Page 14 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

Chapter nine

Damron

T he world had shrunk to the glow of my phone, which meant I was either bored or waiting for someone to die.

Either way, it wasn’t good. The Bloody Scythes’ office was soundproofed, but the distant laughter from the bar vibrated through the walls like tinnitus.

I sat with my boots on the desk and the battered Glock within arm’s reach, the only two things in my life that never disappointed.

I scrolled past headlines about local shootouts, cartel busts, and the latest goober who thought he could run meth through Santa Fe County without paying tribute. Then the article stopped me cold: STRIP CLUB BILL DIES IN SENATE—St. James Caves on Eve of Vote.

My jaw flexed. I stared at the headline like I could make it blink first. Three years of her grandstanding, all down the drain in one midnight deal.

The story ran the usual pablum: “Senator Carly St. James, citing security threats and lack of bipartisan support, pulled the bill moments before the vote.” They had her on camera outside the chamber, sunglasses covering the bruising, mouth set like stone.

Even on my phone, I could see the way she held her shoulders—braced for war, or maybe just braced for the next punch.

I tried to call it what it was: a win for the club, a disaster for the state, another day in the endless shit parade of American democracy.

But all I felt was the old acid rising in my gut.

I hit her number without thinking. The phone rang three times. By the fourth, I was ready to snap the plastic in half.

“Yeah?” Her voice was pure sandpaper, just the way I remembered. Half cigarette, half defiance. Not even a hello.

“It’s me,” I said, even though she damn well knew.

A pause. I pictured her in a cheap hotel, surrounded by lawyers and FBI handlers, all of them eavesdropping on a call she’d never admit to wanting. “You read the news?”

I looked at the phone like it might bite me. “I’m not a moron. I saw.”

She exhaled, not quite a sigh. “It was the only move. You know it.”

“You don’t cave, Carly. Not unless you’ve got something better lined up.”

She let that one sit. On the other end, I could hear the click of a Zippo, a muffled cough, maybe the rattle of a prescription bottle.

“They had leverage,” she said, low. “It was Giammati, wasn’t it? The shooter.”

A thread of something—fear, or maybe disgust—curled around my tongue. “You said it yourself. He wanted to rattle you, not finish the job.”

“He’ll try again,” she said. Matter-of-fact. I almost admired her for it.

I leaned forward, elbows creaking the desk, eyes drilling a hole in the wall. “He tries, he fails. I’ll see to it personally.”

A soft laugh, like static. “You always did think violence was the answer.”

“Only when it’s the right question,” I shot back. “Besides, that’s why you came to me. For the violent response.”

She went quiet. I heard a distant door slam, the rumble of traffic, and then her voice again, thinner this time. “I need you on this, Damron. Not the club, not your boys—just you.”

I rolled my empty ring finger along the scarred desktop. “You don’t ask for much.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “You’re still the meanest bastard I know.”

I almost smiled. Instead, I let my anger do the talking. “I’ll protect you, but if you run, it’s on your head.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” The words were a dare, but I heard the shiver under them.

“Good. Because once I take a job, I finish it. Even if the client is an ungrateful pain in my ass.”

A real laugh this time, raw and short. “Yeah. That’s what I remember.”

The silence yawned wide. I let it stretch, waiting for her to hang up first. She didn’t.

“You kill the bill, and I keep you breathing until election night,” I said, voice flat as a gunshot. “That’s the deal.”

She inhaled slow, let it out. “It’s done.”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see. My throat was dry as bone. “Call if anything feels off. I mean it.”

There was another pause, and when she spoke, it was almost gentle. “Take care, Damron.”

I wanted to say something that would sting, but all the old ammo was spent. “You too, Senator.”

She hung up. I held the phone to my ear until the dial tone hissed like a warning.

Then I set it down, hard enough to rattle the whiskey bottle next to my boot.

I stared at the wall for a long minute, the weight of the promise pressing into my back teeth.

I’d just agreed to put my ass on the line for the woman who’d made a career out of setting me on fire.

The thought made me want to punch something, or fuck something, or both.

Instead, I poured a drink and watched the shadows crawl around the room.

There was a picture of the club on the shelf above the desk—me and Nitro, the old crew, all of us younger and dumber and convinced that family was the one thing nobody could take away.

