Page 14 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

The hushed murmurs from the next table reach my ears, but I barely acknowledge them, smirking as I take a slow sip of my Jack and Coke.

I’m used to the reactions people have when they see me.

Women giggle, their cheeks flushing pink, some bold enough to flirt.

Men? They either glare in open disdain or eye me with thinly veiled jealousy.

It’s predictable. Uninteresting. None of it holds my attention.

The noise, the people, the usual rhythms all fade to background static the moment she steps into view. Candace steps out of the kitchen, and the world narrows to just her. I don’t mean to tense. But I do. Same as every damn time.

She moves with a quiet confidence, unaware—or maybe fully aware—of the way she commands a room without trying.

Golden curls spill over her shoulders, wild yet effortlessly perfect, catching the soft glow of the restaurant’s dim lighting, glinting with the shine of molten honey.

Then there are her eyes—sharp, green, and knowing—locking onto mine for just a second too long.

My breath stalls, caught in that moment where nothing else exists but her.

A second too long. Long enough to wonder if she’s aware of how easily she disorients me.

My chest pulls tight with something I don’t name. It edges toward need, too raw to voice. My hand tightens around the glass unconsciously, the sweat from it slick against my palm. I should look away. I don’t.

That crisp white blouse clings just enough to tease at the softness beneath, tucked into high-waisted black trousers that hug her curves as if they were made for her.

She’s polished, put together, but there’s an edge beneath the elegance.

Something untamed, something that makes her impossible to ignore.

The slight, knowing tilt of her lips, as if she’s in on a secret the rest of us will never unravel, only adds to the pull she has on me.

Fire wrapped in silk. A woman who fights to stay unburned. She’s fire and restraint. Grace and challenge. The kind of woman who lingers in your mind long after she’s walked away.

I watch as she moves through the restaurant, dropping checks at tables, her demeanor poised but never forced.

My eyes flick to the tips left behind—some generous, others insultingly small.

Why she works here baffles me. She could make a killing downtown, somewhere with less entitled clientele, somewhere she wouldn’t have to work twice as hard for half the appreciation.

Her fingers drum lightly against her notepad as she walks. Not random. A pattern. Barely audible but familiar. A rhythm. A pulse. She’s done it before, and I’ve caught it without thinking. Never really considered why.

The first time I heard it, we were on the bike. She didn’t realize she was doing it then either. Just a girl trying not to fall apart who turns sound into survival. That same beat is here now, threading through the noise with the softness of a whispered confession.

The hostess had mentioned she was recently promoted, but tonight she’s back on the floor, picking up tables for coworkers who bailed. She doesn’t complain. She just does. And that? That only makes me more intrigued.

My jaw tightens as Winston Graves rises from his table and steps into my line of sight, heading straight for me.

Though I keep my posture relaxed, every instinct sharpens.

I’ve never trusted this man. Not since I was old enough to understand the game of politics.

He wears his power the way most men wear a watch, effortlessly, like it’s always belonged to him.

He’s the mayor now, but I’d bet my last dollar he’s got his sights set on something bigger.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

He despises the Outsiders. We stand for everything he pretends to hate: lawlessness, independence, the refusal to bow to men like him.

But it’s not just about ideology. It’s personal.

Winston Graves is the embodiment of old money, his wealth stitched into every thread of his perfectly tailored suit.

The subtle checkered pattern of his blazer is deliberate, a quiet display of luxury meant for those who know what to look for.

His tie, an understated brown with an intricate weave, is a message—controlled, refined, never flashy.

Even the polished lapel pin on his chest, small but significant, is a reminder of the influence he wields.

To the world, he is a man of integrity. Only those who truly understand power know he is something else entirely. A kingmaker and puppet master. A ghost who never gets his hands dirty, but always ensures the game is played in his favor.

That’s why Chuck’s situation pisses me off.

He’s one of us; a founder, for fuck’s sake.

Yet, instead of coming to his brothers, he’s relying on his daughter to clean up his mess.

I get that finding work as a veteran isn’t easy, but that’s what we’re here for.

