Page 10 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

Chapter seven

Carly

I t only took me ten minutes to remember how to find the Bloody Scythes clubhouse, which was equal parts muscle memory and an inability to let go of bad habits. I needed saving, and he was the only man capable of saving me. Would he?

The desert wind hammered grit against my bare shins and the cheap soles of my campaign heels, but I kept going, head down, blazer buttoned, one fist wrapped around the straps of my purse like it could anchor me through a war zone.

There were no signs, just a battered green door behind a concrete bunker of a building, sandwiched between a wrecked transmission shop and a taco stand that had been cited four times for health violations.

I knocked once, sharp and loud. A slot slid open and a pair of eyes—bloodshot, suspicious, not giving a fuck—swept over me.

The slot snapped shut. A deadbolt scraped back, and then I was inside.

They must have thought I was an undercover cop, because the entire room went flatline silent.

Twenty or so heads twisted in my direction, and none of them were happy about it.

The air was dense with cigarette smoke, old sweat, and the kind of whiskey that strips the varnish from cheap tables.

I tried to breathe through my nose, but even that felt like inhaling a threat.

The women in the room were just like I remembered them, the bikers as well. Everything was as I remembered it.

The pool table was missing a leg, propped up on two cinder blocks and a coil of chicken wire.

The bar top sagged under the weight of a hundred greasy elbows, and the walls were a timeline of club history, every year marked by a new hole or bloodstain.

A sign hung on the far wall that read: Brotherhood, Loyalty, Brutality.

The club motto was no joke. I knew what I was walking into.

It’s why I knew they had what it took to protect me.

Behind the bar, a woman with a neck tattoo was hosing out a pint glass with a splash of bottom-shelf vodka.

She looked at me like I was the punchline to a joke she didn’t want to tell.

“You lost, Senator?” someone called from the back. I recognized the voice: Slick, an old hanger-on with a beard that looked like it had been glued on after a dare. The club cared about their beards the way they cared about their bikes.

I didn’t answer. The right move was to keep walking, so I did, heels popping out a staccato warning as I made for the office in the far corner.

A couple of the bikers closed ranks in front of me, arms folded, chests puffed out like they were auditioning for a cologne ad called "Prison Time.

" My mouth was dry, but I swallowed anyway.

One of them stepped forward, chin scarred and nostrils flaring. “You got an appointment?”

“I have a name,” I said, planting my heels. “St. James. Tell him Carly’s here.”

The goon looked me up and down—hair, suit, legs, purse, as if somewhere in the inventory I’d left a clue.

He jerked his head toward the bar, and another man peeled off, slipping past the swinging door like a ghost who knew where the bodies were buried.

The first guy stayed put, arms crossed, but at least he didn’t try to frisk me.

The silence in the room was a living thing now, crawling up my spine and settling in behind my eyes.

I let my gaze drift over the brothers. Some of them I recognized from the old days; most were new, younger, meaner, with tattoos that looked like they’d been inked with broken glass.

They didn’t smile, but they didn’t move either.

I was the show, and they were waiting for the intermission.

Then Nitro walked in.

He hadn’t changed, not really, except the lines on his face had gone deeper, and his eyes—always sharp, always dangerous—looked even more restless than before.

His cut was cleaner than anyone else’s, the patches stitched with precision, not a stray thread in sight.

His biceps flexed under the sleeveless vest, arms a road map of scars and faded green ink.

He saw me, blinked once, then took three steps across the floor, all slow and easy, like he was measuring the weight of every footfall.

“St. James in his office?” he asked the doorman.

“Was on the phone, but I let him know.”

Nitro didn’t even look at me until the last second, and when he did it was like being scanned by an X-ray at the airport, only this machine had a grudge. He gave me a nod, then turned on his heel and vanished down the hallway.

I waited. There was nothing else to do. My hands had gone numb around the purse straps, so I forced myself to loosen up, shaking out the right hand like a fighter prepping for a round.

Sweat prickled at my scalp, and the blazer stuck to my back like a wet napkin.

I let out a slow breath. The crowd relaxed, just a notch, and a few turned away, picking up their pool cues or beers.

