Page 23 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)
He exploded with a grunt, his bitter seed coating my tongue. I swallowed greedily, milking him until he was spent and softening in my mouth. When I finally released him, we were both breathing hard. The kitchen smelled like sex and spilled coffee.
"We should clean up," I said, though I made no move to get off my knees. “I have somewhere to be.”
###
The campaign rally was held in an old warehouse that smelled like oil and wet cement, the kind of place where you expect to find a body, not a buffet table.
I stood backstage, fidgeting with my earpiece while the advance team screamed at each other over logistics and the AV guy ran a sound check by screaming “cocksucker” into a hot mic.
My nerves itched and my pussy still throbbed.
The light above the stage was harsh and blue, perfect for hiding bloodshot eyes and unhealed bruises.
I’d spent hours in hair and makeup, but under the heat of the industrial LEDs, I already felt like a fried chicken left too long under a lamp.
“Ready in five,” someone barked. The crowd was audible from behind the curtain—a mash of local party operatives, handpicked superfans, and a wall of bored press waiting for the next viral disaster.
My mind automatically went back to the kitchen apartment. The way Damron fucked me like he did before our marriage went to shit.
I scanned the wings. Damron wasn’t there, but I knew he was in the building.
The MC had a sixth sense for where the threat was coming from, and I’d seen the way his eyes never stopped moving when he did a walk-through with campaign security.
He’d shaved for the occasion, but the suit still looked like it might strangle him if he wore it for more than an hour.
You could dress up a wolf, but you couldn’t file down the teeth.
“Senator, two minutes,” the comms girl said, her tablet trembling in her grip.
I looked at myself in the mirror—expensive, inoffensive, calculated down to the color of my blouse—and tried to remember why I was doing this.
Because if I didn’t, Giammati’s goons would win.
Because the club had a code, but politics had none.
Because the only way to beat them was to play dirtier, or at least make it look like you could.
The crowd noise peaked as they read my bio.
The room was lit up, exposed brick and ductwork running like veins across the ceiling.
I stepped up to the curtain, the first ten seconds of adrenaline stinging my skin like a shot of mezcal.
I hit the stage and the applause rolled over me, hungry and hollow.
I smiled, the “Senator St. James” smile, and took the podium.
The opening lines were autopilot—thank you, so happy to be here, humbled by your trust, bullshit sandwich served fresh.
But even as I spoke, my eyes found Damron.
He was at the far wall, posted behind a support beam.
He wore a jacket over his cut, but I could still see the bulge at his waistband.
His arms were folded, eyes cool and predatory, never settling for more than a split second before sweeping to the next exit or shadowed corner.
Next to him, the campaign’s top security guy looked like a mall cop doing cosplay.
I almost laughed. No one could spot a kill zone like Damron.
I kept talking, fielding the crowd. Every fifteen seconds, my handler fed me a line through the earpiece—pivot to crime reform, joke about the governor, plug the bill even though it was dead.
The room was thick with TV cameras. I made sure to gesture big, smile bigger, and keep my shoulders back.
Never show fear, not even to the voters.
Then the press Q&A started. A local ABC affiliate went first, sticking to the script: tax policy, public safety, schools. I could see the more aggressive ones in the back, ready to pounce. A thin, bearded guy from the alt-weekly took the mic and smiled at me with all his teeth.
“Senator St. James,” he began, “you’ve built a reputation as tough on crime, but there are persistent rumors about your connections to, let’s say, less-than-savory elements. How do you respond to accusations that you’re in bed with the same outlaws you claim to be cracking down on?”
The crowd tittered, half waiting for me to explode. I smiled. “My record is public. If anyone in this room thinks I’ve ever done a favor for a criminal, show me the evidence. Until then, let’s keep the conversation on actual policy.”
He didn’t back off. “Your ex-husband is a known leader of the Bloody Scythes. He was seen at your last event—armed. Should voters be concerned about who’s actually running your campaign?”
A flicker of tension ripped through the room. Even the security team tensed, scanning for the next escalation. I felt Damron’s eyes burning into me from across the warehouse.
“My ex-husband is a private citizen,” I said, voice syrupy but sharp, “and if the law had anything on him, he’d be behind bars, not in this room.” I let the words hang. “Next question.”
