Page 29 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

She nodded, and for a second I saw the woman I used to love.

No—that I still loved. The one who never ran from anything, even when she should have.

We moved back through the alley, arm in arm.

The house was a bonfire, smoke curling into the sky.

Nitro and Augustine were pulling the wounded out, piling them into a neighbor’s minivan.

The sirens were coming now—police, fire, maybe even the Feds if we were lucky.

I collapsed on the grass, staring up at the moon.

Carly hovered over me, hands pressed to my wounds, voice insistent and desperate.

“Stay with me, Damron,” she kept saying. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

I wanted to laugh, but it hurt too much. Instead, I closed my eyes and let the world spin, content in the knowledge that, for once, I’d finished the job. The rest would have to wait.

They loaded me into the back of the ambulance.

My vision kept cutting out, jagged and strobing, but every time I opened my eyes, I saw Carly.

She followed at a run, one arm clutching a towel to her bicep, the other waving off any attempt to slow her down.

A woman in a suit tried to stop her—maybe a detective, maybe a news anchor, I couldn’t tell.

Carly barked something at her, pure senator, and kept moving.

Inside the ambulance, the paramedic was already up to his elbows in my blood.

“Gunshot, left upper quadrant. Laceration right forearm. Pulse 82 and thready,” he recited, not even glancing at me.

His partner squeezed a bag over my face and told me to “keep it together, big guy.” I tried, but it was like breathing through a wet wool sock.

The last thing I saw before the doors slammed shut was Nitro, standing in the neighbor’s front yard.

He gave me a look that meant “don’t die yet, asshole,” then faded into the shadows as the first press van rounded the corner.

The ambulance ride was short. I faded in and out. Each time, Carly’s voice was there, cutting through the drugs and the noise. “He’s not allergic to anything,” she told the medics, “unless you count authority.” She squeezed my hand so hard I thought she’d break it. The pain kept me awake.

The ER was chaos. Gurneys lined the hall, nurses shouting for orders.

The blood on my shirt matched the red paint on the floor, and for a second, I thought maybe it was a pattern, a design.

I wanted to tell Carly, but my jaw wouldn’t cooperate.

They cut off my vest, then my shirt, and the cold bit down hard.

Somebody jammed an IV into the back of my hand.

A surgeon showed up, said something about “luck” and “a few millimeters from the aorta,” then shoved a gloved finger into the wound. I screamed, but only inside.

Carly fought her way into the trauma bay. A nurse tried to push her back; she stared him down, then knelt by the gurney, her hand on my forehead. “You stay the fuck alive, Damron St. James,” she said, voice calm and wild at the same time. “That’s a direct order.”

The surgeon looked up. “We have to take him now.”

“Do it,” she said, and I think the whole room heard her.

They wheeled me away. The lights above went blurry, like someone had wiped them with a greasy rag. The last thing I saw was Carly, face splattered with my blood, tears cutting clean tracks through the mess.

###

When I came to, it was to the gentle beep of a heart monitor and the reek of antiseptic.

My left arm was in a sling, my gut wrapped in enough gauze to mummify a small horse.

I tried to sit up, and the pain slapped me down so hard I nearly passed out again.

This was part of being an outlaw biker: pussy, bikes, guns, hospital beds.

“Easy, cowboy. You’re not immortal.”

I turned my head and there was Carly, in a plastic chair, hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail, eyes rimmed in pink. She wore a hospital blanket like a cape and looked like she hadn’t moved in hours. “How long?” I croaked.

“Seven,” she said. “But I lost track whether it was hours or years.” She poured water into a cup and held it for me. I sipped, then coughed.

“You okay?” I managed.

She smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth. “A few stitches. Some burns. Nothing that’ll keep me off the campaign trail.” She hesitated, then reached out and took my hand, her thumb tracing circles on the back of it. “You stopped him,” she said. “You stopped them all.”

“I just wanted you safe,” I said, meaning it and hating how soft it sounded.

She squeezed my hand. “They’re gone. Ghost is dead, the Dire Straits are scattering, and every news station in the country is calling it a botched assassination attempt.”

“Sounds about right,” I said.

We sat in silence, the monitor ticking out my heartbeats, the florescent buzzing overhead. Eventually, she leaned in, her voice low. “Police are waiting to talk to you. But they’re not pushing. Someone called in a lot of favors.”

“Who?” I said.

She smiled again, this time with teeth. “Everyone who owes you one.”

There was a shuffle at the door. Nitro stuck his head in, now dressed in a janitor’s uniform and carrying a mop. He grinned when he saw I was awake.

“Prez,” he said, voice a rasp. “You look like shit.”

“Takes one to know one,” I shot back.

He ambled in, gave Carly a nod, then glanced at the machines. “You gonna make it?”

“If you let me sleep,” I said.

He leaned on the mop, serious for a moment. “Club’s tight. Prospects are cleaning up the scene, Augustine is dealing with the press. Cops have questions, but they know better than to push too hard.” He jerked his chin at Carly. “You got a real soldier here.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said, closing my eyes.

He laughed, low. “You need anything?”

I wanted to say “just leave me alone,” but I knew better. “Coffee,” I said. “Real coffee.”

“You got it.” Nitro tipped a salute, then faded out.

Carly settled back in her chair. “You’ll be here a while,” she said. “They want to keep you under observation. Something about high risk for ‘violent behavior.’”

“They know me too well,” I muttered.

Her eyes softened. “Why did you come for me? After all this—after what I did?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. The truth was ugly and simple. “Because it’s what I do. I protect what’s mine.”

She leaned forward, hands trembling. “You’re not losing me again,” she whispered. “Not to them. Not to this.”

I believed her. I nodded at the door. “Tell the nurse you need a few minutes and then lock the door.”

