Page 4 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Before I can respond, the general manager, Cliff, strides into the huddle, his presence cutting through the low hum of conversation with the precision of a blade. The air shifts, everyone snapping to attention.

“Alright, let’s get started. If you haven’t heard, Gina is no longer employed here. Thomas, too.”

A collective gasp ripples through the circle—shock, curiosity, and the kind of mean excitement people get when someone’s about to crash and burn. Ruby and I exchange a look, biting back matching smirks.

“Candace,” Cliff continues, his gaze locking onto mine. “You’re the best server we have, so you’re taking Gina’s place.”

The words hit me hard, a sharp slap that steals the air from my lungs. For a moment, I just stand there, blinking, heart hammering in my ears. The floor feels too far away. My breath too thin.

Around me, faces tighten, lips press into bloodless lines. Resentment thickens the air, a storm gathering with slow, heavy pressure. Ruby hip-checks me, her grin practically blinding, but the others? They glare as if I’ve just stolen something that was never mine to take.

I force a swallow past the knot in my throat and nod. “Thank you, sir.”

Cliff’s lips twitch into something close to a smile. Rare, but real. “See me after this, and I’ll give you more details.”

The rest of his announcements blur into static.

Specials, tournaments, club politics; all meaningless noise against the roaring in my ears.

When he finally dismisses everyone, I hang back, feeling the weight of a dozen hostile stares burning into my skin.

Ruby blows me a dramatic kiss and disappears into the hallway with a wink.

Cliff jerks his chin toward his office. “Let’s go.”

I trail him down the hallway, pulse thrumming in my ears. Every instinct sharpens. I slip into the edge of survival mode—ready to fight or flee at the first hint of a trap.

Inside, he rounds his desk and drops into his chair. One brow arches in invitation, gesturing to the seat across from him.

I hesitate at the threshold, hand tightening around the strap of my apron before I force myself forward. I lower into the chair, perching on the edge as if I might have to spring up at any second.

“Do you have any questions?” he asks, already clicking away at his computer.

I exhale through my teeth, steadying myself. “Yeah. Why me?”

He chuckles, the sound low and surprisingly genuine. “As I said, you’re our best server.”

I narrow my eyes. He has to know the shitstorm he’s just stirred up. That hallway full of silent hostility wasn’t just surprise. It was war drums.

“Funny,” I say, voice flat. “That didn’t seem to matter when you gave Gina the position a couple of months ago.”

My throat tightens around the words, but I force them out. I’ve fought too hard for too long to pretend it doesn’t cut.

Cliff sighs, running a hand over his short-cropped hair. For a beat, he looks almost... tired.

“I wanted to,” he says. “But…”

“But Gina’s daddy wanted something different,” I finish bitterly.

The truth lands heavy. Even knowing it, hearing it out loud still feels like being gut-punched.

Cliff leans forward, elbows braced on the desk. “Word of advice? You need to let that chip on your shoulder go. Otherwise, you’ll be popping blood pressure meds before you’re twenty-five.”

The sharp retort on my tongue dies when he holds my gaze, and something raw flickers there.

“Look,” he says, voice dropping into something quieter, almost conspiratorial. “I get it. More than you probably realize. They’re all a bunch of assholes.”

I blink. My muscles tighten instinctively, waiting for the catch—for the sting hiding behind the kindness.

“But this is their turf,” he continues. “We have to play by their rules. I fought putting Gina in that position, but I was given an ultimatum. So I played the game. Now? The people who pushed for her get to eat the consequences. And I get to do what I wanted all along.”

Something inside me shifts, brittle edges softening just a fraction. It still pisses me off, but not as much.

Cliff turns back to his computer, tapping at the keyboard as if the conversation’s over.

I glance around the office, taking in the leather chairs, the clean lines, the huge wall of windows overlooking the golf course. It’s the kind of view that lets you pretend, just for a minute, that you aren’t trapped.

He stands, crossing to the printer, and returns with a thick stack of papers.

“Come here,” he says.

I push up from the chair, heart thudding against my ribs, and move to the small round table near the windows as he spreads out the paperwork.

“This goes over your new position.”

I skim the first page. My pulse stutters at the bold numbers listed under “salary.”

“You’ll get a significant pay increase,” Cliff says. “Since you’re no longer considered a tipped employee.”

My throat tightens. I press my hand flat against the table to hide the tremor. This. This is how I get out.

“You’re also eligible for health insurance,” he adds.

I barely hear it. No way I’m signing up; it would gut my paycheck. Besides, it’s not like I can afford to get sick.

Then something clicks. I glance up sharply. “Wait. I won’t be considered a tipped employee at all?”

Cliff nods. “That just means your main job isn’t serving tables. But you can still pick up shifts when we’re slammed.”

I nod slowly, trying to process the sudden shift in my reality.

“What about bartending?” I ask, hesitating over the last signature line.

Cliff tilts his head. “You can move into that position when there’s an opening. But you’ll need to complete the four-week class first. You knew that, right?”

I nod again, slower this time. That’s the catch. There always is.

He studies me for a beat longer, then says, almost casually, “I can start scheduling you as a barback if you want. You don’t have to wait until you’re twenty-one for that.

Barbacks aren’t required to take the class.

Only those looking to move up to bartender.

Might help you down the line if you ever want to work somewhere that doesn’t require the certification. ”

The unexpected offer wedges a lump in my throat. Not pity—opportunity. Real opportunity. The survival instinct to distrust it flares first, but this time, I push through it. I sign the last page, breathing a little easier than I have in a long time.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Cliff smiles, small but real. “I meant it when I said I understand.”