Page 2 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)
Chapter two
The Test
T he Bloody Scythes clubhouse looked like a converted slaughterhouse, mostly because it was one.
Cinderblock walls, floor stained in a way bleach could never fix, and a collection of animal skulls nailed to the rafters for ambiance.
The place reeked of cheap whiskey, hot leather, and the kind of sweat that got earned, not spritzed on in a gym.
Damron’s hand never left Carly’s lower back as he steered her through the main room, past a gauntlet of patch-covered men who looked at her the way wolves look at an open wound.
Most wore sleeveless cuts to show off their arms—some scarred, some tattooed, most both.
The women in the room watched Carly, too, but with eyes that calculated threat, not desire.
Maybe a little of both. It was the first time in years Carly had been somewhere she didn’t instantly own the room, and Damron knew she felt it.
She wore a stern game face: tight jeans, one inch heels, hair in a knot that said “I take no shit” but also “I paid two hundred bucks for this blowout.”
“Jesus, Damron,” Carly murmured, voice pitched low. “You throw a party or an exorcism?”
He grinned. “You expected a Rotary meeting? These guys haven’t been to church since they banged the priest’s daughter in tenth grade.”
He steered her to the long bar where Viper, the club’s resident enforcer, leaned over a tray of bourbon shots. Damron nodded to Viper, who barely moved except to look Carly up and down with all the subtlety of a strip search.
“Carly,” Damron said, tone gone formal. “Viper. Runs security for me. The man’s a bastard, but he’s our bastard.”
Viper’s voice was smoke and broken bottles. “Pleasure, Carly. Heard you know all about bikers.”
“From work,” Carly shot back, cool but not icy.
Damron’s smile grew. It turned him on to watch her flex. He walked her past the bar, letting the room size them up. Eyes tracked every step, taking in her ass, her heels, the way she didn’t flinch even when she passed through the thickest part of the room. If she was nervous, she hid it well.
Nitro found them by the pool table, as always.
The man looked like someone had carved his face out of granite and then set it on fire.
He wore his burns and ink like medals, and his laugh carried across the room like shrapnel.
“Prez, you gonna introduce your old lady or just let her walk in blind?” Nitro asked.
“She’s not my old lady,” Damron said. “Show some fucking respect.”
Nitro grinned, all teeth and reckless. “You got it, boss. Welcome to the Scythes, not his old lady. Don’t step on any blood stains that look fresh.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Carly said, not missing a beat.
Damron saw the way the men moved around her. Always a step back, always looking to him for cues. Some clubs ran on fear, but the Scythes ran on a different kind of respect. He’d built it that way.
The meeting bell clanged from the back room. Nitro barked, “Church in five!” and the place snapped to attention.
Damron leaned close to Carly, voice low. “Time for the real business. Nitro will show you to the women’s room.”
She bristled. “You’re benching me.”
“I’m keeping you alive,” he said. “And keeping them calm. Trust me, you don’t want to see what happens when someone takes a run at the Prez in his own house.”
She was already bracing for a fight, so he added, softer, “Look, Car—just let it go for now, yeah?”
Nitro motioned for her to follow. Damron watched as Carly squared her shoulders and walked off, her heels clicking over stained tile, not even a tremor in her stride.
From the doorway, Carly’s voice carried: “Don’t worry, Damron. I’ve survived worse than a roomful of bikers’ wives.”
Every head in the room snapped up. Even the old-timers grinned. He watched her until the door closed, and the clubhouse felt twice as empty.
Nitro walked Carly to the back, pausing at a heavy steel door marked “Private—Family Only.” He rapped on it twice, then swung it open with the easy entitlement of someone who never expected to get shot from behind.
“Ladies, you got company,” he said, and shoved Carly through like he was tossing her into the ring.
Inside, the air was less smoky but twice as tense. The room was part rec room, part fallout shelter. Framed photos and club banners covered every inch of drywall. A patched-up couch sagged under the weight of three women who looked like they could take a punch—and probably had.
Tess was all muscle, with knuckles like bricks and the hard blue eyes of someone who never lost a bar fight.
Shelly was younger, maybe mid-twenties, cheekbones sharp as glass and a bruise blossoming under one eye, already turning the sickly green of old fruit.
Maggie was old-school; late fifties, cigarette pinched between two fingers, hair dyed the red of an emergency flare.
