Page 7 of Malachi (Outsiders MC #1)

She freezes. For a second, I think she might turn around, that she might say something.

My chest tightens painfully, waiting. But she just stands there, back straight, shoulders squared, her long curls cascading down to the waistband of those damn shorts.

Then, without a word, she keeps walking, leaving me hollow and frustrated.

Coach Tompkins claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, his grip firm, knowing. “You have to use honey with that one.”

I scoff, shaking my head, bitterness lacing my throat. Honey? Candace? Yeah, right. She’s gasoline and a match.

We step into the locker room, and I turn to face him as I start unwrapping my hands, the tape peeling away, skin raw beneath. “How do you know Candace?” The question comes out more curious than I intend, betraying something deeper. Something I don’t want to acknowledge. Maybe I do care. Fuck.

Coach Tompkins grabs his bag, stuffing cash inside like it’s just another night, just another bet. “She used to train with me.”

That makes me pause. My fingers still on the wrappings, disbelief sinking deep into my bones. “You trained her?” The words feel foreign in my mouth, confusion swirling sharply through my chest. Candace? Fighting?

I squint at him, trying to piece it together. I’ve known Candace since she was ten, since her dad patched into The Outsiders. And not once, not once , have I ever seen her throw a punch. I knew she hated the club, hated what we did, but training with Coach? That’s something else entirely.

Coach Tompkins lifts a brow, clearly amused by my confusion. “Yeah, I did. She was damn good, too.”

Before I can ask anything else, he slings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door. Just that fast, he’s gone, leaving me with nothing but questions I didn’t know I wanted answers to, each one carving itself painfully into my chest.

I finish changing, deciding I’ll shower when I get back to the club. My mind keeps circling back to Candace, to the way she’s always kept herself separate, always watching me as if I’m the worst thing to ever exist. Bitterness coats my tongue.

She used to be around all the time. Back when she was younger, when her dad brought her to barbecues and patch parties and treated her like part of the family.

But now? She’s only been to the club once, maybe twice in the past few years.

Never supported her dad’s ride-alongs. The other morning?

She barely showed up long enough to flip me off before disappearing again.

I don’t know when the shift happened. When she stopped showing up, stopped laughing in the garage while Chuck worked, stopped looking at any of us as if we were still hers.

Somewhere along the way, we lost her. Maybe that shouldn’t bother me.

But it does. My jaw tightens. Something dark must’ve happened.

Something she keeps locked behind those impenetrable eyes.

Then, uninvited, her voice cuts through the back of my skull, sharp as a blade. “You only see what you want to see.”

It was the night I took the president’s patch. I remember the way she said it. Quiet, steady, not meant to wound but landing anyway. Maybe she didn’t even realize the truth she was holding in her hands when she hurled it at me. Or maybe she knew exactly what she was doing.

I haven’t stopped hearing it since.

That moment? It clings. Not because I think she’s right. Not completely. But because some part of me wonders if I missed something. If there was more to what she saw that night than just resentment.

I shake it off, forcing the memory down. I don’t have time to chase old echoes. Not tonight.

I shove the thoughts aside, pulling on my cut, grabbing my helmet. Enough of this. I won tonight, and I’m damn well going to celebrate. Yet, my stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought, satisfaction elusive.

There’s no point trying to figure Candace out. She’s a puzzle with missing pieces, a storm that never settles. And whoever said women were hard to understand? Yeah, they definitely had a Candace in their life.

I’m about to pull out of the warehouse parking lot when I spot her.

Candace. She’s standing near the curb with her friend, shoulders drawn so tight they’re nearly brushing her ears.

Tension coils through her, visible even from this distance.

Even as she pulls her mess of curls into a ponytail, there’s something about the movement, something effortless, something that makes my gut tighten.

I drag a hand down my beard, scowling at the thought. She’s a thorn in my side, always has been. But apparently, my dick didn’t get the memo. I cut my engine. I tell myself it’s just so I can hear their conversation, not because I actually give a damn, even as my pulse kicks up in my throat.

“We were supposed to party tonight,” Ruby whines.

Candace lets out a sharp breath, already turning away. “I don’t know where you got that idea. I said I was coming to the fight, then going home.”

Ruby stops at a yellow convertible, but Candace keeps walking, shoulders hunched as if the weight pressing down on her is heavier than exhaustion alone.

“Where the hell are you going?”

She glances back but doesn’t stop, shadows from the streetlight painting delicate hollows across her face. “I’m walking home. It’s only a couple of blocks.”

“What? No! I’ll come over, and we can hang out.”

A flicker of something flashes in Candace’s eyes, quick and barely there.

Panic. My muscles tense instinctively, protectiveness rising hot and bitter in my chest. Then it’s gone, smoothed over as if it never existed.