She eyed me. “What’re you up to, St. James?”

“You work for me, Senator. I pay taxes.”

“I doubt that.” She stuck her head out the door and said something to the nurse.

She came back in and locked the door. Carly approached the bed, her eyes never leaving mine.

Her fingers worked the drawstring on her sweatpants, loosening them with a deliberate slowness that made my heart monitor pick up its pace.

"This is a terrible idea," she whispered, but she was already pushing the pants down her hips, stepping out of them gracefully despite her bandaged arm. Her panties were plain black cotton—practical, not meant to seduce—but seeing them made my cock stir under the thin hospital sheet.

"Best ideas usually are," I grunted, wincing as I shifted to make room for her.

She stood at the edge of the bed, hesitating. "You're literally full of holes, Damron."

"I've had worse," I said, pulling back the sheet to reveal my hard cock, already straining against the hospital gown. "And I've never wanted anything more than I want you right now."

Her eyes darkened as she looked at me—bandaged, bruised, but still ready for her.

She climbed onto the bed with careful movements, mindful of the IV in my arm and the monitors attached to my chest. The mattress dipped as she straddled me, her heat hovering just above my cock.

She’d recently shaved and the smooth landing strip looked delicious.

"If you tear your stitches, I'm not explaining it to the nurse," she warned, but her hand was already reaching between us, guiding me to her entrance.

"Fuck," I hissed as she sank down on me, her pussy slick and hot and tight around my cock. "You're already wet."

"Watching you kill for me does that," she admitted, her voice a ragged whisper. She braced her hands on either side of my head, careful not to put pressure on my wounded shoulder. "I shouldn't want this. I shouldn't want you."

I grabbed her hip with my good hand, fingers digging into her flesh. "But you do."

She started to move, slow rolls of her hips that made the bed creak softly. Her eyes fluttered closed, teeth sinking into her lower lip to keep quiet. I watched her face, memorizing every expression, every flutter of her eyelashes.

"Look at me," I demanded, voice low and rough. "I want to see your face when you ride my cock."

Her eyes snapped open, pupils blown with lust. She moved faster, her breathing becoming ragged. The monitor beside the bed beeped faster, tracking the way my heart raced for her.

"You feel so good," she gasped, grinding down harder. "So fucking good inside me."

I slid my hand from her hip to where we were joined, finding her clit with my thumb. "Come on my cock, Senator," I growled, circling the swollen bud. "Show me how much you missed this."

She shuddered, her inner walls clenching around me. "Damron," she moaned, voice breaking. "I can't—"

"You can—and you will," I commanded, pressing harder on her clit as I thrust up into her, pain be damned. "Give it to me."

Her body surrendered before her mind could object. She came with a sharp gasp, her pussy clenching rhythmically around my cock, milking me as she trembled above me. I grabbed her ass with my good hand, holding her down as I pumped into her harder, chasing my own release.

"Fuck, I'm gonna come inside you," I growled, feeling the pressure building at the base of my spine. "Take it all."

"Yes," she hissed, grinding down to meet my thrusts. "Fill me up."

I exploded with a muffled groan, pumping hot cum deep into her as the monitor beside the bed went wild. She collapsed against my chest, careful to avoid my wounds, her breath hot against my neck. For a moment, we just breathed together, her body still twitching around my softening cock.

"That was stupid," she whispered against my skin.

"Probably," I agreed, stroking her back. "But I don't regret it."

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting mine. There was something vulnerable there, something I hadn't seen since before she walked out. "Neither do I."

A sharp knock at the door made her jump. "Everything okay in there?" came the nurse's voice.

"Fine!" Carly called back, scrambling off me with a wince as my cock slipped from her pussy. "Just... adjusting his pillows!"

I bit back a laugh as she frantically pulled on her sweatpants, my cum leaking down her thigh. She grabbed a tissue from the bedside table, wiping herself clean with quick, efficient movements before unlocking the door.

The nurse entered, eyeing the beeping monitor suspiciously. "Your heart rate was elevated," she said, checking the readout. "Are you in pain?"

"Just a bad dream," I lied, pulling the sheet higher to hide the evidence of what we'd just done.

Carly stood by the window, looking remarkably composed except for the flush on her cheeks and the slight tremble in her hands. "How much longer until he can be moved?" she asked the nurse.

"At least another day," the nurse replied, adjusting my IV. "Maybe two, depending on how the wound looks tomorrow."

When the nurse left, Carly returned to my bedside, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of my bandage. "What happens when you get out of here?"

"I go back to the club," I said simply. "Back to what I know."

"And us?" she asked, not quite meeting my eyes.

I caught her wrist, forcing her to look at me. "You're still the Senator. I'm still the outlaw. Nothing's changed."

"Everything's changed," she argued, but her voice lacked conviction.

The room got quiet again, just the monitor and the hum of the lights. I drifted off, and when I dreamed, it was of a house on fire, and a woman with blood on her face, and the sound of engines receding into the night.

###

They kept me for three days. Long enough for the story to break, then get buried in the next scandal. When I was finally cleared to go, Carly wheeled me to the curb herself. Nitro was waiting in the truck, engine running, window cracked to let out the smoke.

Carly helped me in, then climbed in beside me. “Where to?” she said.

I thought about it. The clubhouse was still a crime scene. Carly’s place was nothing but ash.

“Anywhere,” I said.

She nodded. “Anywhere it is.”

Nitro grinned, put the truck in gear, and peeled out.

The city slid by, a mess of sunlight and dirty windows and life going on as if nothing had happened.

Carly’s hand found mine, her grip strong.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe I could let someone else drive.

I glanced at her, then at Nitro, and then at the blur of the world outside.

“Don’t let me down,” I said, not sure who I was talking to.

“Never,” Carly said.

And for once, I believed it.