Page 54 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

If you told me a month ago that I’d be watching grown-ass men and women scream-sing power ballads into a mic with the intensity of a battlefield confession, I’d laugh in your face and send you to Nash for a psych eval. But here we are. Karaoke night. At my damn clubhouse.

Kyle’s dumbass idea, Ruby’s chaotic execution. A dangerous combination. But I’ll be damned, it’s working.

The place is packed. Locals, club members, even a few of the neighborhood kids running around outside with glowsticks that Ruby hands out with all the glee of a Mardi Gras float.

Someone strung up fairy lights that zig-zag over the yard in a pattern that screams back-alley wedding.

James is manning the grill with the determination of a soldier, apron and all, muttering under his breath about Ruby’s “improvised” power cords and whether or not they’ll cause an electrical fire.

Inside the common room, it’s standing room only.

The mic is duct-taped to a busted mic stand, and someone’s decorated the TV screen with streamers that give it all the flair of a crown jewel.

Ruby prances around in a hot pink cowboy hat and aviators, shouting encouragement to each poor soul who gets up there to bleed their dignity dry in front of the crowd.

Nash refuses to participate. Swears he’d rather light himself on fire.

Knox ends up doing a drunken rendition of Livin’ on a Prayer, with Sloane on backup vocals, both of them laughing so hard they can’t finish the chorus.

Frankie and Darla go full Spice Girls and drag East into it.

He doesn’t just play along, he commits. Full choreography.

Improvised high notes. At one point, he grabs a chair and spins it with the confidence of a boy band star staging a comeback tour.

When Ruby sneaks behind him with devil horns and a feather boa, he doesn’t blink.

He dips into a dramatic hair flip and yells, “This is my villain origin story!”

Darla can’t stop laughing. She leans into him, head on his shoulder as they catch their breath, and something about the way he looks at her in that moment, like he’ll keep doing the most ridiculous shit in the world just to hear that laugh again, hits different. Quiet. Real.

Even James and Maggie have a moment. He surprises everyone when he takes the mic and belts out Ring of Fire. Maggie joins halfway through, swaying at his side, and everyone claps with the warmth of a crowd watching their parents renew their vows.

Me? I stay back. Beer in hand. Leaning against the bar. Watching. Waiting.

Because from the moment she walks in, late, quiet, in ripped jeans and a worn-out Fleetwood Mac tee, her blonde curls wild and soft around her shoulders, I know Candace is gonna ruin me again tonight.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t talk much. Just hovers near Ruby and the girls, sipping from a red Solo cup and pretending she doesn’t feel my eyes on her.

But I know. I know the second her fingers tap the edge of that cup in a rhythm that feels like counting heartbeats.

The way she bites her lip and stares at the lyrics flashing across the TV with the weight of someone trying to memorize a prayer.

The way Ruby whispers something in her ear, and Candace rolls her eyes but doesn’t say no.

There’s a scrap of something folded small in her back pocket, creased with the wear of a hundred quiet re-reads. She doesn’t touch it, but I see the way her hand drifts there once, a check for safety. A page. Maybe lyrics. Maybe something else. I don’t know yet. But I want to.

So when the lights dim just a little, and the crowd hushes in that way people do when they feel something shift, she steps up to the mic.

No warning. Or intro. No drama. She just looks at the machine, scrolls through a few titles, and picks Hallelujah so easily it makes your stomach clench.

But the second she opens her mouth, everything else stops.

It isn’t just singing. It’s a haunting. Her soul spills out of her voice and bleeds into every note.

Low and clear at first, soft enough to raise goosebumps.

Then it climbs, aching, raw, trembling with everything her body usually keeps hidden.

Her voice fills the room and it hurts. Not because it’s sharp or broken. But because it’s true.

People stop breathing. I swear to God, even the fridge quits humming. Ruby’s hand covers her mouth. Frankie’s eyes fill with tears. She looks at Candace with the stunned reverence of someone watching something ancient stir to life. Knox stares at her like she’s a stranger.

