Page 20 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

Chapter twelve

Damron and Carly

N obody said a word, not even the prospect whose hand was now more pulp than flesh.

Nitro had taken him out back, and I could hear the hollow whimpering through the door, low and animal, the sound of a kid learning the true price of loyalty.

The rest of the club drifted to corners, some lighting cigarettes, others just staring at the floor, shell-shocked by what they’d witnessed or wishing they could scrub it out of memory.

You never forget the first time a man screams with your name on his lips.

The veterans didn’t flinch, but the prospects looked green around the gills, and I made a mental note of which ones kept their lunch down.

Carly stood in the middle of it, arms crossed, feet planted but knees locked, like if she shifted her weight the world might collapse under her.

She was white as a ghost and shaking in a way that suggested she didn’t even realize it, jaw clenched so tight the tendons showed through her skin.

I watched her take it in—every drop of blood, every crushed knuckle, every battered ego in the room.

She blinked, hard, then looked at me like I was the last man on earth worth hating.

“Come on,” I said, grabbing her by the uninjured arm. Her skin was ice, and I had to resist the urge to rub some warmth back into it. “Let’s talk somewhere that doesn’t sound like a slaughterhouse.”

The club corridor was narrow and lined with ancient black-and-white photos of men who’d died uglier than they lived.

Their eyes followed us down the hall, silent judges for a world that never learned to clean up its own messes.

I steered Carly past the bar, past the main lounge where the TV still blared news of her own shooting, and into my office at the back.

The door was steel, with a deadbolt and three sets of hinges.

You could survive a war in here, or at least outlast a good siege.

The office was spartan—no family photos, just old patches in glass frames, a few tarnished trophies from charity races, and a map of New Mexico riddled with thumbtacks.

The desk was covered in open ledgers, half-written notes, and a small arsenal of handguns and knives.

Behind the desk, two AKs hung side by side on a wall rack, one with a cracked stock and the other covered in tally marks I’d made as a joke and never bothered to erase.

I dropped into the creaking leather chair and gestured for Carly to take the seat across from me. She hesitated, then sat, spine ramrod straight, hands folded over her bandaged forearm like a shield. Her eyes flitted over the weapons, then over me, then back to the wall, never settling for long.

I poured two fingers of whiskey into a chipped glass, then poured another and slid it across the desk to her. She let it sit, condensation pooling on the wood.

“You ever see a man’s fingernail come off with pliers?” I asked, more curious than cruel. “Because if you haven’t, that’s one to check off the bucket list.”

She looked at the glass, not at me. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Nothing’s supposed to be anything,” I said, draining my glass in a swallow. “You either get it, or you don’t. I didn’t choose this life, Carly. It chose me. Once that happens, there’s not a fucking thing can change it. I’ve tried. Fuck, I’ve tried.”

Her jaw flexed, the skin around her mouth blanching even paler. “I came here to survive, not to watch you torture some kid into a confession.”

I grinned, all teeth. “Welcome to the fucking desert, Senator. Sometimes survival looks like torture. What the actually fuck do you think they would do to you if captured? Sing you the Titanic theme song?”

She didn’t rise to it. Instead, she stared at the whiskey, fingers drumming a nervous tattoo on the desk. “Who are the Dire Straits, really?” she said, voice low. “And why do they want me dead so goddamn bad?”

I shrugged, then reached for the bottle and topped myself off.

“They’re another MC. Meaner than most, but not half as smart.

They used to run strip joints and fireworks, now it’s fentanyl and guns.

” I hesitated, letting the words stretch.

“Their president is Dean Whitman, but everyone calls him Ghost. Ex-Marine, old as dirt, more scars than skin.”

She studied me, waiting for more. I realized then that she’d seen through every lie I’d ever told her, every half-truth and macho bullshit story I’d ever used to wallpaper over the facts.

There was no fooling her, not anymore. I leaned back, the chair creaking.

“This goes back a ways. Before you. Before the club was even worth shooting at.”

She cocked her head, eyes narrowing. “So it’s personal.”

“Always is,” I said. “You want the whole story, or just the headline?”

She didn’t blink. “The whole story.”