I could hear the TV again—a sports highlight reel, somebody getting his head caved in, a bunch of men roaring approval.

Then the news broke in—Senator St. James was missing from her hotel room.

That didn’t take long. My phone rang and I ignored it for the time being.

I let myself look around, really look, for the first time.

It was all so gloriously fucked. The place was a monument to toxic masculinity: animal heads nailed to the walls, a shelf of bowling trophies next to a case of confiscated knives, a faded Polaroid taped to the register with the words “No Tabs” scrawled in Sharpie.

The woman behind the bar was staring at her phone, fake nails tapping a rhythm on the counter.

For a second, I wondered if I looked as out of place as I felt.

The office door swung open. Damron St. James filled the doorway, and the room went quiet again, this time with a different kind of tension—a gravity that pulled everyone a few millimeters toward him, whether they wanted to or not.

He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, and the shirt clung to his chest in a way that made you remember all the fights he’d won and none of the ones he’d lost. His hair was buzzed even tighter than I remembered, and there was new gray in the beard, but the eyes were the same: sharp, cool, blue.

He didn’t look at me, not really, not at first. He let his gaze sweep the crowd, and only after he was sure the room was his did he land on me.

“Carly,” he said. His voice could have cut glass. He didn’t move. The hate and disgust in his eyes made my stomach churn. I’d fucked up by coming here.

For a second, I forgot how to speak.

The first thing I noticed was the scar, the jagged seam along his jaw that I’d traced a hundred times with my tongue, back before things got complicated. The second was the absence: the naked ring finger, the bone-white line where the gold used to live.

“Hey,” I managed, softer than I meant to. “Sorry to drop in.”

He stepped aside, wordless, and jerked his head toward the office.

I followed him, the doorman close enough behind to make sure I didn’t detour.

The door clicked shut, muffling the noise.

The office was smaller than I remembered, walls papered with maps and gun catalog pages, a battered desk piled with ledgers and a half-assembled AR-15. There was only one chair. He took it.

I stood, awkward, fingers fiddling with the purse strap again. My knees wanted to lock, but I wouldn’t let them. For some reason, I felt naked, exposed. He laced his fingers together, resting his hands on the desk. The scars on his knuckles looked fresh.

“Didn’t expect to see you in this part of town,” he said. “What is it that you call us in the news? Biker trash?”

“I didn’t expect to be here,” I shot back. Then, before I could lose my nerve, “I need your help.”

He smiled, but it was a mean smile, all teeth and no light. “Most people don’t come to me for help. They come for a problem to go away.”

“This is a problem,” I said. “And it’s not going away.”

He watched me. He could have stayed silent for hours, but I was desperate, so I kept talking.

“There was an attempt,” I said. “On my life. Today. Rally downtown.”

“I saw it on the news.” He said it like he didn’t give a shit, but I caught the twitch in his jaw.

He’d watched, all right. “Said the shooter missed. FBI is already making noise. One of those assholes stopped by the club earlier. Bout shit his pants when the entire club walked outside to greet him.”

“He missed because he wasn’t trying,” I said, pulse hammering in my neck. “He wanted to spook me, maybe rattle the campaign. I don’t think I was supposed to die. Not yet.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

I dropped the purse on the desk, hands shaking now. “I know how this sounds, but I think it was Robert Giammati. My opponent.”

Damron barked a laugh. “The corporate asshole?”

I nodded. “He’s got money, muscle, and the personality of a shark.

He’s been running a dark campaign for months—anonymous threats, fake leaks, all that shit.

But this… this was different. Felt like a warning shot.

” I paused, collecting the words. “I know I should let the FBI or Secret Service handle it. But—”

He held up a hand, silencing me. “You already did. And they told you to lie low, hide in a safehouse, maybe drop out.”

“They can’t protect me from this,” I said, voice almost breaking. “Not the way you can.”

He leaned back, running a thumb over his empty ring finger. The silence was brutal. “You want me to put a crew on you?”

I shook my head. “No. I want you. I want the man who survived fights and battles and the worst parts of me. I want you to keep me alive, because if it gets bad, you won’t hesitate.

And because you know the people who play these games, and how to play dirtier.

” I looked at the club motto on the wall. “I need your brutality.”