Page 15 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

Heat spreads over my skin, wildfire licking at every inch, my body betraying me in ways I refuse to acknowledge. Did he really just say that? And, worst of all, did I actually react to it?

I take a step back, putting space between us, keeping my eyes locked onto his in a silent dare. A reminder of exactly who he is. Malachi Hayes is everything I’m running from. Everything I swore I wouldn’t let myself get tangled up in.

A subtle tremor runs through me, reminding me that my body doesn’t always obey the logic in my head.

I curl my fingers into my palm, nails biting against skin, anchoring myself in the sharp sting.

It’s that or give away how deeply he’s already unraveling me.

Even now, his scent of leather, spice, and an edge of danger lingers in the air around me.

My lips press into a thin line as I force my mind onto something, anything else.

Because giving in to these feelings isn’t an option.

My chest rises too fast, breath shallow and uneven, lungs struggling to keep pace with my pulse. The way he said it—low, unapologetic, each damn syllable weighted with intent—echoes through my ribs, striking something deep and resonant.

I force my focus back where it belongs: getting the hell out of this town.

Keep saving money. Keep working. Keep my head down and my goals in sight.

Every hour here is another dollar toward the bus ticket out.

The memory of my half-empty fridge and the bare spot where our couch used to be flickers through my mind.

My father sold it months ago. Said we needed the cash, but somehow his recliner still sits in the corner, positioned with the arrogance of a damn throne.

The image fuels my determination to escape.

Malachi is nothing but a roadblock. A distraction wrapped in a dangerously tempting package.

He has nothing to offer me except maybe, maybe , a good orgasm.

I’m not about to throw myself at him like every other girl who falls for his bullshit charm.

If he wants an easy lay, he can find it somewhere else.

Still, something about the way he looked at me just now—serious, uncertain, as if I mattered in a way that scared him too—lodges in my ribs, a splinter I can’t ignore.

I turn on my heel, straighten my spine, and shake off the way his voice curled around my name with dangerous intent. That’s all it is. Words. Meant to mess with me. Meant to see if I’ll bite.

I won’t. Yet a tiny traitor inside wonders if I’d snap if I let myself. I clamp down on it hard .

A quick glance at my phone screen reminds me of how many hours I’ve been on my feet.

My lower back aches, my calves burn. But none of that physical strain compares to the mental tug-of-war raging in my head.

The restaurant has quieted, a few tables empty now, giving me the perfect excuse to get far, far away from Malachi’s gravitational pull.

My eyes scan the room, and I spot the mayor’s table.

Under my breath, too soft for anyone to hear, I catch myself humming.

Just a few bars of an old melody; the one I used to sing when I needed courage.

The moment I notice, I stop, swallowing the habit as if it exposes a weakness.

I was kind of a bitch to him earlier, so I should probably go check in.

I don’t know what he and Malachi were talking about, but the air was thick with something I couldn’t quite place.

Now, standing here, I have to ask myself, why did I instinctively dismiss the mayor instead of Malachi?

Because, despite everything, standing up for the Outsiders is ingrained in me. They may be a mess. A dangerous, complicated mess. But so am I. No matter how much I claim to hate them.

I inhale, smooth out my expression, and make my way to Mr. Graves’ table with a practiced smile. It’s fake, but it does the job. “Mr. Graves, would you like a refill?”

My gaze flickers to Mrs. Graves, and I take in the way she clutches her wine glass, fingers tight around the stem as if she’s had more than enough of both the drink and whatever tension lingers between them.

I wonder what he’s hiding behind closed doors.

If the charming, respectable politician is just another mask.

A half-formed question flickers through my head.

Does his wife know more than she lets on, or is she just another pawn in his game?

Then I see their daughter.

Holy. Shit.

Darla.

The same girl from last night that was hanging all over Malachi.

Her wide, panicked eyes meet mine, and for a split second, I see it.

The fear. The pleading. It’s the same fear that used to keep me up at night.

The terror of being truly seen and still dismissed.

Daddy doesn’t know she spends her nights somewhere he wouldn’t approve of.

I could call her out. I could ruin whatever perfect image she’s desperate to maintain. She was a bitch to me for no reason; maybe it would serve her right.

