Page 1 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)
Chapter one
The Beginning
N eon beer signs buzzed like angry wasps, and the wood of the bar top was so lacquered with spilled whiskey and cigarette burns it glistened, even under the mortuary gloom of dead lightbulbs.
The usual crowd was there—drifters, day laborers, college kids looking to flirt with self-destruction—but every eye at least glanced up when Damron St. James walked through the door.
He wore his patch, a black leather jacket stretched tight across his shoulders, which said "ex-military" or "ex-con," take your pick.
The bartender was new, or at least new to him.
Female, thirties if he had to guess, with her hair in a practical ponytail and a blouse that had survived exactly one pass through an iron before surrendering to the night.
She wiped glasses with clinical efficiency, eyes sharp and unafraid.
He liked that. He liked her. He took a seat at the far end, where he could watch the door, and the bartender drifted over. Up close, she was even better. Smelled faintly of cheap soap and limes. She set the glass down and eyed his patch.
“You with the Scythes?” she asked, voice crisp and low.
He nodded, not bothering with charm. “Whiskey, neat. Your best, which around here probably means not the stuff in the plastic jug.”
That got a smirk. “You want the top shelf, you pay up front.” She poured it smooth, steady, the bottle catching just enough neon to show she hadn’t lied—this was the good stuff.
He took the glass, ran his thumb along the rim. “How long you been behind the stick?”
She didn’t flinch. “Long enough.”
He sipped and let the burn smooth out his thoughts. “Long enough for what?”
She leaned in, close enough to show him the scar on her right hand—puckered and white, from a burn or maybe a bike wreck. “Long enough to know I should keep an eye on you.”
He grinned, all teeth and calculation. “You’re smarter than most.”
She leveled him with a look. “I’m a quick study. That’ll be eight bucks.”
He slid a ten across the wood. “Keep the change.”
She made the bill disappear, but her eyes lingered. “You got a name?”
He tapped his patch. “St. James.”
“Like the apostle,” she said.
He snorted. “If the apostle ran guns and liked his whiskey neat.”
She smiled, genuine this time, and moved to the far end to refill a regular’s beer. He watched her work, the efficiency, the rhythm. Every time she looked up, she caught him staring. Neither of them looked away.
The bar drifted toward last call, the drunks thinning out.
He nursed his third whiskey and watched her tidy up, working the rag along the taps with a violence that said she had bigger things to take out on the world.
The old timer staggered out, followed by a couple of wannabe rebels. Just him and her now.
He finished his glass, waited for her to come back.
She did, leaning on the bar with both hands, knuckles white. “You planning to sit there all night, or just waiting for the right time to rob the place?”
He shrugged. “Depends. You planning to stop me?”
She straightened, rolled her shoulders like a boxer before a match. “I can take care of myself.”
He believed her. He liked her even more. He stood up, slow and deliberate. “You lock up soon?”
She nodded. “You going to help me, or are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”
He stepped around the bar, stopping a foot from her.
She didn’t move back. They stood like that, close enough to smell each other’s sweat and adrenaline.
He could feel the heat off her skin, the hard line of her jaw, the way her brown eyes dared him to try something.
He took the dare and kissed her hard. She kissed him back, harder.
Her hand curled in the collar of his jacket, pulling him in, her tongue sharp as broken glass.
She tasted like whiskey and stubbornness.
He pressed her against the beer cooler, his thigh wedged between hers, and her nails dug into the back of his neck.
She bit his lip, and he grunted, liking the pain, matching it with a hand around her waist. The rag she’d been holding dropped to the floor. She pulled away, breath ragged.
“You always this forward?” she panted.
He grinned, wiped the blood from his mouth. “You always this game?”
She licked her lips, eyes flaring. “Finish your drink.”
He did, and she locked the front doors, killing the neon.
The world outside was dark except for the streetlight and the distant pulse of the city.
She led him out the back, where the alley reeked of rain and garbage and freedom.
His Harley sat there, mean and intimidating the darkness.
She looked at the bike, then at him. “What’s the play here, St. James?
” She tried to sound tough and confident, but the man towered over her, his green eyes holding her in place.
He shrugged out of his cut, tossed it on the seat. “You tell me.”
She closed the gap, kissing him again, even rougher.
This time, he spun her around, pinning her against the cold brick.
Her hands tore open his shirt, fingers finding the old scars.
She mapped them with her tongue, every ridge a story, every line a warning.
He slid his hands up her skirt, found nothing but bare skin and a band of garter.
Her ass was perfect, muscle and curve and just enough defiance to make him crazy.
He picked her up—she wrapped her legs around him, laughing a low, dangerous laugh. He shoved her skirt up, ground himself against her. His cock throbbed. She grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back. “You gonna fuck me, or just show me your scar collection?”
He answered by yanking her panties to the side, sinking two fingers into her, finding her soaked and ready.
She bit his neck, hard, and he nearly lost it right there.
He fumbled with his belt, her hands helping, both of them too impatient to care about class or comfort.
He pushed into her, and she clamped down, nails digging into his back.
He fucked her against the wall, every thrust matched by her growl and the slap of brick against her spine.
It wasn’t romantic. It was pure need, two animals tearing at each other for oxygen.
She whispered filth in his ear, dared him to go harder, deeper, meaner.
He obliged, hoisting her higher, letting her ride the rhythm.
She came fast, teeth gritted, shuddering around him like an electric shock.
He followed, groaning her name into the crook of her neck.
When he pulled out, she slid down the wall, skirt bunched around her hips, hair wild, mouth wet and smiling.
“Not bad for a first date,” she said.
He zipped up, found his jacket, and tossed her a look. “Next time, you buy the whiskey.”
She straightened, smoothing her clothes, dignity completely untouched by what just happened. “Next time, I’ll make you bleed for real.”
He liked that. He liked her a lot.
He mounted his bike, revved the engine. She stood in the alley, arms crossed, watching him with a look that said unfinished business.
He rode off into the night, the taste of her still on his tongue.
Inside, she cleaned up with the same efficiency, sweeping up the broken glass and tucking her blouse back in. She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar, lips bruised and eyes alive for the first time in years.
She poured herself a whiskey. Raised it to the empty room.
“See you around, St. James.”
She meant it.