Then, she shoves me. Not hard, not enough to actually push me away, but enough to remind me who she is. Who I am.
“What comes with that help?” she asks, her voice almost a whisper, eyes flashing. “Is there a price tag attached to your oh-so-generous offer, Malachi?”
I tilt my head, amused despite the tension. “What do you think I want, Sour Patch?”
She clenches her fists, as if she’s holding something back. “You tell me.”
The answer is too simple, too complicated.
“Peace of mind,” I say finally, voice pitched low.
Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie. She won’t find one. Then, after what feels like an eternity, she exhales, and something in her posture shifts. Defeated. Resigned.
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
Her voice is clipped, defiant with something else underneath it. Not surrender, exactly. More akin to hesitation. A crack she didn’t mean to show.
And I see it; the moment her eyes flick away, the way her fingers curl a little tighter around her keys. The way her throat moves when she swallows, as if the words cost her more than she wants me to know. She’s scared. Not of me. Not of the club.
Of what showing up might mean.
She snaps. “Get out of my way. I have somewhere to be.” Her voice is sharp, a blade honed on too many disappointments.
I step back slowly, hands up, jaw tight. Then I turn, swing a leg over my bike, and fire it up. The rumble vibrates through me, steady and grounding. I pull forward just enough to give her room to pull out, tires crunching over the gravel as I ease off the brake.
She doesn’t hesitate. Slides into her car, slams the door, and peels out as if she’s leaving something behind she never wanted to claim in the first place. Gravel spits beneath her tires as the taillights flare, burning with the heat of a warning.
But I don’t take my eyes off her. Not until she’s out of sight.
The air between us still hums, carrying something sacred. A surrender neither of us will admit. And a promise I’m not sure how to keep.
But hell if I won’t try.
Not a win. Not a favor. Something quieter. Something closer to trust, even if she’d rather choke on her own pride than admit it.
Chapter 13
Candace
TherumbleofDad’sbike firing up outside sends a sharp pang through my stomach, a heavy, sickening weight settling deep in my gut. A sharp breath catches in my throat. I clamp my fingers around the countertop edge, knuckles whitening until the ache grounds me. But I don’t move. I just listen to the growling engine and tires crunching the gravel until the sound fades into the distance as if a door slammed shut behind him.
No goodbye. Not that I expected one.
The cold shoulder’s been a given since my outburst at the clubhouse last month. But the irony stings. He caused a full-blown scene just last weekend, and now here I am. Cleaned up and dressed as if this is some kind of apology tour. A peace offering served up on a disposable plate at a family-style lunch I never wanted to attend.
Frankie and Darla have been hinting I should come back, gently nudging, then not-so-gently pushing. They say I belonghere. But what does that even mean? I’ve spent half my life trying to prove I don’t.
Still, here I am. No more sidestepping. No more excuses.
I face the mirror, tilting my head slightly, adjusting the way my denim jacket drapes off one shoulder. It’s soft with wear, the kind of jacket that looks as though it’s got stories to tell. An old habit pops up and I press my thumb against the stitching along the cuff. The rhythm of the pressure mimics a silent beat pulsing in my mind; a song lyric I wrote weeks ago, half-finished and folded inside my bag.
Out of the corner of my eye, the neck of my guitar peeks from where it leans against the wall. I haven’t touched it in weeks. Maybe months. Just the sight of it sends a pulse through my chest; a chord not yet played. A reminder that there’s still music in me, even if I keep it quiet.
I glance down at my shirt—“Desperado” scrawled across the chest in worn, vintage lettering—and give the hem a tug, debating whether to tuck it or let it hang loose. I go with loose. It matches the mood.
Then there are the shorts. Frayed, faded, and undeniably short. They sit just right on my hips, cinched tight with a belt that sparkles with defiance. I know these shorts are a weapon and I know exactly whose eyes they’re meant to cut.
My jaw tightens. His eyes will follow. They always do. Whether he means them to or not.
