Page 3 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

The ground trembles beneath me, the low growl of approaching motorcycles sending vibrations up my legs.

Arms crossed tight over my chest, I stand at the curb, foot tapping against the concrete as impatience chews through me.

Any second now, the parade of arrogant bastards will turn onto my street, dragging this ridiculous tradition with them.

I steal a glance at my watch. Thirty minutes until my shift. Not enough time for this bullshit.

Then they appear.

The Outsiders round the corner, owning every inch of the road, Malachi Hayes at the front of the pack. My jaw clenches, a spike of irritation shooting through me because of course, of course he has to look the way he does.

He rides with the ease of someone born to do it, one hand loose on the bars, broad shoulders wrapped in that worn leather vest that clings to him with too much familiarity.

The ink on his arms shifts with every move, dark lines twisting over muscle that pulls tight beneath his skin.

I shouldn’t notice. Shouldn’t care. But those tattoos coil around him with the slow, deliberate pull of temptation.

Sinful. Forbidden. The kind of thing that makes my stomach clench in ways I don’t want to name.

I hate that I even notice. Hate that the ink winds across strength I have no business staring at.

And his face? That thick beard frames a jawline sharp enough to do damage, and his lips, just parted, tease at thoughts I have no business entertaining.

Then there are his eyes. Dark. Intense. Locked onto me with a knowing edge, as if he’s fully aware of the effect he has—and enjoys every second of it.

I hate that. I hate him.

More than anything, I hate the traitorous heat unfurling low in my stomach, mocking the loathing I’m desperate to hold on to. Just because he’s stupidly nice to look at doesn’t mean I have to tolerate him.

Most of the guys have a backpack clinging to them, girls with long legs and short shorts gripping tight, trophies draped over chrome and leather.

But not Malachi. Commitment isn’t his thing.

Of course he rides solo. Commitment would require maturity.

So, naturally, his second seat serves no purpose beyond aesthetics.

He slows to a full stop in front of me, engine rumbling low beneath him, a sound that settles deep in my bones and coils there, steady and deliberate. A challenge. A warning. A promise.

“Looking sour today, sweetheart,” he calls, voice smooth enough to trip on.

I flip him off, then offer two dramatic, sarcastic claps. “Eat a nail.”

His grin spreads, quick and reckless, fire catching on dry leaves. “Flirting again? You’re getting bolder, Sour Patch.”

My spine locks. That nickname again. He started calling me that months ago and hasn’t let it go since. Says it with that infuriating confidence, as if it means something, as if he knows I’ll cave eventually.

I won’t.

“Call me that again and I’ll throw your bike into the lake.”

“Bet you’d look real good doing it, too. All that rage? Kinda hot,” he shoots back.

He shifts his weight, his eyes flicking over me—my lips, my fists—and he has the nerve to smirk, fully aware of what he’s doing.

“Careful, sweetheart. Keep clenching your fists and I might think you’re turned on.”

My whole body flashes hot, a gut-punch flare of something I don’t want to name, don’t want to feel. Lust tangled with shame and the sick, stupid ache of wanting something that would absolutely ruin me.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. You do enough dreaming for both of us.”

“I dream of running you over with a golf cart. Maybe backing up, just to be sure.”

His chuckle is low and smug. “You’re cute when you’re homicidal. I’ll be dreaming about that golf cart threat tonight. Try not to miss me too much.”

Then he winks. Winks. And roars off, the rest of the pack thundering behind him, highlighting his exit.

Engines keep rumbling past in waves, the smell of exhaust clinging to the air, the rhythmic growl of tires against pavement pounding in my ears.

I came out here to watch my dad ride, to pretend for a second that things are still normal.

But Malachi ruined that. Gets under my skin the way he always does.

Not that I really want to be out here. Not deep down. I just don’t want to feel left out. All it does is make everything worse.

I stomp inside and slam the door harder than necessary. The echo bounces off the empty walls, louder than I expect. Not that there’s anything in here to soak up the sound.

For one reckless heartbeat, the thought flashes. What if I’d chased him? What if I let him in?

But the shame cuts sharper.

Let him witness the pawned furniture? The empty shelves? The pathetic remnants of a life stripped down to nothing? No. No one gets in. Not him. Not anyone.

My phone buzzes before I can take three steps. I don’t need to look. It’s always the same.

