Page 31 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

“Stalled,” Nitro said. “ATF raided the site, seized everything. Dire Straits are scrambling. If we want to make a move, now’s the window.”

“Get the crew together for church,” I said, swinging my legs off the futon. “I’m done playing dead.”

“You can barely stand,” Nitro said, not unkindly.

I grabbed the whiskey and forced myself upright. The world spun, but I braced against it. “Standing’s optional. All I need is a clear shot.”

Nitro grinned. “That’s more like it, Prez.”

Voices filtered in from the hallway. I could hear Augustine barking orders, the low drone of men arming up.

The Bloody Scythes weren’t a family, not really.

More like a pack of junkyard dogs, chewing on each other until something bigger came along.

But even junkyard dogs could bite. I let Nitro help me into a fresh shirt, then shrugged on my cut.

The pain was background noise now, part of the job.

I checked the Glock at my hip, chambered a round, and waited for the familiar click.

As I walked out, I glanced at the phone on the futon. One new message from Carly: “We need to talk. Please.”

I pocketed the phone, but didn’t answer.

Not yet.

Carly

I showed up at the clubhouse after midnight, the wind off the highway stinging my face and making a mess of the hasty bun I’d wrangled my hair into.

The place looked even meaner at night—lit by a single guttering bulb over the door, the parking lot scattered with trucks and bikes like bones in a mass grave.

The Prospect who met me outside was so green I could smell the fear off him.

He didn’t look me in the eye, just muttered, “They said you could come in. But you gotta leave any piece at the door.”

I flashed my empty hands. “Not packing. You want to search me?”

He blushed and shook his head, then led me through the battered steel door and into the den of wolves.

It was quieter than I’d expected. The jukebox was dark, the air thick with cigarette haze and the sour, chemical tang of cheap mop water.

Most of the patched members were hunched over a battered pool table or slumped at the bar, bottles of beer sweating in their fists.

The moment I crossed the threshold, every eye in the place pivoted toward me—some hostile, some curious, a few just bored enough to wonder if the senator would start a bar fight.

The low conversation died, replaced by the slow tick of the ceiling fan and the shuffling of boots against linoleum.

“Senator,” someone called, and the word wasn’t quite an insult but sure as hell wasn’t a compliment.

I ignored it, scanning the room for Damron. He wasn’t in the main drag, which meant either asleep or holed up in his office nursing the wounds the media wasn’t allowed to see.

“Down the hall, last door on the left,” the Prospect muttered, as if reading my mind.

I made my way past the lineup of Bloody Scythes memorabilia: old patches under glass, faded photos of men who’d died with their colors on, a framed newspaper clipping from the first time the club ever made the front page.

It smelled like old sweat and fresh paint and something else, darker, that clung to the walls no matter how often they cleaned.

The door to Damron’s room was ajar. I knocked anyway.

“Come in or fuck off,” came the reply. It was him, all right—voice thick with whiskey and contempt.

I pushed inside, the overhead bulb making a spotlight of the battered futon and the man sprawled on it.

Damron was half-naked, bandages crusted with blood from shoulder to hip, a fresh line of stitches peeking out from under the wrap at his waist. The IV bag was gone, replaced by a bottle of Wild Turkey sweating on the floor.

He was holding a strip of gauze in one hand, a hunting knife in the other, trying to cut the old dressing away from the wound.

“You look like shit,” I said, closing the door behind me.

He didn’t turn, but I saw his shoulders tense. “I feel worse. Surprised you’re here, Senator. Thought you were busy throwing me under every bus in the state.”

I dropped my bag by the wall. “My people said you wouldn’t pick up.”

He grunted. “Don’t like talking on the phone. Especially not with politicians.”

I crossed the room and took the knife out of his hand before he could protest. “Let me,” I said, then knelt at the edge of the futon and started peeling the soaked gauze away from his skin.

His body was a wreck—old scars layered under new ones, each one with a story I didn’t want to hear. He flinched as I worked, but didn’t say a word.

“I saw the press conference,” he said, voice flat as the desert. “Nice job. You almost made it sound like you don’t know me.”

I tossed the ruined gauze into the trash. “It was necessary.”

“Sure,” he said. “Always is.”

The silence between us was sharper than the knife. I reached into my bag for the antiseptic and clean dressings, then started cleaning the wound. He hissed in pain but stayed still.

“You could’ve told me you were coming,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t sure I would,” I replied, dabbing at the edge of the stitches. “I didn’t want to start a war.”

He chuckled, bitter. “Too late for that.”

I taped down the fresh bandage, fingers lingering on his skin a second longer than they should have. “You’re lucky you didn’t bleed out. They said you pulled your own IV.”

“I don’t like being tied down,” he said, and I caught the double meaning. “Besides, I heal faster here.”

I snorted. “Sure. Alcohol and secondhand smoke are renowned for their regenerative properties.”

He met my gaze, eyes colder than I remembered. “Why are you really here?”

I hesitated, then decided honesty was all I had left. “Because I needed to see if you were still alive. Because I needed you to hear it from me, not from a reporter. And because… I couldn’t sleep until I did.”

He studied me, as if deciding whether to believe it.

