Page 16 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

There’s a sharp knock on my door, and I scowl.

My waist is still wrapped in a towel from the shower I just took, steam still clinging to my skin, beads of water tracing warm paths along my arms. The leftover heat of the shower does nothing to ease the sharp chill running under my skin—a warning that today won’t end neatly. Or easily.

Another knock. Jesus Christ.

My muscles tense, irritation rising in a slow burn through my chest. The kind that crawls between your ribs and nests there. I rub the back of my neck, water-slicked fingers dragging goosebumps in their wake.

“Give me a damn second!” I shout, my voice edged with frustration that’s been building all day.

Raking a hand through my damp hair, I yank on a pair of jeans, the denim still stiff from the last wash, and tug a T-shirt over my clammy torso.

The fabric clings slightly to my skin, an unwelcome discomfort that only worsens my mood.

Every movement feels off—skin too tight, nerves wired too close to the surface.

Even as I move, my mind pulls toward Candace.

That name has been a splinter in my thoughts since dawn.

Sharp. Persistent. Lodged so deep I can’t stop poking it.

She blew me off at the restaurant, brushing me aside as if I meant nothing.

As if I hadn’t just told her exactly what I wanted; with honesty she’s never gotten from anyone before.

I went there to talk to her, to get answers, and she treated me as if I were just some asshole on the street.

Maybe I deserved that. Maybe I didn’t. But the way she avoided me after that comment about tasting her?

That shit pisses me off more than it should.

My pulse ticks in my throat as I swing the door open, bracing for whatever fresh problem is waiting on the other side.

Knox is leaning against the wall, arms loosely crossed, his stance seemingly casual, but I know better. He’s always watching, always calculating with sharp-eyed stillness. He’s already two steps ahead of whatever’s about to land at my feet.

His white T-shirt is crisp against the dark denim of his jeans, but the worn-in leather vest draped over his shoulders tells a different story.

Late nights on the road, sweat and dust layered into the leather itself, a testament to battles fought in parking lots and back alleys.

The scent of smoke and oil clings faintly to him, familiar and grounding.

His eyes, dark and knowing, flick over me, taking in every detail. There’s no judgment, but there is expectation. The kind that makes your spine straighten even when you want to fold.

“Chuck is downstairs. He’s making a scene.”

My breath locks. Not again.

A sigh drags out of me, heavy and begrudging.

My fingers flex at my sides, searching for something to latch onto.

There’s no avoiding it. The weight of responsibility settles over my shoulders, clinging with the unyielding grip of a chain, a burden I can’t shake even if I wanted to. And in the middle of it, always, her .

My mind flashes back to the last time Chuck caused trouble and Candace stepped in to bail him out. My jaw tenses with the memory of that conversation, how determined she was to cover for him. How determined she was to avoid me. The image of her defiant, tired eyes sticks, thick and stubborn as tar.

I turn back into the room, forcing my feet into my boots. The laces dig into my fingers as I tie them too tight, a poor outlet for my frustration. The bite of leather against my knuckles helps. A little.

Knox doesn’t move, just waits, patient and unmoving, a shadow that’s become a fixture in my life. Outside, I can hear the faint buzz of the club. The distant bar chatter and clinks of glass are laced with an undercurrent of tension that never really goes away. A storm that’s never fully passed.

The second I hit the bar floor, the thick, smoky air envelops me, heavy with stale beer and old leather. The scent clings to the back of my throat, thick and persistent as memory. Then I hear him.

“I want a damn beer!”

Chuck’s voice is raw, thick with something more than just drunken aggression.

Desperation; the kind that curdles in the gut and turns into poison.

The rest of the club falls silent at his outburst. Tension radiates from every corner, a brewing storm with the scrape of boots and creak of stools. Every sound sharp and dangerous.

Kyle stands behind the bar, shoulders squared, jaw locked, trying to hold his ground. The air in the club is taut, thick with tension that puts men on edge. All eyes track every movement, every shift, as though the smallest spark could ignite a brawl.

Loyalty holds this place together. But it’s fraying.

I grind my teeth and push forward, grabbing Chuck’s arm. My fingers dig into his jacket, the sweat beneath it hot and sour.

