Page 50 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

Something is wrong. I know it the second I step into the clubhouse and the lights flicker. Just once. Just enough. Then comes the faint sound, so soft it could be imagined. Laughter. A child’s laugh. Light. Echoed. Wrong.

I freeze in the doorway, one gloved hand still on the knob, every muscle coiled tight. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, goosebumps prickling beneath the leather.

The room is empty. No one is supposed to be here.

I step inside, boots heavy against the worn hardwood, the quiet squeak of my leather jacket the only answer. My gaze sweeps every shadow, every corner. TV off. Pool table untouched. No music. No smell of food or beer or smoke. Just silence.

And something else. The air feels colder than it should. Heavy. Still.

I shake it off. I’ve seen too much shit in my life to jump at ghost stories. Chalk it up to exhaustion. Or stress. Maybe the fight last weekend still rattles my bones more than I’ll admit. Maybe I’m too keyed-up, waiting for something to go wrong again.

But, three hours later, my boots are missing.

I always leave them by the door. Always. Lined up just right. Pattern drilled into my brain through sheer repetition.

Now? Gone.

I find them in the upstairs hallway, facing the wrong way. Turned toward my door, positioned with eerie purpose.

My mouth goes dry. A slow exhale pushes past clenched teeth. I don’t say a word to anyone. Just put the boots back, lock my door, and stay up half the night with my gun on the nightstand. One eye open. Muscles tense enough to snap.

Candace sleeps beside me, tangled in the blankets, her breathing deep and steady. Peaceful. Untouched by whatever shadows keep clawing at the edge of my nerves. And I’m jealous of that. Of the way she surrenders to sleep while I brace for something I can’t see.

I don’t move. Just listen to the quiet rhythm of her breathing and tell myself it’s enough, for now.

By the next morning, I’m already on edge. Then Nash walks in looking unhinged.

“There’s something in my room,” Nash says calmly. Too calmly. Speaking that way might be the only thing keeping him from throwing a chair. “It was breathing.”

I stare at him. “You mean some kind of animal?”

“I mean a demon.”

Then comes Knox, storming into the clubhouse wearing a hoodie inside out and glaring murder at the ceiling. “If I see another balloon in my fucking garage, I swear to God...”

Ruby walks by, sipping a smoothie. “You boys good? You all look a little… twitchy.”

I narrow my eyes. “Where were you last night?”

Ruby blinks innocently. “Sleeping. Like a responsible adult.”

She’s absolutely lying.

So is Sloane when she claims the clown doll in Knox’s garage must’ve “just been leftover from Halloween.” And Frankie, when she says maybe the vents are just settling. And Darla, who actually has the audacity to say, “Maybe you should sage the place. Spirits hate dry energy.”

Darla looks a little too calm when she says it. Her eyes track something over my shoulder, then narrow, like she knows something’s there.

But the worst offender? Candace.

She sits on the arm of the couch in cut-off shorts that leave very little to the imagination and a tank top that clings to her curves, dipping low enough to tease cleavage every time she leans forward.

Her hair is up, a few strands falling loose around her face, softening the wicked little smirk she keeps throwing my way every time she catches me staring.

I watch her. Quietly. Every inch of her is designed to wreck me. Her legs are bare and folded like she doesn’t have a care in the world, thumb tapping against the ceramic mug like a beat only she can hear. I try not to look. Fail. And she knows it. That smirk says so.

She’s driving me insane. And she’s doing it on purpose.

Because if this is her, then something has shifted.

The girl who used to flinch from my presence is now orchestrating psychological warfare and sipping coffee like it’s a reward. Something about that makes my chest tight. Unsettled. Proud. Terrified.

Still, I say nothing. Because she’s laughing again. All of them are. Because whatever the hell is going on… maybe the club needs it. Even if it drives me absolutely insane.

By day three, I stop sleeping. Every time I close my eyes, something else moves.

My coffee mug? Filled with orange Gatorade.

My lock screen? Replaced with a grainy photo of what looks like a small girl standing in the hallway.

My toothbrush? Replaced with one that isn’t mine.

A child’s. Pink. Glittery. Princess stickers on the handle.

I ask Nash if he’s behind it.

He looks me dead in the eyes and says, “I found tiny handprints on my mirror. I haven’t slept in two days. You think I have the time or patience to gaslight you right now?”

Knox is unraveling too. He walks into the kitchen, eyes bloodshot, flannel half-buttoned, and growls, “There was a clown in my shower. It had teeth. Teeth, Malachi.”