Dad. Or, as I lovingly refer to him in my head, The Human Leech.

I swipe to answer. “Yeah?”

“You didn’t wait to see me ride by.”

My teeth grind. “Some of us have jobs.”

“Figured maybe you’d wave. You used to.” I clench the phone tighter, the sour metallic taste of rage bleeding into my mouth.

He always does this. Acts as if I’m the one who left. As if he’s the abandoned one. Never mind the years of pawned furniture, late-night gambling calls, and whiskey bottles where groceries should’ve been.

“I’m late,” I snap, then hang up before he can slur something emotional and manipulative.

I grab my bag from the entryway table—half-zipped and stained from years of overuse—sling it over my shoulder, and keep moving.

I lock the door behind me out of habit, though there’s no real reason to.

It’s not as if I own anything worth stealing.

Hell, if someone broke in, they’d probably leave me a donation out of pity.

I’ve got ten minutes to make it to work without completely losing my mind.

Sliding into my rusted-out car, I grip the steering wheel, hands too tight on the cracked leather, fighting to steady the fire under my skin. I want to scream. Instead, I shove the key into the ignition, crank up the radio, and let Bon Jovi drown out the restless ache in my chest.

“You give love a bad name…”

I belt it out, loud and unapologetic, until my throat is raw and the road ahead blurs into something distant, something survivable.

By the time I’m a few blocks from the country club, the anger has dulled to something manageable.

Pulling into the employee lot, I check my reflection , making sure my hair hasn’t gone full Monica-in-Barbados.

A quick swipe of gloss, a deep breath, and I plaster on the neutral expression I’ve mastered.

I’ve been working here long enough to know the real money isn’t in waiting tables.

Bartending is where it’s at. Sometimes, after a shift, I linger near the bar, watching the bartenders laugh with customers, their hands flying across the gleaming surface, their smiles easy.

Just thinking about standing behind that bar instead of serving drinks to people who don’t even notice me makes my fingers twitch.

Sighing, I clock in and slide into the familiar rhythm. Smile tight. Shoulders back. Stay invisible unless it’s profitable.

The lunch crowd is the worst. Wealthy, bored, and entitled.

They sip overpriced wine, pick at kale salads, and treat us as if we’re part of the décor.

No matter how hard I work, no matter how many extra shifts I take, I’ll never be one of them.

They don’t think girls from my side of town make it out.

Hell, some days, I’m not even sure I will.

Every cent goes into my escape fund. One day, I’ll drive my beat-up car out of this town and never look back. No one expects the forgotten to find their way out.

Stopping at my locker, I shove my bag inside and check my reflection one last time. Neutral face. Steady hands.

“Candace!”

Ruby hooks her arm through mine, yanking me down the hallway with a conspiratorial grin.

If anyone walks around wearing angel skin while hiding pure chaos underneath, it’s her. Auburn hair tumbling in effortless waves, wide doe eyes that could melt butter, and a mouth bold enough to make a sailor blush.

“Hey, Ruby,” I say, adjusting to her pace as we weave through the kitchen toward the restaurant entrance.

She leans in close, voice dropping to a giddy whisper. “Did you hear?”

I arch a brow. We both know that’s a rhetorical question.

“Gina and Thomas got fired.” Her grin is wicked, practically vibrating with glee.

My steps falter. “What?”

Gina might’ve been insufferable, but her father was practically country club royalty. And Thomas? He’d been a manager here since before I hit puberty.

Ruby wiggles her brows. “Caught screwing in the freezer.”

I blink. “What?”

She nods, biting back laughter. “I swear to God, someone walked in on them. Gina’s barely our age, but Thomas? Dude’s at least ten years older. Creepy bastard always stared at your chest whenever you talked to him.”

The memory slithers up, cold and slimy. I shudder, remembering the way Thomas’ gaze used to snag on me, sharp as burrs against skin. I’d learned early how to keep distance, stay busy, and keep my back to the wall.

Ruby shrugs, clearly unbothered. “Anyway, rumor is they’re announcing a new lead today.”

I exhale, shaking my head as we step into the cluster of employees gathered for the shift meeting. Just another day in paradise.

“Probably gonna give it to someone useless,” I mutter under my breath.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Ruby tosses her hair and starts humming a tune. Then she grins and belts out under her breath, “She works hard for the money…”

I roll my eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re lucky I didn’t break into Britney.”