Page 32 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Candace

The next few days, I avoid him with the same dread I’d give a second job I hate but can’t quit.

If I hear the heavy tread of his boots echo down the hall, I pivot. My spine snaps straight, a reflex I can’t unlearn, tension flaring behind my ribs before I’ve even processed the sound. The weight of his presence hits me before I ever see him—thick, magnetic, a gravity I keep trying to escape.

If he’s at the bar, I hover outside pretending I’ve got something better to do. Breathing doesn’t feel harder around him. My chest compresses, lungs stuttering in protest whenever he’s too close. There’s a hum beneath my skin that rises when he’s near. Something electric. Unforgiving.

If he so much as looks ready to talk to me, I find something to clean, somewhere to disappear. A smudge on a glass, a stain on the floor; excuses I cling to, desperate for a lifeline.

If I had anywhere else to sleep, I’d be gone already.

Ruby let me crash at her place for a couple nights, but her parents nitpick everything and I didn’t want to be another reason they hovered, circling with judgment.

Her house always smells of soap and vanilla, but it’s too quiet.

Too sterile. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s life and it’s only a matter of time before I get found out.

But none of it works. Because the second my eyes close, he’s there.

His hands, his mouth. The rasp of his voice saying things I tried to forget even as they stitched themselves into me. Words that sear. Promises I never asked for.

He hasn’t said a word about that night. Hasn’t chased, hasn’t pushed. Just quietly handed over his room, knowing I’d be too wrecked to ask. He’s been crashing on the clubhouse couch since, and somehow, that makes it worse. Because he knows I’m running and he’s letting me.

Which means he feels something. And so do I.

Even his name in my head makes my stomach twist; regret swallowed whole.

So I tell myself it was just sex. I chant it, a prayer on repeat when I wake up at 3AM, skin damp, lungs tight, heart a mess.

His scent still clings to the sheets, a ghost I can’t shake.

I pretend I don’t remember the way his breath felt on the back of my neck, something that belonged there.

Something that claimed me. Something I let happen.

I pick up extra shifts at the country club and ignore the fact that he offered me a bartending job at the clubhouse. Because it’s the one I actually want. The one with people who don’t make me feel small.

When did that place start feeling like home? When did I start wanting to be there?

Sometimes, when no one’s looking, I scribble lyrics on napkins between orders. Tiny, half-formed lines I fold and shove into my apron pocket, hiding them the way you’d tuck away a secret.

Work is numb. Long hours, forced smiles, laughter that doesn’t reach my eyes.

There’s a new manager—Rick. I don’t know what happened to Cliff, and neither does Ruby.

Rumor was Cliff left without a word after a screaming match in the kitchen.

One day he was there, the next he wasn’t.

Just another person who vanished when things got too messy.

Rick’s the kind of guy who thinks micromanaging is a personality. Loves to hover, criticize.

“You good, Candace?” he asks on Wednesday, eyes too sharp, voice fake-smooth. “You’re kinda zoning.”

I give him a brittle smile. “Didn’t sleep.” My voice feels foreign in my throat.

He shrugs like that’s a you problem. “Fix it.”

So I try. I pour waters and nod at bad jokes while dealing with middle-aged creeps who confuse their Rolexes for charm. Technically, I’m floor manager, but turnover’s a nightmare, so I’m stuck waitressing more than anything else. I don’t mind. I need the tips. Especially now.

The floorboards under my feet feel thinner lately, one wrong step away from breaking through.

Thursday night claws deeper. Private event. Expensive liquor. Plastic smiles. Men in pressed slacks and women with manicured claws for mouths. I jump behind the bar when the barback calls out sick. I shouldn’t have.

“Wrong pour,” Rick snaps as I pour the scotch with too generous a hand. “This isn’t a dive.”

I bite back the urge to throw the drink in his face. Instead, I remake it, apologize, and swallow the shame. It scalds all the way down.

Later, some hedge fund asshole grabs my wrist when I drop his tab. It yanks me back to the night Malachi told one of his men to get his hands off me. That quiet fury. The weight of it. The way it made me feel seen and guarded in the same breath.

