Page 18 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

The rumble of Dad’s bike firing up outside sends a sharp pang through my stomach, a heavy, sickening weight settling deep in my gut.

A sharp breath catches in my throat. I clamp my fingers around the countertop edge, knuckles whitening until the ache grounds me.

But I don’t move. I just listen to the growling engine and tires crunching the gravel until the sound fades into the distance as if a door slammed shut behind him.

No goodbye. Not that I expected one.

The cold shoulder’s been a given since my outburst at the clubhouse last month.

But the irony stings. He caused a full-blown scene just last weekend, and now here I am.

Cleaned up and dressed as if this is some kind of apology tour.

A peace offering served up on a disposable plate at a family-style lunch I never wanted to attend.

Frankie and Darla have been hinting I should come back, gently nudging, then not-so-gently pushing. They say I belong here. But what does that even mean? I’ve spent half my life trying to prove I don’t.

Still, here I am. No more sidestepping. No more excuses.

I face the mirror, tilting my head slightly, adjusting the way my denim jacket drapes off one shoulder.

It’s soft with wear, the kind of jacket that looks as though it’s got stories to tell.

An old habit pops up and I press my thumb against the stitching along the cuff.

The rhythm of the pressure mimics a silent beat pulsing in my mind; a song lyric I wrote weeks ago, half-finished and folded inside my bag.

Out of the corner of my eye, the neck of my guitar peeks from where it leans against the wall. I haven’t touched it in weeks. Maybe months. Just the sight of it sends a pulse through my chest; a chord not yet played. A reminder that there’s still music in me, even if I keep it quiet.

I glance down at my shirt—“Desperado” scrawled across the chest in worn, vintage lettering—and give the hem a tug, debating whether to tuck it or let it hang loose. I go with loose. It matches the mood.

Then there are the shorts. Frayed, faded, and undeniably short. They sit just right on my hips, cinched tight with a belt that sparkles with defiance. I know these shorts are a weapon and I know exactly whose eyes they’re meant to cut.

My jaw tightens. His eyes will follow. They always do. Whether he means them to or not.

I don’t care what Malachi thinks. Or how his gaze lingers a little too long and how his fingers twitch as if they want to reach. I don’t care about the heat that simmers just beneath the surface every time we’re near each other.

Except… I do. And I hate that I do.

I shake the thought off with a curse and head outside, sunlight already too bright against the quiet weight sitting heavy in my chest. The heat wraps around me the second I step out, warm air clinging to my skin as I slide into my car.

The drive to the clubhouse is short but tense.

Familiar roads stretch out in front of me, dotted with broken sidewalks and peeling street signs.

I drum my fingers against the steering wheel at red lights, jaw tight.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The beat matches a lyric I can’t let myself sing.

Not here. Not now. Every turn of the tires pulls me deeper into a place I’ve been trying to outrun for years.

My thoughts swirl around Malachi, Dad, this damn lunch I never asked for.

I catch my eyes in the rearview mirror at a stop sign, and something flickers in them I don’t want to examine.

Not hope. Not fear. Just… noise. But underneath the noise, something steadier thrums. A quiet vow. I won’t fold this time.

I park off to the side of the clubhouse lot, gravel crunching beneath my tires, and kill the engine. For a few seconds, I just sit there, engine ticking as it cools. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

Get out. Breathe . I glance at the passenger seat. My worn leather notebook sits half-tucked in my bag, the corner of a folded lyric page peeking out. I shove it deeper, as if hiding it will keep the weight in my chest from spilling over.

I swing the door open, boots crunching against the gravel, and finally step into the chaos.

The parking lot buzzes with noise—gravel crunching under boots, the low murmur of engines cooling, laughter spilling from the clubhouse.

Kids race through the crowd with neon Nerf guns, shrieking as they take cover behind parked bikes.

A girl sits alone on the curb, nose buried in a dog-eared book, feet stretched out in front of her.

That used to be me. My throat tightens. For a second, it feels as though I’m looking through a window to a past life. One where belonging meant finding corners to disappear into.

Back when Dad brought me to these things, I’d sit off to the side with a notebook or a crossword, anything to disappear while the world moved around me.

I still write almost every day. It’s the only thing that keeps me from falling apart.

Every song lyric, every line of poetry, are little pieces of a future I can still pretend might exist.

One day, I’ll take those pages and leave this town behind. Build a life that doesn’t have to hurt.

Smoke from the smoker curls in the air, thick with hickory and slow-cooked meat.

The scent tugs something deep in my chest; comfort laced with memory.

My stomach flips as I spot James and Knox near the grill.

Knox adjusts the smoker lid while James gestures with a beer in hand.

But someone’s missing. My gaze sweeps the lot, instinct searching for him.

Malachi. He’s not here. Relief should come. Instead, my stomach knots tighter.

I pause on the outskirts of the lot, eyes drifting across the crowd, then back to James. And I wonder, not for the first time, if he knew my mom.

She died when I was little. At least, that’s what Dad always said. No details, no funeral, just the hard, final truth of it. She was gone, and she wasn’t coming back. But the older I get, the more questions I have about the way she disappeared. How final it was. How convenient.

Sometimes I still wonder what really took her. If it was the life—this club, the chaos—or if it was something darker, something she carried inside her long before the end.

Because the truth is, she wasn’t some sweet, doting mother. She was sharp-edged and cold, always more smoke than warmth. Some nights, I’d lie in bed listening to her scream at my dad, at anyone who crossed her. On the rare days she showed me kindness, it felt more accidental than intentional.