I looked down at my hands, at the new blood spattered on the old scars. I hadn’t planned on giving her the confessional, but maybe that was what we both needed.

“Fifteen years ago,” I started, voice gone rougher than usual, “I was just a prospect myself. Bloody Scythes had maybe a dozen members, all local boys and Vietnam leftovers. Ghost was already running Dire Straits, and they owned every whorehouse and bootleg liquor racket from here to Texas. We weren’t even competition—just a gnat buzzing around his ear.

” Carly listened, the old politician’s mask slipping, leaving something softer and more dangerous underneath.

I kept going. “They had a daughter, Ghost and his old lady. Eliza. She was wild—really fucking wild—blonde hair, eyes like a wolf. She ran numbers for her dad, collected debts, even drove getaway cars when things got hairy. First time I saw her, she was doing donuts in the courthouse parking lot, laughing while the cops chased her in circles. She was seventeen, maybe, but scared of nothing.”

I paused, pouring another shot for myself. “We met at a party. Neutral ground. I was dumb enough to think I could talk to her without starting a war. My dick was doing all the thinking.”

Carly raised an eyebrow. “You slept with her.”

I laughed. “That’s putting it politely. It wasn’t love—at least not the kind you write songs about. But it was hot, and it was fast, and it was enough to piss off everyone in both clubs.”

She nodded, absorbing it. “What happened?”

I looked past her, at the window and the neon sign flickering outside.

“Ghost found us together, out at the old train yard. I was stupid—thought I could hide in plain sight. He and six of his patch-holders boxed me in, dragged me out of her car, and beat me until I was pissing blood.” My hand found the edge of my shirt, where the scar ran white and jagged along my collarbone.

“Left me for dead. Eliza tried to stop them—screamed at her father, even pulled a gun on one of his lieutenants. Didn’t matter.

They took her away, and I never saw her again. ”

I felt the weight of it, like a stone in my chest. I could tell Carly did, too.

She cleared her throat. “You think this is payback? After all these years?”

I shook my head. “It’s not just payback. It’s Ghost’s way of reminding me that nothing is ever forgotten. He lost his only kid because I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants. So now, every time I get close to something good—something that might make life worth living—he finds a way to burn it down.”

I watched Carly process, her hands finally unclenching, the whiskey glass trembling as she picked it up. She sipped, then coughed, eyes watering. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” I said, smiling without humor. “Hell of a chaser, right?”

She set the glass down, wiped her eyes. “So now he’s coming after me, because I’m your—” she hesitated, searching for the word. “—what? Your wife? Your last shot at redemption?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he just wants to see if I’ll break before he does. Plus, the fucker is getting paid for doing something he would have done for free. It’s a win-win for him.”

She looked at me, really looked, and for the first time since she’d walked back into my world, I saw the old Carly—the one who could take a punch and still smile after.

The one who’d loved me enough to walk away before I destroyed her.

She said nothing for a long time, just stared at the scar on my neck and the blood on my knuckles.

“That’s a long fucking story,” I finished, and it was.

I could see it on Carly’s face—she wanted to believe it was all bullshit, club posturing, the kind of macho grandstanding that filled my nights and ruined my marriages. But when you live long enough in the blast zone, you start to recognize fallout when it lands in your lap.

She tried for her courtroom tone, but it cracked on the way out. “So what was it with her, Damron? The thrill of the forbidden, or just the first piece of ass that didn’t run screaming from your rap sheet?”

I almost laughed, but it would have come out wrong.

“You ever meet someone who made you want to drive straight through a wall just to see what was on the other side?” I watched her expression, let the silence fill the gaps.

“That was Eliza. She’d toke on a joint in a police station, then dare you to join her for communion. ”

She didn’t push back. Instead, she leaned in, elbows on the desk, eyes sharp as broken glass. The room was silent, just the soft rattle of the vent and the hum of the ancient mini-fridge in the corner.

Carly reached for her glass and actually drank this time. “What happened to her?”

I let the question hang. “Ghost shipped her off. Boarding school, rehab, maybe a nunnery. I heard rumors she married some biker in Arizona, had a couple of kids, but I never saw her again.”

A shadow crossed her face. “And he’s been after you ever since.”