A subtle tremor runs through me, reminding me that my body doesn’t always obey the logic in my head. I curl my fingers into my palm, nails biting against skin, anchoring myself in the sharp sting. It’s that or give away how deeply he’s already unraveling me. Even now, his scent of leather, spice, and an edge of danger lingers in the air around me. My lips press into a thin line as I force my mind onto something, anything else. Because giving in to these feelings isn’t an option.
My chest rises too fast, breath shallow and uneven, lungs struggling to keep pace with my pulse. The way he said it—low, unapologetic, each damn syllable weighted with intent—echoes through my ribs, striking something deep and resonant.
I force my focus back where it belongs: getting the hell out of this town. Keep saving money. Keep working. Keep my head down and my goals in sight. Every hour here is another dollar toward the bus ticket out. The memory of my half-empty fridge and the bare spot where our couch used to be flickers through my mind. My father sold it months ago. Said we needed the cash, but somehow his recliner still sits in the corner, positioned with the arrogance of a damn throne. The image fuels my determination to escape.
Malachi is nothing but a roadblock. A distraction wrapped in a dangerously tempting package. He has nothing to offer me except maybe,maybe, a good orgasm. I’m not about to throw myself at him like every other girl who falls for his bullshit charm. If he wants an easy lay, he can find it somewhere else.
Still, something about the way he looked at me just now—serious, uncertain, as if I mattered in a way that scared him too—lodges in my ribs, a splinter I can’t ignore.
I turn on my heel, straighten my spine, and shake off the way his voice curled around my name with dangerous intent. That’s all it is. Words. Meant to mess with me. Meant to see if I’ll bite.
I won’t. Yet a tiny traitor inside wonders if I’d snap if I let myself. I clamp down on ithard.
A quick glance at my phone screen reminds me of how many hours I’ve been on my feet. My lower back aches, my calves burn. But none of that physical strain compares to the mental tug-of-war raging in my head. The restaurant has quieted, a few tables empty now, giving me the perfect excuse to get far, far away from Malachi’s gravitational pull.
My eyes scan the room, and I spot the mayor’s table. Under my breath, too soft for anyone to hear, I catch myself humming. Just a few bars of an old melody; the one I used to sing when I needed courage. The moment I notice, I stop, swallowing the habit as if it exposes a weakness. I was kind of a bitch to him earlier, so I should probably go check in. I don’t know what he and Malachi were talking about, but the air was thick with something I couldn’t quite place. Now, standing here, I have to ask myself, why did I instinctively dismiss the mayor instead of Malachi?
Because, despite everything, standing up for the Outsiders is ingrained in me. They may be a mess. A dangerous, complicated mess. But so am I. No matter how much I claim to hate them.
I inhale, smooth out my expression, and make my way to Mr. Graves’ table with a practiced smile. It’s fake, but it does the job. “Mr. Graves, would you like a refill?”
My gaze flickers to Mrs. Graves, and I take in the way she clutches her wine glass, fingers tight around the stem as if she’s had more than enough of both the drink and whatever tension lingers between them. I wonder what he’s hiding behind closed doors. If the charming, respectable politician is just another mask. A half-formed question flickers through my head. Does his wife know more than she lets on, or is she just another pawn in his game?
Then I see their daughter.
Holy. Shit.
Darla.
The same girl from last night that was hanging all over Malachi. Her wide, panicked eyes meet mine, and for a split second, I see it. The fear. The pleading. It’s the same fear that used to keep me up at night. The terror of being truly seen and still dismissed. Daddy doesn’t know she spends her nights somewhere he wouldn’t approve of.
I could call her out. I could ruin whatever perfect image she’s desperate to maintain. She was a bitch to me for no reason; maybe it would serve her right.
But I get it.
I get what it’s like to live under expectations that don’t fit. To pretend to be something you’re not just to keep the peace.
So, with the smallest nod, I let her off the hook.
Her shoulders drop, relief washing over her, and she offers me a small, grateful smile. I wonder if she realizes how close she came to being exposed. The fragility in her eyes speaks volumes, and I remember all the times I’ve felt that same vulnerability.
“I think we’re done for the night. Can we have our check?”
Mr. Graves looks back at me, and I know that look. The judgment. He knows who my father is. He thinks I don’t belong here, that I don’t deserve the job I fought for. But he can go to hell. I work harder than half the staff here, and I don’t need his approval.
“Yes, of course,” I say, keeping my voice even.
I walk away, heading to the register in the corner to print his check. The ache in my feet becomes a dull, relentless drumbeat. Each step steady. Each breath a silent count toward freedom. One hour closer to escape.
The exhaustion hits me all at once, settling deep in my bones. I just want to clock out, go home, and pretend none of this night happened. My feet throb in protest, and my temple pulses in sync. Another day, another shift, another night trying to keep my life from toppling over.
Ruby steps up beside me. “Everything okay?”
I force another smile, one that feels heavier than before, and nod. “Mr. Graves asked for his check.”
I hand it to her. It’s her table, not mine. And I’m done.
Ruby takes the receipt but doesn’t move. Instead, she studies me, her head tilting just slightly. “Everything okay with Mr.MMA fighter?” Her smirk is loaded with insinuation. “He’s staring at you.”