But when she died, everything still fell apart.

My dad used to be someone before her death. He wasn’t perfect, but he was present. Made breakfast on Saturdays and tucked me in. He used to smile. Not that hollow, boozy grin he wears now, but a real one. I was a daddy’s girl once. And he was a father worth having.

Then she was gone, and so was he. Not overnight, but fast enough that it left me dizzy. One day I was his whole world, the next, I was just someone in the room while he fell apart.

And James? James tried to fill the space. He still tries.

There’s a new weight in his eyes. Pride maybe, but also something softer. Something tired. As if he’s been carrying too much for too long, and seeing me here eases it, even if only a little.

I didn’t notice it when I was younger. But now, it’s impossible to miss. The quiet loyalty of a man who holds steady, even when the people he cares about lose their footing. I don’t say anything, but I see it now. How much he’s still trying, in his own quiet way.

James notices me first. His whole face lights up. “There she is.” The knot in my chest eases a fraction. Just a fraction.

Warmth swells in my throat. Knox gives a smaller smile, the kind that still manages to say a lot. His gaze tracks over my outfit with a subtle lift of his brow—approval, maybe. Or amusement.

“I’m glad you came, hon,” James says, wrapping me in a hug before I can dodge it. I stiffen, breath catching, but only for a moment. Then my eyes slip closed. The scent of smoke and leather wraps around me, echoing a song I’d forgotten the words to.

For just a second, I let myself relax into it. His arms are strong, steady. Not demanding. Not hurtful. Just... there.

It’s been a long time since anyone held me that way.

I step back before it can unravel me.

Knox tips his head toward a woman seated at a picnic table, legs crossed, expression distant. “Not sure if you’ve met my wife.”

Wife? My brows lift, but I say nothing.

She stands when she sees me, brushing a hand down her leopard-print skirt.

The top half of her dark hair is pinned back, the rest spilling down her shoulders in soft waves.

Tattoos wind up both arms, vibrant and unapologetic.

She’s beautiful in a wild, don’t-touch-me-unless-you’re-serious kind of way.

“Sloane,” she says, offering her hand. “And you must be Candace.”

I shake it, firm. “Nice to meet you.”

Her grip surprises me—strong, sure. A woman who knows the value of standing her ground.

“You too.” She smiles, something flickering behind her eyes. Loneliness? Weariness? She covers it fast. Then she links her arm through mine as if we’re old friends and steers me toward the clubhouse. “C’mon. Maggie and the others are inside.”

Her voice is warm but not overly sweet, suggesting she doesn’t do fake and doesn’t expect it from me either.

“I didn’t even know Knox was married,” I say as we walk.

Her mouth quirks. “That makes two of us.” The shadow behind her smile says more than the words.

I glance back. Knox doesn’t look our way. And Sloane doesn’t wait for him to. It’s not cold exactly. Just… distant. As if they’ve perfected the art of giving each other space.

“It was quick,” she adds after a pause. “A courthouse wedding.”

Her tone is light, too light, but there’s something careful in the way she says it. As though the truth is wrapped up tight behind a practiced smile she’s worn more than once. I don’t push. I recognize the armor when I see it.

Inside, the air is cooler, shadows dancing along the worn floorboards. The space buzzes with soft music, clinking dishes, and overlapping conversations. A few women gather around the pool table, laughing, drinks in hand.

Maggie spots me first. “Candace!!”

She pulls me into a hug, smelling of vanilla and bourbon, her long silver hair tumbling in soft waves past her shoulders.

There’s a weathered leather jacket hugging her frame and a glint in her blue-gray eyes that says she’s seen everything and still dares the world to give her more.

She presses a kiss to my cheek, and for a moment, I feel the way I did as a kid. Safe, wanted, seen.

My throat swells. A lyric stirs in the back of my mind. Safe is a place, not a person.

“Look at you,” she says, holding me at arm’s length. “Beautiful as ever.”

I glance at the food table. “I didn’t bring anything,” I admit, guilt flaring.

Sloane waves it off. “Next time. You’re here. That’s enough.”

Next time.

The words land heavy, sinking straight into my chest. They’re a stone dropped in deep water. I don’t know why it hits me so hard. Maybe because part of me wants there to be a next time. Maybe because, for a moment, I let myself believe this could feel close to home again.

My fingers brush the edge of the folded lyric page in my pocket. One day, the words I’ve written will carry me somewhere new. But for now… maybe this is enough.

I sit with them, letting the rhythm of their laughter and conversation wash over me; it feels warm sunlight streaming through a cracked window.

I sip the sweet tea someone shoved into my hand.

It’s too sugary, but familiar in a way that’s hard to hate.

The longer I stay, the easier it gets. These women are loud and bold and complicated, yet somehow, I don’t feel out of place.

No one looks at me as if I’m broken. No one tiptoes around, waiting for me to snap. They see me. Not as Chuck’s kid. Not as some girl with too much baggage and a disappearing act on standby. Just… me.

Despite everything I’ve told myself, despite the years I’ve spent building walls so high no one could scale them, I want to stay.

But wanting something that badly? That’s dangerous. That’s how you get hurt.

So I fold that feeling up and tuck it somewhere deep, behind all the other things I refuse to want. I won’t let myself hope too much. I won’t let myself reach. Not yet.