But I get it.

I get what it’s like to live under expectations that don’t fit. To pretend to be something you’re not just to keep the peace.

So, with the smallest nod, I let her off the hook.

Her shoulders drop, relief washing over her, and she offers me a small, grateful smile. I wonder if she realizes how close she came to being exposed. The fragility in her eyes speaks volumes, and I remember all the times I’ve felt that same vulnerability.

“I think we’re done for the night. Can we have our check?”

Mr. Graves looks back at me, and I know that look. The judgment. He knows who my father is. He thinks I don’t belong here, that I don’t deserve the job I fought for. But he can go to hell. I work harder than half the staff here, and I don’t need his approval.

“Yes, of course,” I say, keeping my voice even.

I walk away, heading to the register in the corner to print his check. The ache in my feet becomes a dull, relentless drumbeat. Each step steady. Each breath a silent count toward freedom. One hour closer to escape.

The exhaustion hits me all at once, settling deep in my bones. I just want to clock out, go home, and pretend none of this night happened. My feet throb in protest, and my temple pulses in sync. Another day, another shift, another night trying to keep my life from toppling over.

Ruby steps up beside me. “Everything okay?”

I force another smile, one that feels heavier than before, and nod. “Mr. Graves asked for his check.”

I hand it to her. It’s her table, not mine. And I’m done.

Ruby takes the receipt but doesn’t move. Instead, she studies me, her head tilting just slightly. “Everything okay with Mr. MMA fighter?” Her smirk is loaded with insinuation. “He’s staring at you.”

I don’t have to look to know she’s right.

I can feel it. The weight of his gaze, clinging with the heat of bare skin.

That stare isn’t just heavy. It’s possessive.

As if, despite my retreat, he’s already claimed a battle I refuse to fight.

The realization that he hasn’t left sinks into me, heavy as a stone.

Does he have nowhere better to be, or is torturing me his new favorite hobby?

Like I said earlier, he can stare all he wants. Doesn’t mean I have to care.

I roll my eyes. “Like I told you before, he can look all he wants. I don’t want anything to do with him.

” The words come out sharp, harsher than I meant, and Ruby rears back slightly, blinking in surprise.

Guilt knots in my stomach. She doesn’t deserve my anger, but I can’t fix it right now.

I spin on my heel and walk away, each step echoing with unspoken apologies.

“Candace!” she calls after me, but I keep moving, heading straight for the restroom.

Once inside, I lock myself in a stall and press my back against the door, squeezing my eyes shut.

Breathe in. Breathe out. My breath shakes out in a ragged rhythm.

It almost sounds like a song beat. My pulse keeps time to a melody I’ve sworn to forget.

I wasn’t mad at Ruby; I was mad at myself.

At whatever stupid, reckless part of me had actually reacted to Malachi’s words.

For one dizzy second, I wonder if I’d fall so easily if I ever let myself, and that thought scares me more than I want to admit.

I swallow hard, forcing down the sudden lump in my throat.

I’m so damn tired. Tired of working nonstop.

Of always being the strong one. Tired of holding everything together while wanting, just once, to let loose.

But those thoughts are useless. They won’t get me anywhere.

My reflection wouldn’t recognize the girl who once filled notebooks with lyrics about escape, defiance, desire.

That voice? Gone. Packed away with the rest of my foolishness.

I shake them off, push them down, and leave the stall, heading for the sink.

Then I see her. Darla.

She’s not the same girl from last night. The one with the cigarette dangling from her fingers, eyes lined in sharp, smoky black, watching me with a hunger that could tear me apart. Gone is the cropped band tee, leather miniskirt, and the rebellion she wore as armor.

Now, she’s all soft edges. Delicate lace, bare shoulders, freckles standing out beneath the harsh lights.

But is this really her?

I watch the way she carries herself. Poised, too controlled, lips pressed together as if holding back words that don’t belong in this setting. Maybe this is just another costume. The version of herself her family expects her to be; the good girl, the golden one.

She catches my eye in the mirror and hesitates before speaking.

