Page 27 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

The campaign team clustered around, all nerves and elbows, still spinning from the adrenaline high.

Jamie handed me a phone—calls from a dozen donors, all “urgent.” Marcy kept checking over her shoulder, as if afraid the debate was going to come after us for a second round.

Damron and Nitro were waiting, just outside the glow of the sodium lamps.

Nitro straddled his bike, helmet in the crook of his arm, boots planted like he owned the entire county.

Damron leaned against the wall, arms folded, but I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze never stopped moving.

Then Giammati appeared, as if conjured by bad intentions.

He moved fast, trailed by three security goons in off-the-rack suits, all squared jaws and meathead menace.

They made a beeline for the curb, where a black SUV idled, tinted windows hiding whoever was pulling the real strings.

Damron peeled off the wall and matched their pace, covering the twenty yards between them in a stride that was all threat, no hesitation.

I saw Nitro toss his helmet onto the bike seat and follow, boots ringing against the parking lot.

Augustine and Seneca hung back but no less ready.

“Got a minute to talk about the Dire Straits?” Damron called, loud enough for the whole world to hear.

Giammati’s lead security stiffened, hand going to his jacket. The candidate himself didn’t break stride, just adjusted his tie and kept walking. “I don’t associate with criminals, Mr. St. James,” he said, voice as cold as the February air.

Damron closed the distance, stopping a foot from the man’s face. “Funny. I’ve got photos that say different.”

For a second, I thought Giammati was going to swing. Instead, he smiled—small, cruel, practiced. “You know how it ends for people like you?” he said, leaning in so only Damron could hear. “They end up as red mist on the windshield.”

“Better than kneeling for the mob,” Damron shot back.

The security detail tensed, ready to earn their Christmas bonuses.

Nitro stepped up, hand resting on the grip of a not-so-concealed piece.

The press, sensing blood, spilled into the lot, cameras up, flashes popping in bursts.

I watched it unfold from the perimeter, heart in my throat, knowing exactly how fast this could go from words to bullets.

I broke from my team and closed the gap, physically putting myself between Damron and Giammati.

My hand found Damron’s chest, hard and unyielding beneath the jacket.

I could feel the adrenaline humming under his skin.

“This isn’t the place,” I said, voice just loud enough to carry.

He looked down at me, jaw clenched, then back at Giammati. For a moment, I thought he’d ignore me, but something shifted behind his eyes. He stepped back. Nitro, ever the lieutenant, followed suit.

Giammati brushed past, not even bothering to look at me. “We’ll see you at the finish line, Senator,” he said, words oily with promise.

“Count on it,” I replied, not letting him see how much I wanted to claw his eyes out.

The press went wild, snapping photos, shouting questions that nobody answered.

My team moved in, trying to pull me away, but I shrugged them off and watched as Giammati’s SUV peeled out, taillights bleeding red against the dark.

Damron lingered, hands in pockets, eyes on the horizon.

I wanted to ask what he was thinking, but I already knew: he was running the numbers, calculating how many bodies it would take to keep me alive.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I said, softer than before.

He almost smiled. “You know me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

Nitro mounted his bike, gave me a salute, and rolled off into the night.

Damron stayed for another minute, then vanished down the service road, boots echoing against the emptiness.

I stood in the parking lot until the lights shut off and the cold seeped through my skin.

The night was quiet, but I knew it wouldn’t last. Not with what we’d just set in motion. Whatever was coming, it would be worse.

By the time I made it back to campaign headquarters, the Bloody Scythes following in the darkness, the war room was lit up like a casino on payday.

TV screens lined the far wall, each tuned to a different flavor of news—MSNBC, Fox, local cable, even the Spanish-language station that always made me look ten pounds heavier.

The footage looped nonstop: the parking lot standoff, the flash of teeth between Damron and Giammati, the way I shoved myself between them like a human riot shield.

Every camera angle made it look like I was either defusing a bomb or lighting the fuse myself.

The rest of the staff was in full meltdown.

Jamie had a stack of printouts in one hand, a Red Bull in the other, and was arguing with the data nerd over whether #BikerBoyfriend or #SenatorScandal was trending higher in the state’s three biggest markets.

Marcy toggled between conference calls, switching voices like a ventriloquist depending on whether she was talking to party bosses, donors, or the one guy at the Albuquerque Journal who still owed her a favor.

I hovered near the back, watching the drama unfold.

My phone buzzed so often my hand had gone numb.

Every call was a variation on the same theme: What the fuck are you doing, and are you still alive?

Damron stood by the window, silhouetted against the parking lot, his face half-lit by the reflection of cable news.

He looked out of place in the war room, too calm, too solid.

While everyone else vibrated with panic, he just watched the street below, fingers flexing and unflexing at his sides.

All a woman wants is a man’s undying protection, a man to make her feel safe. That was Damron. He was a protector.

“We’re hemorrhaging support,” Jamie said, flinging a poll update onto the table. “It’s a two-point drop in an hour. If we don’t get out in front of this—”

“We are out in front of it,” Marcy snapped, not looking up from her phone. “That’s the problem.”

Somewhere in the background, the TV replayed the moment Damron squared off with Giammati’s security.

The talking heads couldn’t get enough of it: “What does it mean for law and order when an outlaw biker is protecting a sitting senator?” They rolled the clip again, this time in slow-mo, highlighting the look in Damron’s eyes right before he backed down.

I glanced at Damron and he winked. I shook my head, trusting that whatever plan he had between his ears would benefit us all.

Nitro showed up twenty minutes later. He smelled like gasoline and winter air, and he didn’t bother with hellos. He crossed the room, dropped a burner phone onto the table in front of Damron, and said, “Club’s got eyes on Giammati. He’s meeting Ghost tonight.”

That got my attention. “Where?”

“Old service yard, out by the tracks,” Nitro said. “No cameras, no neighbors, just a couple of empty lots and a liquor store across the way. If they’re making a move, it’s happening there.”

Damron pocketed the burner and straightened. “I’m going.”

It wasn’t a question. He didn’t ask for permission, or offer a plan, or even look at me until the last possible second.

When he did, it felt like the whole room slowed down.

The man was willing to take a bullet for me, but I didn’t want that at all.

I wanted him safe and sound, wrapped in his arms when this was all said and done.

“Take backup,” I said, voice barely audible over the newsroom din.

Nitro grinned. “I’m the backup.”

Damron nodded once, then moved for the door. Nitro followed, already dialing. The rest of the staff barely noticed—too busy triaging the public relations body count.

Marcy sidled up to me, eyes narrowed. “You sure this is the way you want to play it?”

“Do I have a choice?” I asked, not expecting an answer. I didn’t tell her I longed for the outlaw biker the news was so happy to report on.

She hesitated, then shook her head. “We’ll handle things here. Just make sure you don’t end up on a stretcher again. It’s bad for the numbers.”

I watched through the window as Damron and Nitro mounted their bikes and roared off into the night.

The engines rattled the glass. On the TV, a pundit compared me to a “wounded gazelle, surrounded by predators.” I almost laughed.

For a long time, I just stood there, watching the red tail lights fade into darkness.

My mask was gone, and all I felt was the hollow ache of hope that maybe, this time, he’d come back in one piece.