He knows we take care of our own. If he’s too proud to ask for help, fine.

But he better talk to James before this spirals into something worse.

I hope he takes our advice seriously and starts showing up for himself, for her.

Coming to us like he should have from the start.

Movement pulls my attention. Candace is walking toward my table, but she hesitates when Winston steps in front of me. Her shoulders stay square. Head high. But her left hand curls into a fist at her side. Subtle. Quick. I doubt anyone else would catch it.

My fingers tighten around my glass. Here we go.

Winston adjusts his cufflinks with slow, deliberate movement that’s meant to remind me who he is. Who he thinks he is. The man wears a three-piece suit to a casual dinner on a Tuesday, as if he’s stepping out of a boardroom instead of a steakhouse. Classic.

“Not really your scene, is it?” he muses, his tone carrying that smug undercurrent that makes my teeth itch.

I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the pause stretch just long enough to irritate him. Then I shrug. “Wanted a burger.”

His eyes narrow slightly as he grips the back of the chair in front of him, leaning in to assert some kind of presence. But before he can open his mouth again, Candace appears at my side. She’s too calm. Too steady. A woman in a storm trying not to let the wind show in her voice.

I wipe my hand over my mouth, hiding the smirk threatening to form. She may hate me, but she’s Outsider through and through, so she won’t take shit from anyone. Especially not Winston Graves.

“Would you like another drink while you wait for your food?” Her voice is even, polite, but there’s a coolness beneath the surface.

Our fingers brush as I hand her my glass.

The moment of contact is brief, but real enough that I swear I hear her inhale sharply.

For a split second, I forget Winston is even there.

That breath, soft but sharp, hits me harder than it should.

An electric current shoots up my arm. She’s not unaffected.

That knowledge settles low and heavy in my gut.

Candace’s cheeks color slightly, but she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t retreat.

That crack, that tiny fracture in her control, is enough to make something primal in me snap to attention.

“Your food will be out soon,” she says, turning toward Winston. Her expression shifts—professional, detached. “Oh, Mr. Graves. I hope you’re enjoying your dinner.”

I don’t want her to be nice to him. He doesn’t deserve it. But I know what she’s doing. She’s playing the game. Smart. Controlled. But the set of her jaw says it costs her.

“I am. Thank you, Candace,” Winston replies smoothly, his smile tight. He doesn’t like being dismissed, and even though she was polite, she made it damn clear he was an afterthought.

His gaze follows her as she walks away, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to lunge across the table to wipe that look right off his face. His fucking wife is sitting two tables over, for god’s sake.

He turns back to me with a smirk that makes my fists clench. “She’s nice to look at, but not a great server. No idea how she got a promotion.”

My jaw tightens, rage coiling hot and fast in my gut.

“She works her ass off,” I bite out. “Of course she deserves it.” And she deserves better than this shit. Better than rich men judging her worth between mouthfuls of overpriced steak.

Winston’s smirk falters for just a second, his eyes widening slightly as he realizes he misstepped. Asshole .

I exhale sharply, forcing myself to relax before I do something stupid. “What can I do for you, Mayor?”

Candace is making her way back to me, stopping at a few tables on the way, and for the first time, something clicks.

I’ve looked at her before, of course I have, but this is different.

I’m seeing her through new eyes. The way she moves—confident, efficient, completely in control—it’s magnetic.

And suddenly, I realize how beautiful she is.

Not just in the way her blouse clings or how her curls catch the light, but in the strength she carries, the resilience she doesn’t even try to hide.

This isn’t just beauty. It’s power, and I can’t stop watching.

That same rhythm taps out on her notepad as she stops at a table. Repeated. Steady. A song only she can hear. The pieces fall into place. It’s not nerves. It’s habit. A private language I don’t speak. Yet.

Winston clears his throat, dragging my attention back to him. “It’s unusual seeing you here, so I thought I’d come over and speak.”

I lean back, rolling my glass between my fingers. “And here I thought you just missed me.”

