Page 13 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

Plates clatter, silverware scrapes against ceramic, voices rise and fall in a chaotic symphony around me.

My body moves on autopilot dodging between tables, balancing trays, and refilling drinks with practiced efficiency.

The heat of the packed restaurant clings to my skin, sweat trickling down my temple, but my hands are too full to wipe it away.

My lower back aches with every step, the muscles in my legs tight and burning.

I can only imagine how wild my hair must look by now, strands sticking to the back of my neck, curls puffing with humidity and motion.

My shirt clings to me, damp with effort, and every breath drags through heat so thick it might as well be steam.

Under my breath, almost without thinking, I hum the faintest line of a melody.

A fragment from one of my old lyrics. The sound grounds me, a rhythm steadying the chaos.

But as soon as I catch myself, I clamp my mouth shut.

Not here. Not now. Not when every inch of me is already exposed to the grind of this place.

We’re short-staffed again . Two people called out, leaving the rest of us drowning in the dinner rush.

It doesn’t bother me, not really. The busier we are, the more I make in tips.

And right now, I need every damn cent. Every table covered, every drink poured, every smile plastered on my face means more money in my pocket, more space between me and everything else falling apart.

It’s a distraction. A rhythm I can lose myself in, a well-rehearsed dance that requires no thought.

It’s survival masked as customer service.

“Candace?”

The new hostess calls my name, cutting through the noise. My step falters for a fraction of a second, my forced smile slipping as I glance at her. My pulse skips, a sudden chill prickling under the collar of my shirt.

“There’s a guy here,” she says hesitantly, her eyes flicking toward the front. “He says he needs to see you.”

My fingers tighten around the water pitcher, my knuckles whitening. Heat flushes up my spine, that familiar twist of anxiety laced with something sharper. Not again. Not here. Not him.

“What guy?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.

“He didn’t give me a name, but…” She hesitates before lowering her voice. “I think he’s from the Outsiders.”

Of course he is.

A slow, burning irritation coils in my gut. My stomach drops before I can stop it. He’s everywhere lately, slipping into the fragile spaces I keep for myself. A song I can’t escape, no matter how hard I try. The kind of tune that burrows deep and lingers until it haunts my dreams.

I force myself to exhale, and finish topping off a customer’s glass without spilling it. “One second.”

Swallowing my frustration, I hand a table of older women their check, making sure they don’t need anything else before I step away. My mind is already racing. What the hell does he want? My palms itch and I press one hand briefly to my apron to stop it from trembling.

Passing Ruby on my way out, I lower my voice. “Can you keep an eye on my tables for a minute?”

Ruby nods enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh absolutely. Should I bust out some Spice Girls or stick to classic rock tonight?”

I shake my head, fighting a smile. “Just don’t scare off the customers.”

“No promises,” she chirps back.

I head toward the front, shoulders squaring with every step. I try to steady my breath, but my heart is already pounding. It’s stupid. It’s always stupid when it comes to him.

I keep walking. Left foot, right foot. Don’t falter. Don’t freeze. The same rhythm I use when I sing—when I used to sing. Back before everything got complicated. Before every word held weight and every note felt like a secret I couldn’t afford to share.

By the time I round the corner, I’ve schooled my face into careful indifference. Calm, composed, unaffected. But the moment I see him, my pulse betrays me, kicking up in betrayal beneath my ribs. Always him. Always sharp angles and that maddening, unbothered stare.

Damn him.

The flicker of irritation turns into a slow-burning fire in my chest. His presence sets my nerves on edge, needles under my skin. I don’t know if it’s his arrogance, his timing, or the fact that some small, infuriating part of me reacts to him in ways I can’t afford to.

My lips press into a thin line. I curl my fingers slightly, then force them to relax.

You said too much last night.

“What do you want?” The words come out clipped, even, but there’s a heat beneath them I can’t quite smother. “I’m busy.”

And because he’s him, he smirks. Of course he does.

The slow, knowing curve of his mouth only stokes the fire.

I want to roll my eyes, to glare, to pretend his voice doesn’t slip under my skin and settle there, an itch I can’t scratch.

But worse, he’s completely calm. Always calm.

Unmoving. A fixed point while everything in my life collapses in on itself, soggy and unstable.

And I hate that. I hate that I can look at him and know he won’t flake, won’t run.

Not the way my father did. Not the way everyone else has.

