Page 21 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

“Not always so direct,” I said. “He’d wait years, then have a member run over by a drunk driver who turned out to be a former club prospect.

Or he’d leak my name to the ATF when things got too quiet.

If I opened a new racket, suddenly his boys would show up and torch the place.

” I smiled, thin. “But now, with you? He’s not pulling punches. ”

She looked at me over the rim of her glass, mask gone. “Because I matter to you.”

“Because you’re the only thing that ever did,” I said, surprising even myself with the honesty. “Ghost doesn’t want me dead, not really. He wants me alone. He wants me to remember what it feels like to lose.”

She was quiet for a long time, staring at the map on the wall, at the thumbtacks and scrawled notes. When she spoke, her voice was low but clear. “So this isn’t just about me. It’s about making you bleed the way you made him bleed.”

“Bingo,” I said, tapping the desk. “It’s an old man’s vendetta, but he’ll kill every woman, child, or bystander between here and Texas if it means winning.”

She laughed, short and bitter. “And people think politicians are ruthless.”

I poured another round, this time pushing the bottle toward her. “You still want in on this mess, or you want to run back to your security detail and let them try to hide you?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’m staying. Fuck him. Fuck all of them.”

I raised my glass, and she raised hers, and for a moment it felt like we were two soldiers in the same trench, the kind of bond that outlasted logic or sense.

“Welcome to the war, Senator,” I said, clinking our glasses. “Hope you brought a bigger gun than last time.”

She smiled, fierce and sharp. “Just don’t get me killed before the election, and we’ll call it even.”

I grinned, feeling the old fire in my veins. “No promises. But I’ll do my best.”

We sat there, drinking and staring at the map, plotting the next move in a game that neither of us could ever really win.

Outside, the sun was setting, turning the desert sky the color of blood and bone.

I glanced at Carly, the way she traced the scar on her arm, the set of her jaw.

She was tougher than most of the men I’d ever met, and meaner when it counted.

I almost pitied Ghost for what was coming.

But only almost. Because deep down, I knew—when it came to old wounds, nobody ever really got closure. We just bled slower.

Carly

A fist slammed against the door, loud enough to rattle the whiskey bottle. Damron was up and moving before I even processed it, hand going to the Glock on his hip. He didn’t ask who it was, just barked, “Clear!” and waited for the answer.

“Prez, it’s Nitro!” The voice was urgent, high, and tight.

Damron thumbed the latch and swung the door open.

Nitro barreled in, sweat pouring down his face, a phone clutched in one hand and a bloody rag in the other.

“We got movement,” he said, not wasting time with pleasantries.

“Your house, Senator. Four cars, at least two with Arizona plates. Ghost is making a play tonight.”

I felt my pulse spike, the adrenaline snapping me back to life.

“How long?” Damron said, grabbing his cut off the chair and shrugging it on.

“They’re not subtle,” Nitro said. “Neighbors already called it in. Cops are two minutes out, but they won’t get there in time.”

Damron turned to me. “We’re going now. Get your shit.”

I didn’t argue. I scooped up my purse, checked the pepper spray (useless) and the Sig Sauer (more promising) in the inside pocket, then followed him down the hall.

The club was a beehive, men moving with purpose for once, shotguns and bats coming off racks, boots pounding on concrete.

Nobody looked me in the eye, but I could feel the energy shift—this wasn’t a drill, and I was the payload.

Damron made three calls on his burner as we stalked through the lot, voice clipped and all business.

“Augustine, you and the prospects block the main drag.

I want eyes on every cross street within a mile of the target.

If you see anything with a cactus decal or a Jesus fish, call it in.

No cowboy shit unless they shoot first." He listened, then snapped, "No, I said no goddamn casualties.

Just eyes. Anyone gets trigger-happy, I'll gut them myself. "

I followed him to the bike, my heels scraping across the gravel. The clubhouse's lot was alive with activity—engines firing up, men checking weapons, Nitro barking orders to a group of prospects who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. The night air tasted like gasoline and dread.

"You're not riding that," Damron said, nodding at his Harley. "Get in the truck," Damron said, pointing to a black F-150 with tinted windows and a grill guard that looked like it could plow through a concrete wall. "Nitro, take point. I want three bikes ahead, three behind."

I climbed into the passenger seat, the leather cold against my thighs. Damron slid in beside me, his shoulders nearly filling the cab. He tossed me a bulletproof vest that smelled like old sweat.

"Put it on," he ordered, not looking at me as he cranked the engine.

I struggled with the vest, my wounded arm screaming as I tried to work the Velcro straps. Damron reached over without a word, his hands rough but efficient as he tightened the panels across my chest and back. The weight settled heavy against my ribs, making every breath deliberate.

"This thing bulletproof or just wishful thinking?" I asked, testing the fit.

"Depends on the bullet," he said, throwing the truck into gear. "But it'll stop most of what Ghost's boys are packing."

The convoy rolled out like a funeral procession—three Harleys ahead, their engines roaring in perfect synchronization, and three more behind us, close enough that I could see the riders' faces in the side mirrors.

Nitro led the pack, his bike weaving through traffic with the kind of precision that came from outrunning cops on a regular basis.

My phone buzzed against my thigh. Campaign manager, probably shitting himself wondering where his candidate had disappeared to. I powered it down and tossed it in the glove compartment.

"You ever think about what happens if we don't make it?" I asked, watching the city blur past.

Damron's jaw tightened. "We make it."

"That's not an answer."