They all looked up at Carly the same way: taking bets on how long she’d last.
Carly sat at the only open seat, crossed her legs, and set her purse on her lap. The silence was a dare.
“Didn’t know Damron had a new one,” Tess said, leaning forward, elbows on knees.
“He doesn’t,” Carly replied, forcing a smile. “I’m just here for a consultation.”
Shelly snorted. “That what they’re calling it these days? You look more like a babysitter than an old lady, no offense.”
Maggie flicked her cigarette in a cracked ceramic tray. “You used to be one, didn’t you?”
Carly’s smile was tight. “I’ve had a few jobs. None as interesting as yours, I imagine.”
The women exchanged a look. Tess shrugged. “You ever had your house raided at three a.m. because some asshole said your man was running meth? Ever have a cop point a gun at your kid?”
“No,” Carly said, voice even.
Maggie took a drag, exhaled sideways. “You got kids?”
“No.”
“Lucky,” Shelly said, rubbing the bruise on her face. “Less for the state to threaten.”
Tess grinned, and for a moment Carly saw the girl she must’ve been before the world soured her.
“Best one I got: year before last, Viper breaks a guy’s arm at a strip club for trying to grab my ass.
Next day, the same guy tries to get Viper locked up.
So I drive to the fucker’s apartment, knock on his door, and introduce him to a baseball bat.
He decides not to press charges after all. ”
Shelly rolled her eyes. “Tess loves the classics. But I got a better one. Nitro comes home with a hole in his side—gunshot. Says he’s fine, but blood’s everywhere.
Cops come by, so I have to hide him in the crawl space while stitching him up, high as a kite on stolen painkillers.
Ended up using dental floss. He still brags about the scar. ”
“Jesus,” Carly said, laughing despite herself. “Did you actually have to hide from the police?”
“Are you new here?” Shelly said, mock offended. “Cops love to shoot first, ask questions never.”
Maggie tapped her ashes. “You want to hear the worst? I was here when the old Prez got hit. Rival club rolled up with automatic rifles, took out half the room. Thought my old man was dead until I found him under a pile of bodies. Never washed the blood out of these jeans.” She gave a lazy, cigarette-stained smile.
“That’s the life, Carly. Still wanna play? ”
Carly stared at the three of them. Each looked ready to gut her, but also hungry for something she couldn’t name. Maybe a witness. Maybe someone to tell their stories. Maybe just a fourth for canasta.
Shelly asked it first. “So what’s your story with Damron? You don’t look like his usual type. You look like you’d call the cops before you called your ex.”
Carly let the silence work. She wanted to lie, but found herself too tired. “I work at the bar. Going to law school,” she said, blunt. “Someday I’m going to be a senator.”
Tess whistled. “Big swing.”
Maggie just shook her head, a kind of knowing pity in her smile. “Honey, no one just stops being Damron’s. Not really.”
Shelly snickered. “So are you gonna run for president next, or you just here for the makeup sex?”
Carly gave her a look. “I’m here because I trust him. That’s all.”
Tess shot her a thumbs-up. “Respect. But don’t get too cozy. Most women who come in here leave in handcuffs or a coffin.”
Maggie ground her cigarette out and stood up, stretching. “Drinks?” She poured shots from a bottle that looked older than any of them, sloshed the cheap whiskey into plastic cups, and handed one to Carly with a wink.
“Here’s to old scars,” Maggie said. They all drank, even Carly. It tasted like gasoline and regret, but she finished it.
“Your turn,” Tess said, pushing the bottle back her way. “You got a story, tell it.”
Carly took a moment, then launched into the one about the protester with a bag of dog shit and the homemade flamethrower, and for the first time, the other women actually laughed. By the time the bottle was half-empty, Carly felt the invisible line between worlds blur, if only for a second.
###
Damron shut the church room door behind him and took a moment to let the noise of patched egos and old grudges fade.
He’d made it through the agenda with only one near-fistfight and a minor coup attempt from the Arizona charter, which counted as a win.
But the real work was waiting in the back, behind another door and a bottle of whiskey he’d been saving for an occasion just like this.
He walked into the rec room, expecting to find Carly glassy-eyed with boredom or in the middle of a standoff with Tess.
Instead, he saw her holding court. The women clustered around her, laughing too loud at some war story she was spinning.
