Page 6 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

Malachi

Beau lunges, aiming another low kick at my legs, but I catch it a mile away. Lazy. Sloppy. I deflect it with ease, barely feeling the impact. Sweat drips down my temples, the tang of salt hitting my lips, fueling my irritation.

He comes at me again, telegraphing his move with all the finesse of an amateur. I feint left, draw him in, then snap my right fist forward in a brutal hook. My knuckles slam into his jaw with a satisfying crack, the sharp sting vibrating through my bones, and he drops hard, face-first onto the mat.

My pulse roars in my ears, adrenaline surging through my veins.

Instinct tells me to wait, to find out if he’s out cold, but I don’t hesitate.

Coach Tompkins drilled that out of me a long time ago.

I drop to my knees, my arm snaking around his neck, locking in the chokehold.

Beau’s heartbeat pounds against my forearm, frantic at first, then slowing with each passing second. If the punch didn’t do it, this will.

Beau struggles, his body tensing against mine, muscles quivering with defiance, but I don’t loosen my grip.

He won’t tap; I know that. Hate him or not, I respect the fact that he’d rather go down fighting than surrender.

A kindred spirit in that way. His resistance weakens.

His limbs go slack. Only then do I let go, lowering him gently to the mat before rising to my feet, breathing ragged, my chest tight with lingering aggression.

The ref grabs my wrist and yanks it into the air, declaring me the winner. A mix of cheers and boos erupts from the crowd, but there are more cheers than the last time I beat Beau. The tide is shifting. He was once their golden boy, but I’ve clawed my way to the top, and he fucking hates it.

Stepping out of the cage, I catch the towel Coach Tompkins tosses my way and drag it over my sweat-slicked face, inhaling sharply through the rough fabric before chugging a bottle of water. The cool liquid rushes down my throat, washing away the metallic taste of violence.

“Good fight, man,” Coach Tompkins says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Beau’s gonna come for a rematch.”

I smirk, shrugging. “I’ll just beat his ass again.” But beneath my bravado, unease coils tightly, whispering that every victory sharpens the target on my back.

As we make our way toward the locker room, I glance at him. “How much did you make?” I ask, already knowing he had money riding on this.

“Ten grand,” he says, grinning. “Appreciate that.”

“Damn. I need to start betting on myself.”

Coach Tompkins rolls his eyes, but before he can respond, a voice—high-pitched and eager—cuts through the noise.

“Malachi! Can I get your autograph?”

I turn, already regretting it, just in time to witness a woman lift her shirt, her finger hooking beneath the lace trim of her bra.

The overpowering scent of cheap perfume slams into me, a sting to already raw nerves.

“And if you’ve got a few minutes… maybe I could meet you in the locker room? ” She winks, biting her lip.

I arch an eyebrow. The fuck? Some guys live for this kind of attention, but me?

I can’t stand it. I rake my gaze over her, unimpressed.

Pretty enough, but not my type. When I take a woman to bed, I want something to hold on to.

She’s got nothing. My chest tightens uncomfortably with irritation, and a sharp bitterness coats my tongue.

“No thanks,” I mutter, stepping back and turning away.

“What the hell? What about the autograph?” she calls after me, voice laced with indignation.

I don’t bother answering. No point in feeding the drama. Women like her see what they want to see. One signature, one ounce of attention, and they’ll twist it into something it’s not. I don’t need that shit.

Keeping my head down, I push forward, ready to be done with this night.

Until Coach’s voice stops me in my tracks. “Candace! Good to see you, lady.”

My head snaps up. Fuck me. Candace? Here? My stomach knots instantly, anticipation and irritation warring in my chest.

“Hey, Coach Tompkins,” she greets him, her voice light, carrying a smile I’ve never seen before.

It’s soft. Almost real. My heart jolts painfully at the sight, possessive instinct clawing its way up my throat.

But it’s not meant for me. She hasn’t noticed me yet, so I stay back, watching, my pulse inexplicably racing.

At first glance, she’s just another beautiful girl. Blonde hair, long legs, the kind of effortless style that makes it seem she doesn’t have to try. But something shifts. I really look at her, and the realization slams into me forcefully, mimicking a punch to the gut.

The wild tangle of curls spilling over her shoulders catches the light, looking impossibly soft.

