Page 19 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

The air in the meeting room is thick with unspoken frustration.

Nash, East, and I sit in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts as we wait for James and Knox to return.

The ceiling fan hums overhead, stirring stale air scented with old coffee, leather, and tension that never quite clears from these walls.

Chuck still hasn’t shown up. That fact alone gnaws at me.

We extended a hand, but he’s too far gone to reach for it.

A dull ache builds behind my temples. Frustration, sure, but something heavier too.

A weight I can’t shake whenever her name is even close to this room.

East offered him a job at the shop, but he shot it down without a second thought. Maybe it was pride, maybe it was something darker. Either way, the excuses are wearing thin. And I’m tired of chasing ghosts who don’t want to be found.

The door opens, pulling me from my thoughts. James walks in, followed by Knox. His tone carries an edge when he speaks.

“Candace just got here.”

A flicker of heat rises, sharp and unwelcome.

Her name shouldn’t do this to me. I brace my palm against the table’s edge, grounding myself.

The wood is cool, rough under my skin; something real to hold on to.

A mix of heat and anger churns in my gut.

The intensity of it catches me off guard, and I have to school my expression before anyone notices.

She showed up. But her fucking dad couldn’t.

Of course not. He’s never where it counts. Not for her.

Maybe I shouldn’t care, but I do. More than I want to admit.

There’s a part of me, twisted and restless, that hoped she wouldn’t come today.

That way, I could stop thinking about the way she looked at me last time, as if she were one second away from either slapping me or kissing me.

The kind of stare that strips the armor clean off you and dares you to flinch.

But she came. Now she’s here just a few walls away and all I can think about is the way her voice hardens when she’s pushing me away.

.. And how soft I know it could sound if she ever lets herself stop fighting me.

I roll my shoulders, easing the tight pull across my back. A bead of sweat trails down my spine. The room feels smaller suddenly. Hotter. As though her presence changed the air before she even stepped through the damn door.

Knox moves to his seat, shaking his head slightly. “The meat is ready, but Sloane’s introducing Candace to the girls. Figured we’d give them a minute while we finish this discussion.”

I nod, forcing my focus back to the matter at hand. “We need to make a decision.”

East flips open the ledger, scanning the neat columns of numbers. “Everyone’s paid except Chuck. He’ll be past due in a few days.”

I drag a hand down my beard, considering. The bristles rasp beneath my palm, grounding, repetitive. “We’re going to have to hold a vote—”

A knock on the door cuts me off.

James glances at me for confirmation, and I nod. He opens the door, and there he is. Chuck. My gut tenses. He looks worse than the last time. My instincts bristle, ready for the blow I’m sure is coming.

He lingers at the threshold for a beat too long, as if he’s not sure he belongs anymore.

The light catches his face, casting shadows across the deep grooves etched into his skin.

His eyes are sunken, rimmed with exhaustion, and his clothes hang a little looser than they used to.

As though the weight of everything he’s carrying is slowly stripping him down.

His cut is still clean, still intact, but he looks as though he’s a man barely holding on.

Ragged. Frayed at the seams. But trying.

Trying. That’s what keeps me from telling him to turn around and get the hell out. Maybe that’s why we don’t tear into him the second he walks through that door.

Because under all the wear and damage, there’s a flicker of something we haven’t seen in a while—resolve.

Maybe guilt or shame. Maybe just the knowledge that Candace is here and he’s got to at least pretend to be the father she used to believe in.

Whatever it is, it’s enough to keep us seated. Watching.

James claps him on the back, welcoming him in his usual easy going way. The rest of us? We stay quiet. We’re not sold, but we’re listening.

“What’s going on, Chuck?” I ask, keeping my voice measured.

His hand moves inside his cut, and Nash stiffens beside me, ready. But it’s not a weapon he pulls out; it’s an envelope. He sets it on the table with a heavy finality.

“That’s my dues. This month, plus the next two.” He swallows hard, dragging a hand down his vest. “Figured I’d pay ahead while I had the money.”

Knox, East, and I share a look. Where the hell did he get that kind of cash?

East leans forward, opening the envelope and flipping through the bills. His brow furrows slightly as he scans the stack, then lifts his eyes to me. East counts them, notes the amount in the ledger, then tears out a receipt.

“Offer still stands if you want to work at the shop,” East says, watching him carefully.

Chuck hesitates only a second before nodding. “Yeah, I think I’ll take you up on that.”

I lean back, considering him. I don’t trust it, not for a second. But if he’s at the shop, we can keep an eye on him. Keep him close enough to read.

East glances my way, waiting for approval. I give a slight nod.

“Be there at ten on Monday morning,” East says. “We have some business to take care of, but we’ll be back by then.”

Chuck nods again. “Thank you.” He turns and walks out.

Silence hangs thick in the room after he leaves. It settles over us the way smoke does—acrid, clinging, impossible to ignore.

East leans forward, flipping the envelope open again, fingers brushing the edges of the bills. His brow furrows. “His hands were shaking.”

Knox narrows his gaze. “You see that?” he murmurs.

Yeah. I saw it. And I don’t like it. The bills are crisp. Too crisp. As if they came from somewhere fast and dirty. As if blood money got cleaned up with rubber gloves and regret.

Knox is the first to break the thicker silence. “Where the hell did he get that money?”

I exhale slowly. “I’m wondering the same thing. Him being here will help us figure it out.”

What I don’t say—what I won’t say—is that with Candace here, maybe she’ll start to see we’re not all the monsters she thinks we are. Maybe she’ll start talking to me. Really talking.

I’ve never wanted a woman to talk to me as much as I want her to talk to me.

Usually, it’s simple. A glance, a grin, a few hours of distraction, then done. No strings. No expectations. I don’t chase. I don’t wait.

But with her? Hell, I’d wait all damn day just to hear her say something that isn’t laced with venom.

Yeah, I deserve some of it. I pushed her buttons. Still do. But there’s something more behind the way she looks at me; as if she already decided I’m the villain in her story and doesn’t care to hear the rest.

My thumb scrapes absently against the table’s edge. Waiting. Always waiting. I don’t get it. I don’t understand why her anger toward me feels personal. Why she looks at me as if I’m the one who left her behind. As if I broke something I didn’t even know I was holding.

The worst part?

Even through the sharp words and cold stares… I still fucking want her.

I want the sound of her voice when she’s not using it as a weapon. Need to hear what her laugh sounds like when she’s not on guard. Crave the sight of her hair tangled in my hands, not pulled back to shield herself.

I want her.

And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.