And me? I can’t move. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe. All I can do is feel. Her voice reaches straight inside me and pulls every last bit of fury, guilt, want, regret, and lays it bare in the open.

Candace isn’t trying to impress anyone. She doesn’t need to. She sings with the purity of someone who’s never been heard before.

And now? No one will ever forget. The song ends, and the silence that follows is louder than any applause. Then, just like that, she steps back.

No bow. No smile. Just walks off the tiny stage like she hasn’t just destroyed every man, woman, and ghost in the damn room.

And I know. I know right then, I’m so fucking gone for her. Because that voice? It isn’t just beautiful. It’s a battle cry disguised as a hymn. And I’ll go to war just to hear it again.

The second she walks off that stage, shoulders squared, spine tall, my body moves before my brain does. Beer forgotten. Breath shallow. Heart pacing like it has somewhere more important to be.

She cuts through the crowd with that quiet defiance she always wears for armor, ignoring the stunned looks, the murmurs. Ruby reaches for her, probably to say something, but Candace shakes her head, keeps moving. Out the side door. Into the night.

I follow.

Don’t care who sees. Don’t care that my chest is still raw, or that her voice is still echoing through my bones like a ghost I’ll never shake. I just know I can’t let her walk away from this pretending it doesn’t matter. Pretending she doesn’t matter.

The cool air slaps me in the face as I step outside.

The fairy lights overhead flicker with the weight of something sacred.

She’s standing at the fringe of the yard, back to me, arms crossed tight against her chest in a way that says she’s holding herself together by instinct.

I see the way her fingers dig into her sides, the way her jaw moves like she’s biting down on whatever’s trying to crawl out of her throat.

“You just gonna stare,” she says, voice rough, “or you gonna say something?”

I take a few steps closer. Not too close. Not yet. “You were incredible.”

She laughs, sharp, bitter. “Don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.” She turns then, eyes dark and guarded, and I feel the blow of it. “Don’t feed me lines, Malachi. I know what I am.”

I swallow. “What you are,” I say carefully, “is the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

That catches her. She blinks, a hitch in the armor.

“I grew up with a man who told me I’m useless,” she says, quiet now, barely a whisper. “Said no one would ever wanna hear my voice. That I’m just like my mom. All looks and empty noise.”

I step closer. “He was wrong.”

“You didn’t hear him.” Her voice cracks. “Every time I tried to be something, he reminded me I’ll never be enough. So I stopped trying.”

I shake my head, fierce now. “Candace, I’ve seen you fight harder just to survive than most people ever do to live.

I’ve seen you take hit after hit and get up every damn time.

And tonight?” I step in close enough for her to feel it.

“Tonight you sang like a fucking warrior. Like someone who’s lived through hell and came back with fire in her throat. ”

Her lips part, but no words come.

“Don’t tell me you’re nothing. Don’t tell me you’re noise. Because if that’s true…” I reach out, brush her knuckles with mine, “then I’ve never heard anything worth listening to.”

She stares at me. And something in her gives. Not a collapse. A release. The pressure finally cracking through.

“You make it hard to walk away,” she whispers, voice gravel-rough.

“Good,” I breathe. “Because wanting you stopped being a choice a long time ago.”

She doesn’t move. Or speak. Just stares at me with all that ache, doubt, and heat swimming behind her eyes.

Then she kisses me. It isn’t gentle. Isn’t clean or practiced. It’s messy, trembling, desperate. Like she’s been drowning in her silence for years and finally comes up gasping. I catch her with both arms and hold tight because I’m not letting go. Not this time.

When she pulls back, her forehead rests against mine, breath warm and unsteady.

“You still scare the shit out of me,” she murmurs.

“Good,” I say again, smiling against her mouth. “Means we’re even.”

She laughs. Really laughs this time. It lights something inside me. Something permanent. In that moment, beneath crooked fairy lights and the echo of her song still clinging to the night, I know. She’s not mine yet. But she will be. Because she doesn’t just steal the room. She owns me. Forever.