He whirls, the wild look in his eyes screaming that he’s lost himself in whatever demons are clawing at him. His fist flies, and instinct takes over. I duck, his knuckles slicing through empty air before I grip both his arms and slam him against the bar.

The wood shudders under the impact, bottles rattling in their places, a few threatening to topple. My breath punches out of me from the force, but I hold him there, feeling the twitch of his muscles as they fight, not just me, but himself.

“Enough,” I bite out, voice low, a quiet force of control. My grip tightens. “You’re making a damn scene.” And dragging her name into the dirt with you.

His chest rises and falls in hard bursts, the sour scent of beer rolling off him. His pupils are blown, fury mixing with something else. Something hollow. Something broken. My mind flickers to Candace again at how hard she’s been working to keep their life from completely unraveling.

Is this the man she’s trying so fiercely to protect?

My gut twists. She’d burn herself to ash before asking for help.

“You can either follow me to the table and tell me what the hell is going on, or you can go home.” Please, for once, pick the path that doesn’t tear her apart.

For a second, he doesn’t move. His body vibrates with tension. I brace myself, ready for another fight, until his gaze flicks around the room. He finally sees what I do. The stares and judgment. The disappointment etched into the faces of men he calls brothers, men who used to look up to him.

His jaw clenches. Then, without a word, he shoves me away and storms toward the exit, the heavy metal door banging shut behind him with a resounding clang that echoes in the silence.

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down the back of my neck, the muscles tight with frustration. James meets my gaze, his own lined with something unreadable. I know what he’s thinking. Chuck’s meltdown is spiraling out of control, dragging Candace along for the ride, whether she wants it or not.

Turning to Nash, I jerk my chin toward the door. “Take him home. He doesn’t need to be driving. If he fights you on it, knock his ass out.”

Nash gives a solemn nod, then follows Chuck out. The tension lingers, a ghost refusing to leave, drifting through the club on a cold draft. East, ever the opportunist, slides off his barstool, an easy grin spreading across his face.

“Alright,” he drawls, stretching his arms behind his head. “Who wants to stand in front of the dartboard and let me throw darts at them?”

Laughter ripples through the club, just like that, the moment snapping back into something resembling normal. But it doesn’t sit right. Not with me. My gut churns with unresolved anger and a pang of concern for Candace, who’s probably at home cleaning up his mess without a single complaint.

Knox and I move to flank James, motioning for Kyle to come over. He does, shoulders still tense, the shadows of frustration flickering in his eyes.

“What happened?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

Kyle exhales heavily, rubbing his forehead.

“He asked for a pitcher. I told him he had to pay up front before I could serve him. He was already tipsy, but he slapped a twenty on the bar, so I poured it. By the time he finished, he wanted another. When I told him he didn’t have enough, he lost it.

Kept yelling about how a pitcher was ten bucks and he was a patched member, not some damn prospect.

” His jaw tightens. “Just kept getting more volatile from there.”

James nods grimly. “Kyle, you handled it exactly how you should’ve. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Kyle relaxes a fraction, then heads back to the bar. I motion to Knox and James, then we make our way to the meeting room, settling into our usual spots around the scarred wooden table. A few minutes later, East strolls in, his grin notably absent as he closes the door behind him.

James leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’ve been trying to talk to him these past few weeks, but he keeps brushing me off. Same story, over and over. Him and his daughter are struggling.”

East shares a look with me. “Dues are coming up, but he hasn’t said anything about not being able to pay.”

Knox scoffs. “If he can’t afford his beer, he sure as hell can’t afford his dues.”

I lean back, tension gnawing at my ribs.

“Candace has been avoiding me. I even went to the country club to see her. She handed me off to another server without a second glance. The other night, she came to my fight, then paid off his tab and his dues. First time I’ve ever seen her there.

She bet on the fight, won some cash. I’m guessing she did it to bail him out. ”

Knox’s eyes narrow. East frowns. Neither of them like that I kept this from them. Guilt prods me, but I shove it aside. I was trying to protect Candace’s pride, if nothing else, and she’s made it painfully clear she doesn’t want my help.

Scrubbing a hand down my face, I say, “I wasn’t keeping it from you intentionally. I was trying to get her story. But she won’t talk to me. She’s shutting me out. I wanted to get more before I brought it up.”