Candace sets my drink down with a smile; small, fleeting, but there. Almost real.

“Thanks, darling.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows with a quick nod before she turns on her heel and heads straight for the kitchen.

That got to her. Interesting . She’s not easy to rattle, but I just found another crack in that carefully built armor.

I make a mental note to pay attention to what gets past her defenses.

Normally, I’d call her Sour Patch—sweet and sour, depending on the hour—but now I’ve got more ammo.

The way her pulse jumped? That kind of reaction doesn’t lie.

And I plan on cataloging every single one.

Winston’s jaw tightens as he pulls his shoulders back, irritation rolling off him in waves.

“I’m going to find a way to shut your club down,” he grinds out, barely moving his lips.

Same old threat. He’s been saying that since he took office, but the problem is he can’t. The town loves us.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t take him seriously. Not because of his words, but because men like Winston never say something unless they’re already pulling strings. I clock the twitch of his eye, the minuscule shift in his jaw; all tells he can’t hide. He’s not just posturing. He’s planning.

Winston’s daughter, Darla, is a complication all her own.

We have history; reckless, ill-advised history.

We hooked up once. She latched on after that night, showing up more often than I ever wanted.

It was a mistake, and one I’ve done my best not to repeat.

But Darla’s not the type to let go easily.

He thinks she’s headed for some prepped-up Ivy League future, but she wants the chaos and sharp edges. Our world. She’s chasing it harder than ever, sneaking into the clubhouse every chance she gets.

I glance across the room. Darla sits beside her mother, composed and perfectly dressed. A picture of propriety. But I know better. That polish is a mask. Beneath it, she’s still the same girl looking for ways to burn down everything her father built.

Her eyes find mine. A tilt of her chin, subtle and challenging. A flash of something dangerous in her gaze. It’s restless, bold, and just unhinged enough to make my gut knot. Winston may think he controls everything, but he’s got no idea what kind of fire he’s dealing with.

I meet his gaze again. “Try it,” I murmur. “But you take that road, you better be ready for what’s waiting at the end of it.”

My voice stays low, even. But my blood hums with warning. Winston hears it. That flicker of hesitation in his eyes tells me he knows exactly what I’m capable of. And that I’m not bluffing.

He doesn’t reply. Just walks off, stiff and seething.

Candace returns with my food, her expression unreadable.

“You didn’t spit in it, did you?”

She scoffs. “Yep.”

The curve of her mouth is all bite. But the quick glance she gives me isn’t just sharp. It’s searching, as if she’s trying to decide whether I’m still the threat she’s always assumed I am.

I chuckle, wrapping my hands around the burger, then lock eyes with her as I take a deliberate bite. Her expression shifts, just slightly but enough. The way her breath hitches. The way her eyes widen just a fraction.

It’s not the food that has her rattled. It’s me. This . Whatever’s thrumming between us, thick and hot and full of questions neither of us wants to ask.

I chew, swallow, and give her a slow once-over. “Nah, you didn’t.”

She crosses her arms. “How do you know?”

Her voice isn’t as steady as she wants it to be.

I reach out, my fingers curling lightly around her wrist as my thumb brushes over her pulse.

It’s erratic, betraying her. And damn if that doesn’t please me more than I should admit.

The pulse beneath my thumb is a drumbeat.

Wild. Defiant. Not unlike the rhythm she taps when she thinks no one’s watching.

“Because, darling,” I murmur, voice low, intimate, just for her, “I’d know if I ever got a taste of you.”

Her breath snags. The air between us thickens, charged and electric. Her mouth opens just barely, but no sound comes out. For a moment, neither of us moves. The restaurant noise dims, as if the world’s holding its breath.

Then she pulls back, wrist slipping from my fingers. But not fast. Not frantic. Measured. Controlled. Her walls snap back into place, armor solid once more, but not before I see it. The tremble. The flush. The flicker of heat she fails to hide.

She walks away, spine stiff, head high. But her hands? Shaking.

I sit back, smirking into my drink, knowing I just found another crack in the armor.

This isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.