark that hints she knows more than she’s saying. “See you around, maybe.”

“Candace,” I say, flat as concrete. Then I push through the door and into the chaos.

The club shuts behind me, hard and final.

Inside, the air is thick with sweat and smoke.

Boots thud across concrete. A fight plays on the mounted TV to the right; Pereira throwing wild punches.

Shouts echo off the walls as a group cheers over pool and darts.

The meeting room door is closed, guarded tight.

Malachi’s space is somewhere upstairs. But my attention cuts straight to the bar.

There he is. Chuck. Nursing a beer as if the world hasn’t chewed us both up and spit us out.

Tension coils low in my gut. Every time he acts this way—calm, casual, careless—I feel a part of me decay. As if he’s taken something that once belonged to me and twisted it into comfort for himself.

Bitterness rises in my throat. I remember all the times I came home to an empty fridge, a pawn slip sitting where the TV used to be, a dad passed out in his chair… and now this.

I stalk to the bar, the sound of my boots swallowed by the din. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a few patched members slipping out of the meeting room, one of them nodding to James before the door clicks shut behind them. That tightens something in my gut, but I keep moving.

The prospect behind the bar barely looks at me.

“What can I get ya?”

“I’m here to pay off Chuck’s tab.” My voice is cool steel.

His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re here to pay—”

“I’m his daughter. How much?”

He leans in, all secrecy and mischief. “Two-fifty.”

Figures. Dad said two hundred. Always a lie in his mouth, even if it’s small.

I pull out three hundreds and slap them onto the counter. “Keep the change. I doubt he tipped.”

I turn before the guy can stammer a thank you. My pulse hammers as I make my way to the meeting room, the knot in my gut growing tighter with each step. I told myself I was done doing this. That I wouldn’t save him again.

And yet, here I am. Bleeding for a man who never once bled for me.

“Candy? What are you doing here?”

My teeth clench at the nickname my leech of a father calls me. I don’t turn.

I notice James again. His eyes land on me, crinkling in recognition.

When I was little, he used to sneak me caramel chews and call me songbird.

A nickname he only used when Chuck wasn’t around.

He said it was because my voice reminded him of something softer, something worth protecting.

It stuck, even when nothing else did. Sometimes he’d hand me one just to watch my eyes light up, chasing a glimpse of joy in a house that rarely held any.

Back then, it felt as though he saw me—not Chuck’s kid, not someone to ignore—but me.

For a long time, that was enough to keep me searching for the man who gave me that name.

He’s the only one who ever looked at me and saw a child, not just Chuck’s burden.

I used to hum while I did the dishes, low and quiet, just enough to fill the silence.

He always heard it. Said I had music in me, even when the world tried to choke it out.

I haven’t let a song pass my lips in years.

But sometimes the lyrics still rise, ghosting through me when it gets too loud inside.

Malachi isn’t out here. He must still be in the meeting room.

Ignoring the prospect guarding the door, I move.

“Hey! You can’t go in there—”

I slam the door open so hard it bounces off the wall. Three men jump to their feet. Hands twitch to guns.

“What the fuck?”

Malachi. East. Nash.

A hand clamps around my wrist. “Sorry, Kai—”

“Get your fucking hand off her.”

Malachi’s voice cuts through the room, sharp as a live wire. Electricity arcs between us the second I meet his eyes. The grip disappears from my wrist instantly, as if even touching me with him in the room is some kind of sin.

My breath catches. That tone? It’s not for show. He means it. The way his eyes land on me, hard and hot, makes something pull tight in my chest. I hate how fast it happens. I hate how fast I feel it.

I cross my arms, tilting my chin. “I can take care of myself.”

“Never said you couldn’t,” he mutters, voice low, but there’s something else under it. Something rougher. He’s trying not to look too long, or too hard.

East and Nash exchange a knowing look. Smug, unreadable. Already placing bets on how this fire will burn.

Malachi doesn’t look away. Neither do I. For one breathless second, the rest of the room feels distant. It’s dangerous, the way we do this. This staring. This not-flinching. Both of us holding steady, waiting to see who breaks first.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Malachi growls. “I just dropped you off.”

His voice scrapes against something inside me.

Irritation, sure, but something else, too.

It curls low and tight, twisting under my ribs.

There’s a flicker of something unwanted in my chest, a sliver of warmth I shove down before it can root itself.

I’m not here to fall for concern dressed as a command.