Shelly had her arm slung over Carly’s shoulder, and even Maggie, whose resting face looked like she’d just buried a husband, was grinning.
Carly saw him and excused herself. “See you soon, ladies,” she said, and Maggie howled as if they’d just discovered a new curse word.
Damron waited for the women to filter out before speaking. “You fit right in.”
“I learn fast,” she said, following him down the hall. “Your friends have great stories. I’m going to steal some for my memoirs.”
He snorted. “If they tell you the truth, you’re already more trusted than most.”
They reached his office. He unlocked the door, flicked the light, and waved her in.
The room was all hard surfaces and hard memories—map of the southwest pinned to one wall, arsenal racked on the other.
Three different ledgers sat open on his desk: one legit, one half-legit, and one that didn’t exist if the ATF came knocking.
He closed the door and locked it. “Sit. Drink?”
She nodded, settling on the edge of a battered armchair.
The room shrank around her, but she didn’t seem to mind.
If anything, she looked more at home here than in the halls of Congress.
He poured two fingers of whiskey each. Handed her a glass.
Their fingers touched, a jolt of old voltage running between them.
“Learn anything interesting?” he asked.
She eyed him over the rim. “That you’ve fucked half the women in this building.”
He grinned, didn’t deny it. “None of them had your stamina.”
Her jaw flexed. “Or maybe you just had a thing for broken things.”
He took a seat behind the desk, let the banter sit for a minute. The way she watched him was all business, but her foot jiggled a restless rhythm against the carpet. She sipped, then said, “The women think I’m back here to fuck you. They’re probably right.”
He leaned back, studied her. “Is that why you’re here?”
She set her glass on the desk. “No. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it every goddamn day since that night out back.”
He didn’t move. Just waited. Sometimes the best way to control a room was to see who talked first.
She didn’t. She just crossed the space, took his glass, and knocked back the rest of his whiskey. Then she slid her hands down the front of his shirt, slow, like she was searching for old wounds.
He caught her wrists, hard enough to leave a mark. “You sure you want this?”
She pulled her hands free and slapped him, just hard enough to sting. “Shut up, Damron.”
He kissed her, and it was the same old collision, violence and hunger and the need to prove who could take more damage.
He backed her to the desk, knocking over a stack of bills, sending them fluttering to the ground.
She bit his lip and tasted blood, grinned, then pushed him back and peeled off her jacket.
He yanked the knot from her hair, letting it fall wild.
The blue jeans lasted about four seconds before he ripped the blouse at the collar, buttons clattering to the floor.
She wore black lace underneath. It wasn’t for him, but now it was.
He spun her, bent her over the desk, gazed at her plump ass.
Her skin glowed under the cheap fluorescents, thighs marked with old bruises, and now fresh ones.
he reached into the desk and grabbed a tube of lube, shoving a blob between her ass cheeks, working into into her asshole as she relaxed and accepted his finger.
He took his time, allowing the puckered hole to expand.
Ten minutes later it was time. He pushed into her, rough and fast, one hand on the nape of her neck, the other braced against her hip.
She groaned and clawed at the desk, shoving ledgers aside until she found a handhold.
He fucked her ass hard, one of the last tests to be an old lady.
She pushed back, refusing to be passive, grinding against him with a fury that almost knocked him off balance.
She felt full, the pain of having his large cock in her ass not something she had expected but something she’d want again and again.
When he pulled out, she turned, eyes fierce, lips swollen. She yanked his belt open and dropped to her knees, dragging him into her mouth with a hunger that made him dizzy. He held her hair, forced her to take all of it, and she never broke eye contact.
“Goddamn, Carly,” he whispered.
She came up for air, spit shining her lips. “You deserve it.”
He lifted her, set her on the desk, and knelt to taste her, rough and deliberate. She shivered, then arched her back and dug her heels into his shoulders. When she came, she didn’t make a sound—just clamped down and rode it out, nails carving crescent moons in his back.
He was on her before the aftershocks faded, pinning her arms, fucking her until the desk itself groaned. She bit down on his shoulder, drawing blood, and he finished with a growl, burying himself deep.
They stayed tangled there, breath ragged and skin slick, until the sweat cooled. He found his jeans and zipped up, then tossed her a rag from the filing cabinet.
She wiped herself clean, then dabbed at his shoulder, shaking her head. “Fuck that was good.”
He grinned, grabbed the whiskey, and poured them both another round.