Page 26 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

Marcy held up the screen, and I saw a slideshow of photos—me, at the rally, mid-speech, and behind me in the crowd, clear as day, Damron St. James.

His face was half-shadow, arms folded, every inch of him radiating menace.

The next slide was a zoomed-in crop. The Internet had already memed it: “Would you trust your senator if her ex-husband looked like this?” Underneath, the comment section was a war crime.

“It’s not great optics,” Jamie said, voice climbing an octave.

I snorted. “You want to try telling him to go away?”

They didn’t answer.

Marcy set the tablet on the table and switched to campaign manager mode: rapid-fire, dry, merciless. “We’re getting hammered with calls. Donors are spooked, the party chair is demanding you make a statement, and local news is camped outside the building.”

“What do they want me to say?” I asked. “That I’m not fucking him? That I’m not being hunted by cartel-funded bikers? That I don’t bleed if you cut me?”

Jamie rubbed his temples. “We just need you to get ahead of it, Carly. You’re polling strong with independents, but this kind of thing—”

He flinched as my fist came down on the supply table, hard enough to rattle the Keurig and send three pens rolling onto the floor.

“Listen to me,” I said, voice steady but barely. “He’s the only reason I’m not dead right now. If the press wants to hang me for having a security detail that actually works, let them try. But don’t you dare treat him like a liability.” What the fuck was I doing?

A silence fell. Marcy picked up the pens and realigned them on the table, a nervous tic I’d seen a hundred times. Jamie’s hands were shaking.

I took a breath, counting out the inhale. “What’s the plan for the debate?” I asked.

Marcy was ready. “You’ve got four segments. Crime, border security, economic development, education. Giammati’s team already leaked his opening: he’s going to hammer your ‘criminal associations’ in the first two minutes.”

Jamie winced. “And he’s bringing up the shooting.”

“Of course he is,” I said. “I’d do the same.”

The comms director appeared in the doorway, face pale. “There’s a reporter from the Post here. He wants to do a ride-along tonight. With you. And, uh… Damron.”

I almost laughed. “You think the optics are bad now, just wait until they get a load of him up close.”

Jamie checked his notes, searching for a silver lining and finding none. “Is there any way to get St. James to lay low? Even for one night?”

I shook my head. “He won’t go away. He’s not wired that way.” And, I thought, neither am I.

Another silence. Marcy checked her phone and let out a sigh. “Polling just updated. We’re down another half point.”

I grabbed my debate folder and stood. “Get the cars ready. We’re leaving in twenty. And for fuck’s sake, make sure security is actually tight this time. I don’t want another repeat of the parking garage incident.”

Jamie nodded, half-relieved, half-terrified. “You got it.”

Marcy lingered as the others filed out. She waited until the door shut, then leaned in, voice low. “You sure you’re up for this?”

“Ask me tomorrow,” I said.

She nodded, not satisfied but out of options. “We’re behind you, Senator. You know that, right?”

I nodded, softer now. “Thanks.”

Marcy slipped out, heels clicking down the hall.

I slumped back in the chair and stared at the wall, where my own face smiled back at me, untouchable and serene.

I wondered what it would feel like to finally let that mask slip, just for a night.

Then I remembered the warehouse full of men with guns who wanted me dead, and decided the mask could stay on a little longer.

###

The debate venue was a high school auditorium dressed up to look like a Vegas fight night.

Spotlights circled the ceiling, rows of folding chairs gleamed under a coat of emergency wax, and everywhere you looked there were camera crews threading cables like they were prepping for a small war.

I could feel the collective nerves of the place—somewhere between the first punch of a bar brawl and the moment right before a courtroom verdict.

Backstage was a meat locker. The AC was cranked so high I could see my own breath when I talked.

My makeup artist hovered like a mosquito, touching up the foundation under my eyes and muttering about “shine” while I scanned the room for threats.

Most of the staff was glued to their phones, either panic-texting donors or doom-scrolling for the latest poll numbers.