“Hi.” Her voice is low, raspy. She wets her lips, inhales deeply, then twists a silver ring around her finger, each rotation a silent brace for what’s coming. “Thanks for not calling me out in front of my parents.”

I let the water run over my hands, watching her through the mirror as I reach for a paper towel. “It’s not my place,” I say simply.

She shifts on her feet. “Sorry I was a bitch last night.” Her mouth presses into a tight line, her gaze flickering to the floor before she shakes her head. There’s something sad there, something raw. “I’ve had a crush on Malachi for a long time, and I saw the way he was looking at you.”

Something twists in my stomach. Not quite guilt, not quite satisfaction.

Just heat. A slow, undeniable burn at another confirmation that Malachi looks at me differently than other women.

My breath catches at the thought of him checking me out the same way he did last night, that unwavering stare that sends sparks through my veins.

Darla steps forward, as if she wants to say more, but hesitates.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. It feels as though we’re standing on opposite sides of a glass wall, both pretending we’re fine.

Both cracking. Then, with a half-hearted shrug, she lets out a breath.

“I’m really not a bitch. No matter what Frankie says.

” A small smile tugs at her lips. “Anyway, I saw you come in here and wanted to clear the air.”

I study her for a moment before making a decision. Slowly, I extend my hand. “Let’s start over. I’m Candace.”

She blinks, surprised, before realization dawns. Tentatively, she reaches out, shaking my hand. “I’m Darla.”

I hold her gaze, considering everything she just admitted, then ask the question sitting at the tip of my tongue. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

Her lips part, and a slow, embarrassed flush creeps up her cheeks before she nods. “Yeah.” She swallows. “It was months ago. Right before he became president, I think. A one-time thing.” Her expression tightens. “I think he did it because he hates my father, not because he actually wanted me.”

A rock settles in my stomach at that little revelation. What an asshole. Just another reason to hate him. Yet an unwanted flicker of something else sparks deep in my gut. Jealousy, maybe, or plain annoyance that he gave himself so easily to someone else. I clamp down on it, refusing to let it grow.

“I’m sorry he did that,” I say, and I mean it.

She scoffs. “Honestly? I think I did it because I hate my father too. But I’ve been stupidly trying to get Malachi’s attention ever since.

” She exhales, shaking her head. “Then I saw you blow him off last night, and it kind of woke me up. And now? Seeing him here tonight? It just… solidified everything. I don’t actually like him.

Not really. And I sure as hell don’t want to be desperate for someone who doesn’t want me back. ”

I nod, understanding more than I care to admit. “Then go find someone who doesn’t make you feel that way,” I tell her. “You’re worth more than that.” The words taste of something I should tell myself. But that’s harder. Easier to hand out strength than claim it.

“I guess we both know what it’s like to live in someone else’s shadow.

” She straightens, a new spark in her eyes, and her smile grows.

A real one this time. “Thanks. I think I will.” She pauses, then adds, “I’m heading to Frankie’s tattoo shop tonight.

Want to come?” She lifts a brow, glancing toward the door.

“Well… once I can escape my dad’s ever-watchful eye. ”

I think about it. The way I just snapped at Ruby, the way exhaustion clings to me, the way I need a damn break, and decide. Yeah, that sounds perfect.

“I’m in,” I say. “Mind if I bring a friend?”

“Of course! I’ll let Frankie know. See you later.” She offers a small wave and disappears through the door.

I check the time; only one more hour before I can finally get out of here.

A smirk tugs at my lips as I walk back onto the floor, already knowing what I’m going to do next.

My heart rate picks up at the thought of his reaction when I blow him off yet again.

Let him simmer. Let him wonder why I can’t be baited the way the others are.

Since the restaurant has slowed down, I’ll hand off Malachi’s table to another waitress. Let him stare all he wants. This time, I won’t look back.

A subtle thrill runs through me at the defiance in that thought.

If he wants to chase me, he can run. I’m done playing by his rules and letting my body betray me in his presence.

One more hour, and I’m out the door. Into a night of freedom that might let me forget, at least briefly, how much this man has already rattled my defenses.

And if I hum to myself, if a lyric slips loose from the prison I built, I’ll pretend it means nothing.