“Come on,” I say, voice low. “Let’s go up.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Just walks with me, shoulder brushing mine as we pass through the dark hallway, steps in sync, her hand finding mine halfway up the stairs. Not clinging. Not testing. Just there. The feel of her fingers curled against mine, simple and sure. No armor.
By the time we reach the landing, she’s already leaning into my side, warm and relaxed, her rhythm matched to mine. I open the door to our room, hold it for her. A rush of air meets us—leather, cedar, and the faint perfume she left on the blanket.
She walks in, slow and quiet, and turns to face me once we’re inside. I shut the door behind us. Neither of us says a word. Because we don’t need to. The silence between us doesn’t stretch. It holds.
She reaches for the hem of my hoodie and pulls it off, dropping it carelessly on the chair. Then, with the same quiet ease, she pushes her shorts down her legs and steps out of them, left in nothing but her tank top and panties. Her hair spills over her shoulders, curling from the heat of her skin. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t look away. Crawls into the bed like it belongs to her. It does. Just the way I do.
When I follow her under the covers, she doesn’t ask what this means. She doesn’t push. She just curls into my side, tucks her face against my chest, and whispers, “I’m glad you stayed.” Her voice cracks on the last word. Barely. But I hear it. Feel it. Because she isn’t just talking about tonight.
My hand slides into her hair. Soft. Damp from the bar. Still carrying a hint of vanilla.
“I’m not going anywhere.” And she believes me. Finally.
The way she exhales into my chest, the way her thumb taps once against my side in a quiet, familiar rhythm. It feels like a promise. Not one she says aloud. But one I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to keep.
Chapter 44
Malachi
Ifyoutoldmea 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.