He shot me a sideways glance, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. "You want honesty? If Ghost gets his hands on you, he'll make what I did to that prospect look like a fucking massage. He'll keep you alive just long enough to make sure I hear every scream."

The words hit like ice water, but I didn't flinch. "Then we better not let that happen."

He almost smiled. "There's the woman I married."

We took the exit toward my neighborhood at seventy, the truck's suspension groaning as Damron hauled it around the curve.

The Harleys stayed tight, their headlights cutting through the darkness like angry eyes.

I could see the glow on the horizon before we crested the hill—orange and hungry, reaching toward the stars.

"Fuck," Damron breathed.

My house was a bonfire. Flames poured from every window, the roof already caved in on one side.

Fire trucks lined the street, their hoses barely making a dent in the inferno.

Neighbors stood in clusters on their lawns, faces lit by the destruction, phones out to record the senator's life going up in smoke.

Damron pulled to the curb two blocks away, engine idling. The bikes formed a loose perimeter, riders dismounting with the practiced ease of men who'd done this before. Nitro jogged over to the driver's side window.

"Fire department's backing off," he reported. "Structure's too far gone. They're just trying to keep it from spreading."

I stared at the flames, watching twenty years of carefully curated political life turn to ash.

The antique desk where I'd written my first campaign speech.

The framed photos of handshakes with governors and senators.

The closet full of power suits that had cost more than most people's cars.

All of it feeding the fire now, smoke billowing black against the stars.

"They're sending a message," I said, voice steadier than I felt.

Damron nodded grimly. "Loud and fucking clear." He keyed the radio clipped to his visor. "Augustine, what's your twenty?"

Static crackled, then Augustine's voice came through: "Two blocks south. Got eyes on a white Escalade, Arizona plates. Four occupants, all male. They're just sitting there, watching the show."

"Copy that. Nitro, take two bikes and box them in. I want to have a conversation."

Nitro grinned, the kind of expression that promised pain. "With pleasure, Prez."

I watched the bikes peel off into the darkness, their taillights disappearing around the corner. The fire department was already packing up, accepting defeat. My neighbors had started to drift back inside, the entertainment value wearing thin now that the roof had collapsed completely.

"So what now?" I asked. "I'm officially homeless, and Ghost's made it clear he can reach me anywhere."

Damron's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Now we stop playing defense."

My phone rang from the glove compartment—the burner I'd forgotten about. I fished it out, checked the caller ID. Unknown number, but the area code was local.

"Answer it," Damron said. "Put it on speaker."

I hit accept and held the phone between us. "Senator St. James."

"Well, well. Heard you lost your house tonight. Shame about all those pretty things burning up."

Damron's jaw went rigid. "Hello, Ghost."

A chuckle, dry as desert wind. "Damron St. James. Been a long time, boy. You still fucking other men's daughters?"

"Only when they're worth the trouble," Damron shot back. "Your little fire show was cute, but it's gonna cost you."

"Cost me?" Ghost laughed, a sound like breaking bottles. "Son, I'm just getting started. That pretty little senator of yours, she's gonna learn what happens when she tries to shut down honest businessmen."

I leaned toward the phone. "This is between you and him, you crazy bastard. Leave me out of your pathetic dick-measuring contest."

The line went quiet for a long moment. When Ghost spoke again, his voice had gone cold. "Oh, sweetheart. You made it my business the minute you spread your legs for that piece of trash. Now you get to pay the price for his sins."

Damron grabbed the phone. "You want me, Ghost? Come get me. Leave her alone."

"Where's the fun in that?" Ghost's voice was fading, like he was moving the phone away from his mouth. "Besides, I already got what I came for tonight. Consider this a housewarming gift, Senator. Next time, I'll bring marshmallows."

The line went dead.

Damron stared at the phone for a long moment, then hurled it out the window. It shattered against the asphalt, plastic shards scattering under the streetlight. His breathing was heavy, controlled, the kind of calm that came right before someone got their throat ripped out.

"He's not done," I said, stating the obvious.

"No. He's just getting warmed up." Damron keyed the radio again. "Nitro, report."

Static, then: "Escalade's gone. Must've rolled out when the fire trucks arrived. Found some shell casings though—looks like they were ready for a fight."

"Copy. Fall back to base. We're coming in."

I watched the last of my house collapse in on itself, the flames reaching toward the sky like desperate fingers.

The fire department was already rolling up their hoses, accepting that there was nothing left to save.

A lifetime of careful political construction reduced to smoke and ash in under an hour.

"You can stay with me," Damron said, not looking at me as he threw the truck into drive. "Until this is over."

I turned to study his profile in the dashboard light—the hard line of his jaw, the scar that ran from his temple to his cheekbone, the way his hands gripped the wheel like he was choking the life out of it.

Three years ago, I'd walked away from this man because I couldn't handle the violence that followed him like a shadow.

Now that same violence was the only thing standing between me and a shallow grave.

"Your place," I said. "Right."

He shot me a look. "You got a better idea?"

I didn't. The hotel was compromised, my campaign headquarters was probably next on Ghost's list, and every safe house the FBI could offer would just be another target. At least with Damron, I knew the devil I was dealing with.

"Just until the election," I said, more to convince myself than him.

"Just until Ghost is dead," he corrected.

“I have a confession,” I said. “I have an apartment under an assumed name.” I shrugged when he gave me the “Damron what the fuck” look. He chuckled when I gave him the address. We all needed a safe place every now and again.