I wondered how many of us still believed it.

My phone buzzed again. Another headline: GIAMMATI PREDICTS ‘VICTORY FOR WORKING MEN’ AS BILL COLLAPSES. I smiled at the wording, all meathead and no brains. Giammati wouldn’t see the knife coming until it was buried in his spine.

I drained the glass, letting the fire settle in my belly. The road ahead was paved in bullets and broken promises, but I’d walked it before, and I’d walk it again. For her. For me. For the club.

When the bottle was empty and the phone went silent, I just sat there, staring at the wall, waiting for the next shot to ring out.

###

The next morning came up mean and bright, the way New Mexico sun always did when you’d been drinking too late and sleeping too little.

I’d crashed at the club, half-dressed and face-down in paperwork, with the bottle for company.

Nitro showed up at the crack of dawn—he never did learn to knock, just kicked the door open with a boot and let the sound do the talking.

He looked like hell, or maybe just like someone who preferred his world that way.

Sunglasses indoors, a sleeveless cut that showed off a new bruise and three old ones, and a plastic cup of gas station coffee steaming in one hand.

“Heard you were up,” he said, not bothering to ask if I’d slept at all.

“Barely,” I said, lacing up the boots. “We’re rolling.”

Nitro squinted, then clocked the shoulder holster on the desk. “We expecting trouble, or just wishing for it?”

“With Giammati, there’s no wishing required.” I reached for the Glock, checked the magazine, slid it home with a snap. “We’re going to his campaign office.”

Nitro leaned in the doorway, arms folded like a bouncer at the last-chance saloon. “Politics and club business don’t mix, brother. You taught me that.”

I shrugged into my cut, the leather biting cold across my arms. “Today they do. He put a target on Carly’s back, and I’m not letting that stand.”

Nitro set the coffee on the file cabinet, next to a pyramid of shot glasses from our last trip to Juarez. “You’re getting soft, St. James. You sure this isn’t about the girl?”

I shot him a look. “It’s always about the girl. That’s why we fight at all.”

He grinned, teeth sharp and uneven. “I figured as much.” He palmed his own sidearm, gave it a quick once-over, and holstered it with a practiced flick. “All right, Prez. You point, I shoot. But if this turns into another fuckup like that city council raid—”

“It won’t,” I cut in. “We’re just sending a message.”

He eyed me up and down, but didn’t push it.

There’s a hierarchy in the club, sure, but the real law is survival.

Nitro understood that as well as anyone.

He fell in step as we walked out, boots thudding on the scuffed planks.

The clubhouse was half-empty at this hour, but every man still conscious lifted his eyes as we passed—some nodding, some just watching, the unspoken buzz of coming violence thickening the air.

The club’s lounge looked like the inside of a 1980s crime scene: cracked leather couches, a bar sticky with last night’s spill, and a wall of mugshots going back to the Carter administration.

The smell was a mix of stale smoke and the cheap pine they used to mop up blood.

The only window faced a cinderblock wall, and even the sunlight looked dirty coming through it. We needed a new place.

I paused by the weapons rack and grabbed an extra magazine, just in case. Nitro watched, jaw working like he was chewing glass. “You got a plan?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t start a war unless you’re ready to finish it.”

He liked that. “You want the others to tail?”

I shook my head. “No parade. We walk in clean, scare the shit out of them, then leave. If Giammati wants to play dirty, we show him what real dirty looks like.”

Nitro rolled his neck, the scar on his jaw whitening. “That’s what I’m here for.”

We hit the hallway, our boots echoing in unison, and out past the prospects guarding the front gate.

They stood up straighter, hands behind their backs, like cadets in a movie.

The club’s mechanics were already working on a stripped-down Harley in the lot, oil pooling under the block.

One of the hangers-on, some girl with a black eye and a smile, gave me a little salute as I passed. She knew the score. They all did.

Nitro grabbed his helmet and swung it over the handlebars, but before he climbed on, he gave me a look—half brother, half confessor. “You sure about this? If you go up against a state senator’s rival, there’s no coming back.”

I put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed hard enough to make him wince. “Nobody threatens family. Not on my watch.”

He nodded once, then fired up the bike, the engine’s roar bouncing off the concrete and straight into my bloodstream.