Page 29 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

I’m leaning against my bike outside the country club, arms crossed as though I’ve got all the time in the world.

I don’t. Not when it comes to her. The sun hangs low behind me, casting long shadows that stretch across the parking lot, fingers reaching for something they can’t hold.

Asphalt radiates leftover heat, the faint scent of warm tar mixing with pine and engine grease.

A bead of sweat trails down my spine, caught beneath the collar of my cut, but I don’t move. Not even when the door opens.

When Candace steps outside, the rest of the world blurs.

Late sunlight glances off her curls, turning them to spun gold.

A breeze lifts the hem of her shirt, brushing cool air against sweat-slicked skin.

The scent of wildflowers and gasoline rushes past as a breeze cuts between us.

It’s her scent, that same warm-sharp blend of sweetness and steel I can’t seem to forget.

She’s ditched her uniform for ripped jeans that cling to her legs the way a second skin would and a cropped black tee that leaves nothing to the imagination.

She doesn’t walk so much as saunter, moving with authority that claims every inch of ground her boots touch and dares anyone to question it.

Confidence poured into curves. Fire wrapped in flesh.

Candace looks every bit the embodiment of trouble dressed in temptation. All wild blonde curls and sun-warmed skin, eyes that could freeze fire, and a mouth I’ve dreamed of ruining. There’s no softness in her. Except maybe her lips, and even those carry the kind of edge that promises danger.

She doesn’t move for anyone. Doesn’t pose. Doesn’t preen. She doesn’t have to. She’s magnetic without even trying, and I’m the idiot already pulled into her orbit.

Candace stops in front of me with that raised eyebrow and tight-lipped smirk, carrying the smug awareness of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Maybe she does.

I hold out a helmet and a leather jacket that’s a size too big. My hands brush hers and I don’t miss the way her fingers linger. Warm. Steady. And fucking lethal to my self-control.

The second our skin touches, heat licks up my wrist. A silent dare. My thumb grazes the callus on her palm. It’s rough from work, from training, from life. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t say a word. Just lets that contact hang there for a breath too long.

She doesn’t argue. Just takes the gear, straps on the helmet, then shrugs into the jacket like we do this every day.

Last time I offered her a ride, she looked at me through the eyes of someone staring down a blade she didn’t want to touch. Now? She slides behind me and wraps her arms around my waist—and that’s it. That’s the moment I lose all sense of rational thought.

Candace’s chest presses to my back. Her thighs grip the sides of mine.

Her body melts into me, fitting there with ease that feels inevitable.

She doesn’t say a word, but her breath hits the base of my neck and it’s pure, unfiltered gasoline on a slow burn I’ve been trying to smother since the night she bet on me to win the fight.

The heat of her palms seeps through my shirt.

The press of her body against me has every muscle locked tight to keep from pulling her closer.

I want to pull her around and let her feel exactly what she does to me.

Want to tip her chin up, slide my hands under that shirt, and taste every inch she’s tried to keep off limits.

But I don’t. I fire up the engine and ride us into the quiet.

The silence between us isn’t awkward. It’s charged. Tense. As though if either of us speaks, it’ll shatter the fragile thread of control we’re both clinging to. And maybe… maybe she’s clinging to it even harder than I am.

When we pull into the lot, the clubhouse is quieter than usual. Weeknight hush. The kind that wraps around you in a thick blanket.

“You eat yet?” I ask as she swings off the bike.

She shakes her head. “No. Place was slammed. Tournament coming up this weekend.” Her voice is tired.

Not just physically. Worn around the edges, frayed from carrying too much weight for too long.

The kind of tired that settles into your bones and makes you forget what it felt to be light.

Her sigh says more than the words. She’s tired of that life, the forced smiles, the shitty tips, the people who look straight through her as though she’s furniture.

“Maggie dropped off a casserole.”

She hums at that, tongue peeking out to swipe her bottom lip. I stare too long. Again.

Inside, a few of the guys are half-watching Die Hard with beers in hand. They nod as we pass, but we keep walking up the stairs to the space above it all. My room. Our room if I let myself imagine things I shouldn’t.