I recognized half the reporters waiting in the wings—hungry, hostile, some just bored and hoping for a soundbite.

Damron was impossible to miss. He lurked in the far corner, leaning against a supply cart, black jacket zipped to the chin, hands in pockets.

It covered his cut but didn’t hide the way he scanned the room: every exit, every shadow, every guy who looked like he might be carrying a weapon or a grudge.

Security eyed him but kept their distance.

Everyone knew who he was, even if nobody wanted to say it out loud.

A part of me felt like an asshole for dragging him into this, knowing if the tables were turned, I would have said no.

He might be biker trash, but he was loyal to the bitter end.

A man of his word, something you never find in my line of work.

“You ready?” Jamie said, sidling up beside me. His hair was shellacked in , in place, his shirt a size too tight. He handed me a bottle of water and tried to smile.

“About as ready as I’ll ever be,” I said, twisting the cap off. My palms were slick and cold. I wiped them on my skirt.

Marcy checked her phone, then moved in, voice clipped. “You’re on in ten. Stick to the jobs numbers, hit the border hard, and whatever you do, don’t let him get under your skin.”

“Which one?” I said, deadpan.

She snorted, almost smiled, then nodded to the stage manager.

The call came at five minutes to curtain: Giammati had arrived.

His suit looked like it cost more than my entire campaign wardrobe, and he moved with the easy confidence of a man who’d never once had to get his hands dirty.

He shook hands with the moderator, did a quick TV standup, and then, when he thought the cameras were off, locked eyes with me across the green room. He didn’t smile. I didn’t blink.

The moderator herded us into the wings. The air in the corridor was thick with anticipation and the reek of burned coffee.

I could feel Damron watching, just out of sight, the same way you feel a loaded gun in the small of your back.

A minute later, the music swelled, and we were on.

The lights hit like a car accident, and the audience applause was as loud as a jet engine.

I smiled the way they’d trained me to—bright, approachable, not too predatory—and took my mark at the podium.

The opening statements were a blur. I hit the talking points, hammered the jobs numbers, called for “compassionate security” at the border, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. The crowd was mostly planted, but a handful of true believers hooted at the applause lines.

Then it was Giammati’s turn. He radiated confidence, every gesture choreographed to maximize gravitas.

He waited until the second segment, then pounced.

“Some people,” he said, and his smile was all teeth, “have interesting connections to those who profit from outlaws. Perhaps Senator St. James could explain her recent associations with certain… motorcycle enthusiasts known for their activities.”

There was a hush, the kind that says everyone is dying for you to choke. I caught the camera’s red light trained on my face. I also saw Damron at the edge of the crowd, hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles looked like stone. I took a breath, counted to two, then let it rip.

“Unlike my opponent,” I said, voice even, “I don’t hide my associations, Mr. Giammati. And I certainly don’t profit from illegal arms deals.” I looked directly at the camera. “Transparency isn’t just a word for my campaign—it’s a way of life. Can you say the same, Robert?”

He froze. Just for a heartbeat, but it was there. His smile faltered. The moderator, sensing blood, hustled to the next question.

But the crowd wasn’t listening. They were already buzzing, half of them grinning like I’d just cold-cocked the principal, the rest texting furiously, probably to their own lawyers. Damron, from the shadows, relaxed his fists.

The debate wore on, but I barely remembered the rest. I answered the questions, parried the jabs, smiled when the camera wanted me to. When it was over, I shook hands with the moderator and with Giammati. He squeezed too hard, tried to lean in for a whispered threat. I beat him to it.

“Next time,” I said, “bring your own dirt.”

His jaw worked, but he let go.

Backstage was chaos again. Staffers mobbed me, slapping backs, handing me bottled water and burning through their phone batteries to get the clip trending.

I saw Damron at the exit, arms folded, head tipped back like he was trying to memorize the ceiling tiles.

He met my eyes, nodded once, then disappeared down the hall.

A familiar feeling crept between my legs and I realized just thinking about him and what we had made me wet.

A smile swept across my face, my mind far from the debate.