But I don’t let it show.

Instead, I breathe through my nose, lift my chin, and brace myself. I just have to get through this conversation. Without snapping. Without letting him see how much he gets to me.

“You couldn’t have picked a worse time. We’re slammed,” I say, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave.

Malachi only shrugs, completely unfazed. “I can wait, Sour Patch. I’m hungry anyway. Can you seat me in your section?”

His eyes hold mine, as if he’s waiting for me to say no. Daring me to. His knuckles flex once where his hand rests against the wall, the smallest tell that he isn’t as unaffected as he appears.

My stomach tightens. Not with nerves or excitement, but with something sharp-edged and hot that I refuse to name. The hostess lingers beside us, gripping the seating chart a little too tightly.

“When a table opens in my section, put him there,” I tell her, turning on my heel and walking away. Son of a bitch.

I try to fall back into the rhythm I had before he showed up—quick hands, smooth movements, mechanical efficiency—but it’s impossible. My pulse stutters, my thoughts scatter, and I hate that he’s managed to shake me so easily.

“Are you okay?” Ruby’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

I blink fast, swallowing the lingering frustration before forcing a small nod. “Yeah. Fine.”

But I’m not fine.

Because right then, the group of ladies at my table, the ones who ran me ragged with refills and endless requests, stand to leave. I already know before I walk over. My stomach sinks as I stare at the crumpled bills they left behind.

Seriously? I glance toward the front again, my eyes locking on Malachi with the pull of a magnet I never asked for. He’s watching me; always watching me. He doesn’t seem to know how to look away. Or maybe he just enjoys knowing I notice.

My pulse trips and I silently curse the part of me that notices back. That stupid, treacherous part that picks up his scent even across the room. Leather. Spice. Trouble.

Snatching up the pathetic tip, I shove it into my apron with a little more force than necessary.

Then I feel him before I even see him; a subtle shift in the air, a tingling down my spine.

Malachi settles into the chair as if he owns the place, his presence an oppressive heat I can feel clear across the dining room.

He’s not just watching. He’s waiting. Claiming space as though it’s already his. As though being near me is a right he doesn’t question. My skin prickles with the knowledge, and the dangerous part is, it doesn’t feel wrong.

As I head toward him, my pulse quickens as his eyes lock onto me, dark and intense, tracking every movement with dangerous amusement. His scent wraps around me again. Leather, spice, and the faint promise of trouble. It fills my lungs and clouds my thoughts.

“I’ll be right back. Do you know what you want to drink?” My fingers curl around the chair, gripping it so tightly my knuckles ache.

“Jack and Coke,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar rasp. But there’s a dip in it now. Lower. Rougher. Something catches in his throat when I walk up. His fingers twitch once, subtle. Almost as if he’s fighting the same thing I am.

My pen nearly slips from my fingers as I scribble the order down. I turn sharply, nearly barreling into another server. Get it together. My heart slams against my ribs.

Ruby bumps me playfully at the bar. “What’s Mr. MMA fighter doing here?”

“Club business,” I lie coolly.

She grins wickedly. “Uh-huh. Well, he was definitely checking out your ass. I mean, even I blushed.”

My cheeks heat, but I mask it with a casual smirk. “Guess he’ll see it a lot then, because I plan on walking away from him as often as possible.”

Ruby snorts. “Ice queen activated. Love it.”

Steeling myself, I walk back, setting his drink down sharply. “What can I get you?”

He leans back, eyes dragging over me with infuriating confidence. “Cheeseburger and fries,” he drawls slowly. But there’s a beat before he says it. Just one. And I see it, His jaw clenches and the smile falters. Like I got to him too.

For half a second, I almost forget to breathe. The victory is small and reckless, but it thrums beneath my skin, pulsing with the steady rhythm of a song. Steady. Dangerous. My grip tightens around the pen. Asshole.

I scrawl the order, spin away without another word, his gaze burning into my back. My skin prickles with the memory of his smirk, the weight of his stare. I can feel it long after I’m gone.

I hate him. I want to hate him. But my body isn’t listening. It never does when he’s around. The song shifts, and I can’t help but follow the new beat.

Every time he looks at me, it feels as if he’s daring me to fall apart. And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend I’m not already starting to.

I take one more shaky breath and disappear into the kitchen, trying to drown the fire burning under my skin.

Trying and failing.