“No, it’s fine. Go party. I’ve had a long day, and I’m exhausted. Maybe tomorrow night, okay?”

Ruby sighs, clearly not happy about it, but nods. “Yeah, alright. You work tomorrow?”

“Yep. Night shift. Cliff said if I come in an hour early, I could be the barback until my shift starts.” She toys with the hem of her shirt, a nervous habit maybe, and I find myself gripping the handlebars tighter, the worn leather creaking softly under my clenched fists.

“Alright, I’ll come hang out before my shift.”

Ruby climbs into her car and peels out of the lot, heading in the opposite direction of Candace’s house. And Candace? She just keeps walking, the sight strangely solitary beneath the flickering streetlamps. My jaw clenches tight, a quiet unease twisting in my gut.

I fire up my bike, rolling forward until I’m right behind her.

She glances over her shoulder. The second she realizes it’s me, she groans, rolls her eyes so hard I swear she sees her own brain, and sets her jaw as if chewing glass.

Her obvious irritation is a jab right between my ribs, and I find myself perversely enjoying it.

What the hell is this girl’s problem with me?

Might as well make it worse.

“Get on,” I call over the growl of my engine, my pulse quickening at the stubborn defiance flashing in her eyes.

She lets out a sharp laugh. “Not in this lifetime.”

I let her get a few steps ahead, taking the opportunity to admire the view.

Those tiny, frayed shorts barely cover her ass, and her legs move with confidence that claims the pavement as her own.

My throat goes dry, heat flooding southward, even as frustration tightens every muscle. When the fuck did she get so hot?

I roll up next to her again, smirking, my voice firm, edged with something deeper I don’t care to examine too closely. “Get on.” This time, it’s not a request.

She stops, turning to face me with a look that could set fire to the asphalt. Her eyes spark with defiance, igniting something equally volatile inside my chest. “I didn’t think you let anyone ride with you.”

I lift a shoulder, the casual movement belying the protectiveness flaring sharply beneath my skin. “I’m not letting the daughter of one of my brothers walk home alone this late at night.”

She crosses her arms, lifting her chin. “That’s sweet. Or it would be if I didn’t know you were just hoping I’d grab your waist and swoon.”

I smirk, a slow heat building in my chest, anticipation tangling with irritation. “You could grab more than that, Sour Patch.”

“Ugh. Call me that again, and I will roundhouse kick your ego into next week.”

She exhales through her nose, clearly debating whether to argue, but snatches the helmet from my hand anyway, her fingers brushing briefly against mine.

Electricity jolts sharply through my body before she throws me this fake-ass sweet smile, all teeth and venom, a look that says she’s seconds away from stabbing me with a glitter pen.

Climbing onto the back of my bike, she settles in; too close, too warm.

The second her body presses against mine, heat rushes straight south.

My jaw locks, fingers tightening around the handlebars until my knuckles ache.

I take off. Hard. She yelps, crashing into me, and fuck.

I swear I can feel every inch of her through my cut and shirt, her warmth searing into my skin, branding itself deep into my bones.

She flinches when I rev the engine, a visceral reaction that tells me even the sound of me gets under her skin.

Good. Maybe then she’ll understand exactly how I feel.

“Jesus, asshole, you could’ve given me a heads-up.”

I chuckle, expecting her to wrap her arms around my waist, to hold on to me.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she straightens, gripping the sissy bar with both hands, clinging to it like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling straight into hell.

Which, apparently, is just being close to me.

My chest tightens unexpectedly, a knot of annoyance and something sharper forming in my throat.

Something that tastes a hell of a lot like hurt.

I shouldn’t care. But irritation creeps up my spine, and for a split second, I consider jolting the bike just to make her lose her balance again, feel her warmth crash against me once more. I don’t.

The ride is short, too short, my pulse still thundering when we pull up to her house.

She climbs off immediately, shoving the helmet into my chest, wiping her hands on her shorts as if just touching something of mine made her skin crawl.

A gesture that cuts far deeper than I want to admit, and walks away without so much as a thank you.

“You’re welcome,” I call after her retreating back, bitterness sharp on my tongue.

She flips me off over her shoulder, and laughter rumbles in my chest despite myself. The only good thing about her walking away? The way those damn shorts ride up, teasing just enough to make me want to see more.

Yet as I watch her disappear inside, my amusement fades into something quieter, more conflicted.

She’s a problem—my problem. Because despite the defiance, the anger, and the way she looks at me like she wishes I’d disappear, I can’t shake the gut-deep certainty that beneath that fire lies something wounded.

Something I might, despite every reason not to, actually want to protect.

Shaking the thought away sharply, I fire up my engine again, feeling the vibration beneath me, familiar, grounding. Candace Giles might be trouble, but I’ve never been one to shy away from a fight. Or a challenge.

Even if the biggest battle might just be against my own damn heart.