I finished with the bandage, then wiped my hands on a towel. “You should keep this clean. No more field surgery.”

He shrugged, which made him wince. “No promises.”

I stood, suddenly aware of how close we were. “I have to go. There’s a press thing in the morning.”

He didn’t move. “You ever think about quitting?”

“Every fucking day,” I said, surprising us both.

He almost smiled. “You’re good at it. Lying.”

I wanted to hit him, or maybe kiss him, but instead I opened the door and stepped into the hall. The noise from the main room had ramped up, the tension diffused by my exit.

“Carly,” Damron called after me. I turned, one hand on the doorframe.

“Don’t get yourself killed,” he said, softer than before. “Not for them.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Then I walked out, leaving the door open behind me. The wind had picked up outside. The bikes in the lot glinted under the security lights, restless and ready to run. I wrapped my blazer tighter, but it didn’t help. There are some wounds you can’t tape shut.

Damron

I slammed the door, pain radiating up my arm as the impact sent a shock through my ribs.

I paced the length of my room, fists balled, vision tunneling down to nothing but the memory of her hands on my skin and her voice—steady, patient, always just a beat ahead of my own.

I hated that about her. Hated that she could walk into a room and strip me raw with a single look.

Ten minutes passed, maybe twenty. I was halfway through the bottle before she came back. She didn’t knock this time. Just barged in, face flushed, eyes wild.

“You wanted honesty?” she said, voice sharp as a box cutter. “Here’s some: I’m tired of being your fucking excuse.”

I stared at her, dumb. “Excuse for what?”

“For every bad thing you do. For every choice you make. You blame it on me—on the marriage, on the campaign, on my goddamn ‘need for control.’ Like you’re some victim in a story you wrote yourself.”

I swallowed, throat dry. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

She crossed the room in three steps, planted herself in front of me. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to stand up there and pretend I don’t know you? That you’re not the only reason I’m still breathing?”

I looked away, but she grabbed my chin, forced me to meet her eyes. “You want to hate me? Fine. But don’t act like you’re the only one bleeding here.”

Something in my chest buckled. I tried to push her hand away, but she held fast.

“You’re still playing both sides, Carly,” I said, voice rough. “Some things never fucking change.”

She laughed, bitter. “What did you expect? That I’d throw away my career? Stand at that podium and say, ‘Yes, I’m fucking the president of an outlaw motorcycle club’?”

“At least that would be honest.”

She let go, shoved me backward. “You wouldn’t know honesty if it broke your nose.”

I bristled. “I nearly died protecting you.”

She jabbed a finger at my chest. “And I took a beating because of you.”

We circled each other, wolves in a cage, every word another set of teeth.

“You left me,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

She faltered, just for a second. “Don’t.”

“You left me for your precious career. Looks like history’s repeating itself.”

Her face went pale, then set like stone. “That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, Senator,” I said, grabbing my cut from the chair.

“Thought you’d have learned that by now.

” I shrugged on the leather, the pain just another reminder of how alive I was.

She stared at me, hands clenched at her sides, and for a second I thought she might hit me.

I almost hoped she would. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked out.

I watched her go, then sank onto the futon, the world spinning slower than I wanted. Maybe she was right. Maybe I didn’t know honesty. But I knew this: the only way out was through, and I’d rather die standing than live on my knees.

Carly

I was halfway to the car when I heard the rumble of his boots behind me.

The clubhouse was alive with noise, but it all went quiet as Damron burst through the door, cut slung over one shoulder and eyes burning holes in the back of my skull.

He didn’t say a word to anyone—just brushed past Augustine, who tried to steady him, then shouldered out into the parking lot like he had a score to settle with the night itself.

I followed, adrenaline killing the last of the pain meds. “Where are you going?” I called, hating how desperate I sounded.

He ignored me, made a beeline for his Harley. The thing was a beast—black, battered, patched up with more duct tape than chrome. He winced as he swung a leg over, then forced the engine to life with a roar that rattled the windows.

“Damron!” I yelled, running after him. “Don’t be an asshole.”

He looked back, and for a second I saw the man I’d married—the reckless, infuriating bastard who would die before he let you down, unless you counted all the times he had. “Go home, Carly,” he said, voice cold. “There’s nothing for you here.”

I stopped, the air punched from my lungs. “Is that it?” I said, my voice cracking on the last word. “You just run away again?”

He sneered. “You’re the one who always leaves.”

The words landed, sharp and true. I stumbled, one hand at my ribs, the other clutching the edge of my blazer like it might hold the rest of me together.

He revved the engine once, twice, then peeled out of the lot, gravel and exhaust choking the air behind him.

I stood there, blinking against the wind and the sudden, stupid sting of tears.

The bikes in the lot gleamed under the security lights, their engines silent witnesses to the mess I’d made.

I slid down the wall, knees to my chest, and tried not to sob.

My hands shook—part pain, part rage, all of it useless now.

Inside the clubhouse, I caught a glimpse of Nitro through the window. He watched me for a long time, face unreadable. Then he picked up a phone, lips moving in a low, urgent cadence. He’d seen enough wars to know the next one was already coming.

And this time, I’d have to survive it on my own.