The kind of hair that begs to be touched, to have fingers tangled in it just to find out if it feels as good as it looks.

Then there are her eyes—sharp, green, intense, unreadable.

They don’t just look at you. They strip you bare, already knowing what’s running through your head before you do.

Heat rises in my chest, my breath hitching involuntarily.

And her lips? Full, painted just right, parted slightly as if she’s mid-thought, mid-breath; as if she’s about to say something that could change everything.

My fists clench briefly, tension spiraling tighter in my gut, unwelcome desire battling my carefully constructed disdain.

She moves with effortless command, owning the space around her, bending the room to her presence.

The oversized band tee drapes over her frame, careless but intentional, clinging just enough to remind me she’s all curves beneath it.

And those shorts—black, frayed, short. Sitting high on her waist, held by a belt that does nothing to stop my mind from slipping into places it has no business going.

Her legs? Long, smooth, golden in the dim lighting. It’s stupid how distracting she is, especially when she hates me for reasons I still can’t figure out. I’ve never done a damn thing to her, but somehow, I’m the enemy.

I blink, dragging my eyes back up before I give too much away. But hell, can you blame me? My pulse throbs angrily at my temples, betraying my forced indifference.

“You made two thousand tonight,” Coach Tompkins says, pulling my focus back.

I finally step forward, looking between Candace and Coach. She placed a bet? And on me? Curiosity twists sharply in my gut, my breath shallow.

Her eyes flick up, catching mine, and whatever softness was in them a second ago disappears behind an irritated scowl. My chest tightens. If she hates me so much, why the hell did she bet on me?

Coach Tompkins hands her an envelope, and she snatches it without a word.

There’s something forced in the smile she throws him, the kind of expression worn by someone who’d rather be anywhere else.

She keeps her gaze pointed away from me, avoiding eye contact as if locking eyes might give me too much; take something from her she isn’t ready to admit.

Or worse, expose the truth that part of her might want me to look.

My throat goes dry at that thought, heart hammering a little harder against my ribs.

Ruby claps her hands together. “Now we can party!”

Candace rolls her eyes, stuffing the envelope down the front of her shirt into her bra. My jaw clenches tight, heat flaring through me as my gaze follows the movement. Now she has something I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on.

I shake the thought away sharply, irritation and longing twisting together painfully in my gut. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Not happening, Ruby,” she says, voice flat. “Besides, you have Daddy’s credit card.”

Ruby gasps dramatically. “Candace Renee Giles. I am shocked and appalled. How dare you expose me like that in front of such a dangerously attractive criminal?”

Candace mutters, “He’s not even that attractive.”

A smirk pulls at my lips, but her words sting more than they should, burrowing beneath my skin. I grin, masking the unexpected flare of irritation. “Keep telling yourself that, Sour Patch.”

Her eyes flash with irritation, and I swear she clenches her jaw before turning away, but not before a flicker of something else—something softer—briefly ghosts across her expression.

“Oh my God,” Ruby says, looking between us. “Are you two gonna bang or fight? Because the sexual tension in here is giving me whiplash.”

Candace groans. “Ruby.”

“What? I’m just saying! It’s all ‘I hate you’ but also ‘please ruin me.’ I’m getting mixed signals.”

I bark out a laugh, tension easing just slightly from my shoulders. “She’d rather choke on glass.”

“Only if it means I die before hearing you gloat again.” Her voice is all venom and steel, her eyes sharp enough to cut, and somehow, that makes me grin even wider.

Ruby throws her hands up. “And there it is! Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be here all week. Tip your bartender.”

Candace covers her face, clearly regretting every decision that led her to this moment. “We need to go.”

Before she can escape, I lean in closer, pulse hammering at my throat, voice low. “So, you really bet on me?”

Her eyes snap to mine, hard and unrelenting. A faint flush colors her cheeks. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hayes. I just bet on the biggest ego in the ring.”

I grin despite the sting, the bitter taste of disappointment lingering on my tongue. “Guess I owe that ego a thank you.”

She brushes past me, all fire and attitude. I swear I can still feel the heat she leaves behind, scorching every nerve ending. Ruby skips after her, humming something suspiciously like “Bad to the Bone.”

I should let her go. I should want her to go. But I don’t. My mouth moves before my brain can stop it, regret twisting instantly through my gut. “Why didn’t you wait for your dad to pass the other day?”