But tonight, I don’t flinch. Don’t freeze. Just slowly pull my hand free and meet the guy’s eyes with a calm that’s colder than fear.

“Careful,” I murmur. “You’ll choke on that wedding ring you forgot to take off.”

He laughs. Rick doesn’t say a damn thing.

I clock out ten minutes after my shift ends, hands trembling, chest hollowed out. I sit in my car with the engine off, fists clenched on the wheel, the only thing holding me together.

I could call someone. But I won’t. Instead, I sit in the dark, the silence ringing in my ears, feedback from an untuned radio.

My phone buzzes. Calendar alert. Fight Night – 9PM.

Malachi sent it earlier in the week as a blanket invite to the usuals. But I know him. It wasn’t casual. It was a whisper saying I’m still here.

I didn’t delete it. Didn’t respond. But I show up anyway.

Saturday night. Gravel crunches beneath my boots. Engines rumble. Music thumps, a second heartbeat behind warehouse walls. The air is cool, sharp. It smells of oil and adrenaline, sweat and something wilder humming beneath the surface.

I pull my jacket tighter and tell myself I’m just here to watch. Just curiosity. Not him. Never him.

Inside, it’s loud. Too loud. The stink of sweat, smoke, and cheap bourbon coats everything. The cage match hasn’t started yet, but the crowd is already lit, humming with chaos.

I think about placing a bet on Malachi, but don’t. I could use the money. But I refuse to be anything resembling my father.

My eyes scan the crowd without permission. They find him. And I stop breathing. Malachi, posted against the far wall, violence in waiting. Black shirt, sleeves shoved up. Jaw sharp enough to cut.

He hasn’t seen me. Yet.

My chest tightens, pulse skittering. I should leave. I don’t. Instead, I walk farther in. Head high. Spine straight. Each step peeling me open from the inside.

This isn’t forgiveness. This isn’t a white flag.

It’s just showing up.

A hairline fracture in the wall I swore would hold.

He steps into the cage, a storm called by name. There’s a hush that ripples around him, a pause in the noise. The kind reserved for disasters and gods.

He peels off his shirt, and the air shifts. Every muscle on him is cut with purpose, tight with restraint. I remember exactly how they felt; how they moved when they moved with me.

His opponent’s already waiting. Big guy. Broad. Neck inked in black vines. Grinning, certain he’s got a chance. He doesn’t.

Malachi doesn’t posture. Doesn’t speak. Just rolls his shoulders once, slowly, then cracks his knuckles, unlocking something inside.

For one second, he hesitates—just a flicker—and I swear I see it. The storm he’s trying to hold back. Not for his opponent. For himself. For me. The bell hits like a detonation.

Malachi dodges the first punch, counters with a strike to the ribs that folds the guy for half a breath. Another hit. Harder.

The guy recovers, then swings wildly, clipping Malachi’s jaw. The crowd roars. I don’t. I just watch. Because this? This isn’t just violence. It’s confession. A sermon of fists and fire.

Now I can see what I didn’t let myself see before. He’s fighting for control, not victory.

Fighting not to break, not to burn. Like the cage is the only thing keeping it all from spilling out.

And it’s beautiful.

Blood smears the canvas in the second round. Not his. The other guy’s lip is busted, dripping red. But he keeps swinging.

And Malachi? He lets him. Lets him feel close to victory. Lets him taste it. Then rips it away.

One brutal hook to the jaw. Another to the gut. A knee to the sternum that sends him crashing down, gravity abandoning him.

It’s not mercy. It’s release. The ref calls it. Fight’s over. But Malachi doesn’t move. He stands above the man, a statue carved from fury. Chest heaving. Hands twitching.

Hungry for something else to break. And I feel it. That tether. That quiet, awful pull I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist. He lifts his gaze. Slow. Unshakable. Certain of where I am already.

When his eyes find me—across the warehouse, through the noise, past the blood and smoke—it feels we’re the only two people still standing in a place meant to ruin us.

Not the crowd. Not the chaos. Just us. Me, rooted at the edge of it all. Him, still burning. And everything between us? Loud.