But the press had blood in the water. A woman in a blue dress shouted, “Did you marry into the MC to get votes on the south side?” Another: “What about the photos of you at the clubhouse last week?” Another: “Are you still sleeping with St. James, or just taking his money?”
I gripped the podium, knuckles whitening. For a split second I saw Damron, eyes fixed on me, hands still, face blank. Then he looked away, scanning the crowd again, and I felt my stomach dip.
“I’m not here to discuss my marriage,” I said, steely. “I’m here to talk about what matters to the people of New Mexico.” I pivoted to the jobless rate, the opioid crisis, anything but the man watching me from the edge of the room. I was fucking on trial by everyone.
The press was relentless, but I kept smiling. They could smell blood, but I knew how to keep from bleeding out in front of a camera. When the Q&A ended, I made a quick exit, bypassing the gladhanders and heading for the green room. Damron was waiting, leaning against the wall like a stone gargoyle.
“You handled it,” he said, low enough for only me to hear.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I shot back, pushing past him.
He caught my arm. “You didn’t answer the question.”
I yanked free, anger flashing. “Maybe I didn’t want to.”
He nodded once, jaw set. “You’re bleeding, Carly. Even if they can’t see it.”
I held his stare, the echo of our old wars hanging between us. “And what would you do, Damron? Shoot them all?”
He grinned, a slice of something wolfish in his teeth. “If it kept you safe, I’d burn the world down.”
We stood locked for a moment, the warehouse fading behind us, only the sound of our own breathing filling the space. Then the handler reappeared, clipboard in hand, barking about the next event.
I brushed past Damron, not looking back, but I could feel his eyes on me—steady, watchful, promising everything and nothing at all.
By the time I finished the gauntlet of handshakes and photo ops, the sky had darkened to that blue-black shade that meant business wasn’t just unfinished, it was about to get bloody.
I ducked out of the warehouse through a side exit, expecting to find a lone intern or maybe a bored security guy, but what I saw was Nitro—smoking next to his bike, boots propped against a dumpster, scrolling through his phone like he was searching for the meaning of life in someone else’s text messages.
He looked up when I approached, offered a nod, and immediately went back to scrolling. “Nice speech,” he said, not sounding like he meant it.
“Did you watch?” I asked.
“Nope. Too many cameras.” He grinned. “Bad for the soul.”
Damron appeared from the shadows, moving with that same measured prowl, eyes darting down the alley and over the rooftops. He jerked his chin at Nitro. “You got something?”
“Yeah,” Nitro said, flicking the cigarette into a puddle. “You’re both gonna want to see this.”
He pulled a thick manila envelope out of his vest and handed it to Damron, who weighed it in his palm before ripping it open. I tried to peer over his shoulder, but he kept the papers close. Nitro leaned back, arms folded, waiting for the fireworks.
Inside were printouts: bank transfers, spreadsheets with highlighted cells, surveillance photos that looked like they’d been snapped by a lunatic hiding in a bush. Damron thumbed through them, jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack.
“What is it?” I asked.
Nitro snorted. “Your golden boy, Giammati. He’s not just hiring muscle. He’s bought himself a full-on patch-in with Ghost and the Dire Straits. I mean, fuck, even I’m impressed by the balls on this guy.”
Damron flipped to the next sheet—a phone log, numbers called in the middle of the night, every call triangulated to a burner registered out of Chandler, Arizona. At the bottom, a highlighted timestamp: 12:17am. “That’s when they torched your place,” Damron said, voice gone flat.
The next page was worse—a photo of Giammati, hair slicked back and face smeared with smugness, walking into a strip mall at the edge of town. Flanked by two Dire Straits bikers, colors on display, one hand on his shoulder like they were old friends or maybe just that close to caving his skull in.
I tried to process it. “Why would a politician risk this? Why not keep the deniability?”
“Because he thinks he’s untouchable,” Nitro said, lighting up another cigarette. “He doesn’t see us as a threat. He thinks he’s already won.”
Damron didn’t say anything, but I could see the violence behind his eyes. He handed me the photo. “You see the background? That’s the Santa Fe Ridge. It’s their clubhouse now. Used to be a goddamn bowling alley. They bought it up and turned it into a fortress.”
Nitro nodded, exhaling smoke like a fucking dragon. “We watched him go in. He spent two hours inside. Came out laughing. Shook hands with Ghost. Then he drove straight to his campaign HQ.”