I don’t even blink. “Did it move?”

“I don’t know! I blacked out from rage!”

Even James is starting to look suspicious.

He walks into rooms and forgets why he went in.

His keys vanish and turn up in bizarre places; inside the freezer, once in his boot.

The radio in his truck keeps crackling with static, no matter the station.

He calls Nash “Kevin” twice, then mutters something about “early-onset cognitive decline” under his breath.

Only East holds it together. Until he shows up to the gym in one red sock and one pink fuzzy slipper.

He stares down at his feet like they’ve turned against him. “I have no clue how this happened.”

“I do,” Ruby whispers behind him, as she sits a tray of cupcakes on the table. Then walks away before he can turn around.

We call an emergency meeting. Which basically means everyone’s pacing, glaring, and pretending they haven’t been haunted, sabotaged, or psychologically wrecked by glitter, clown dolls, and possibly ghost children.

The rest of the crew’s scattered across the room. Knox is pacing like he’s ready to burn the garage down. Nash is staring at a vent with murderous intent. East is rubbing his temples and muttering about salt circles. And James, calm as ever, sits blinking far too often, like his brain’s buffering.

“We’re being targeted,” Knox says, voice low and full of fire. “This is an op. A psychological one. Someone is trying to break us from the inside.”

James scratches his beard. “I thought maybe it was early signs of dementia, but the milk in my fridge? Someone replaced it with mayonnaise. Mayonnaise, boys.”

“There are cameras in my room,” Nash mutters.

Everyone turns. He doesn’t elaborate.

“Someone broke into my apartment,” East adds, deadpan. “All my cereal boxes now say Emotional Damage Flakes.”

I’m quiet. Because I already know. Candace. The signs are there. The look in her eye. The carefully contained chaos. And Maggie has been unusually chipper. Ruby too quiet. Frankie suspiciously helpful. Darla humming. Sloane baking.

Too much harmony. Too much peace before war.

“This is club business,” James says finally. “Whoever’s behind it is good. Too good. We’re all slipping.”

“I think it’s Frankie,” Knox offers.

“She’s got that serial killer precision,” Nash mutters.

I clear my throat. “No.” Everyone stops.

I don’t raise my voice. Don’t move. Just look at the cupcake tray. Then at the frosting. A very specific swirled pattern. Which matches the pink glitter handprint on my mirror.

“It’s all of them,” I say. “They’re working together.” Silence.

James lets out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“They want us to crack,” East mutters.

“Already did,” Knox replies. “I almost punched a clown doll.”

I let out a slow breath, then lean forward. “We retaliate.”

But no one moves. Not right away. The room shifts. Not tense. Not angry. Just quiet.

Nash leans back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”

“What does?” Knox asks.

“This. All of it.” He waves his hand around. The chaos, the memory of tiny handprints and glitter and psychological warfare. “They finally let loose.”

No one says anything. Because Nash is right.

For once, the girls aren’t walking around guarded. They aren’t looking over their shoulders, holding tension in their jaws, bracing for disappointment. They’re laughing. Whispering. Plotting. Alive. Healing.

James rubs a hand over his beard. “After everything that’s happened… maybe they need this.”

I don’t answer, but the ache behind my ribs answers for me. I think of Candace. The way she lights up just enough to scare me. That fire. Her grin. That life. I’ve never seen her like that. Not since she came back. Not since she walked into the ring and gutted me with a look.

She didn’t look haunted that night at Frankie’s. She looked like she remembered who she is. And maybe we don’t need to take that from them yet.

“We let them have it,” I say finally.

Knox frowns. “Seriously?”

I nod. “For now. Let them think they won. Let them laugh and feel safe.”

James chuckles. “You sayin’ we wait it out?”

My smile is slow. Dangerous. Almost fond. “We wait until they get comfortable. Until they’re sure we’ve moved on. Then we hit them when it counts.”

East smirks. “Cold-blooded.”

Nash cracks his neck. “I’m in.”

Knox sighs. “If Sloane wakes up to a cow in our backyard again, I’m blaming all of you.”

James raises a brow. “You planning to get a cow?”

“No,” Knox mutters. “That’s the point.”

East kicks his boots up on the table edge and grins. “We’re not just getting even. We’re making history.”

I stand, the air around me settling into something colder. Steady.

“They lit the fire,” I murmur. “But we’ll make sure they remember who taught them how to burn.”

Cornelius would laugh his ass off at this shit.