She sits on the edge of my bed, appearing to test it. Appearing to test me. Her fingers brush along the comforter, uncertain whether to get comfortable or run.

“Do you think you’ll stay here forever?” she asks.

I lean back against the counter. “Never really thought about it. It works for now. But maybe one day… if I get married, have a family, I’ll get a house.”

She doesn’t react much. But her eyes roam the room, already redesigning it. Picturing a future and trying not to.

“There’s potential here,” she says. “Could be more than just a bedroom.”

“You’ve been thinking about this?”

She shrugs. Not answering is answer enough.

Her gaze flicks toward her guitar in the corner.

The one she never plays for me. Her thumb rubs a small scar near her wrist, the nervous habit she always has when lyrics swirl in her head but won’t come out loud.

A beat she keeps when the silence feels too sharp.

Microwave beeps. I stir the food, trying to ignore how close she’s sitting.

How her bare midriff is just right there.

How she keeps chewing her bottom lip like it’s not driving me fucking insane.

The shirt rides up every time she shifts, revealing smooth skin I’ve imagined under different circumstances, under different lighting, under me.

“I’ve got two fights this weekend. Want to come?”

She hesitates. Long enough that I almost regret asking. “Yeah,” she says, low. “I like watching you fight.”

She still won’t look at me. Instead, she picks at a thread like it might unravel the part of her she’s holding together with duct tape and pride. Like if she tugs too hard, the whole thing might come undone.

“Think you and I could start sparring?” she asks suddenly. “I miss it. The training. The… focus.”

“Hell yeah. I go to Coach Tompkins’ three times a week. You should come.”

“I can’t—”

“Money’s not an issue.”

The second I say it, I see the fire light behind her eyes. She hates that. The idea of being someone’s burden, even if the only one making her feel that way is her.

Then her shoulders drop, just this once too tired to keep fighting me. For one second, it might be a relief not to stand alone.

“Okay.”

We eat standing. The silence is comfortable but tense. The air between us is thick enough to drown in. Her fork scrapes the plate softly, her fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the countertop edge. One I’ve started to recognize. One she uses to keep the world from closing in.

“I’ve got a proposition,” I say finally. She gives me a sidelong glance, chewing. “Kyle’s patching in soon. I need him more at the shop, which opens up a spot at the bar. I want you to take it.”

Her fork hits the counter with the crack of a gunshot. Her whole body tightens. “Is this some fucked-up way to keep tabs on me?”

“No,” I say, stepping in. “It’s a better job. Better pay. No rich assholes calling you sweetheart and stiffing you on tips.”

“You think I need you to save me?” she snaps.

“No. I think you deserve better. That’s all.”

She throws her hands up, pacing. “You don’t get it. I’m not some charity case. I know you think I’m just some damaged girl who needs fixing—”

“I don’t want to fix you,” I growl, moving in. “I just want you. As you are.”

She spins, and I see it all. Confusion, anger, desire. She wants to claw her way out of this tension but can’t. Her skin is too tight with it. I’ve opened a door she doesn’t know how to close.

“Why? Why the hell do you care?”

I don’t answer with words. I stalk forward, closing the distance. She backs up until her spine meets the wall. Still, I don’t touch her. Not yet. I let the anticipation hang there. Let her feel it.

“You can take care of yourself,” I whisper, bracing my hands on either side of her head, caging her in. “But you don’t have to anymore. Not with me.”

Her chest heaves, and I watch the pulse jump in her throat.

Her breath catches, lips parting. The heat between us doesn’t just burn; it suffocates.

It roars in my ears, louder than the blood pounding in my chest. Her breath mingles with mine, shallow and fast. My hands flex against the wall, fighting the urge to touch skin I’ve already memorized in dreams.

“I hate you,” she whispers. But her voice cracks. The lie in it is paper thin.

“Lie,” I murmur, dragging my nose along her jaw. I graze her earlobe with my teeth and she lets out a sound. Half gasp, half moan.

She slams her palms into my chest and, for a split second, I think she’s going to shove me. But her hands don’t push. They grab. Fist into my shirt like I’m the only thing keeping her from sinking. That’s all I need.