Page 7 of Damron (Bloody Scythes MC #1)

Chapter five

Damron

I squinted into the desert haze, a predator’s smile tugging at my lips.

The guns gleamed beneath the New Mexico sun, and I inspected them with methodical reverence.

Barrels, actions, rounds. All there. Sweat soaked through my shirt, but I paid it no mind.

Nitro stood sentinel, radio in hand, the crackle a low whisper of static.

Our job was almost done when the horizon growled with engines, a storm of metal and dust. I flipped a crate and drew heat.

It was chaos and noise and blood, and it was goddamn glorious.

Nitro stood ten paces back, his eyes hidden by dark glasses. “You good, Damron?” he barked, the radio adding a jittery harmony of static to his voice.

“Almost.” I nodded, straightening up.

A grin cut across Nitro’s face as he gave a last look around.

“Wrap it up, and let’s blow this shithole.

” That’s when we heard the growl of engines, a low rumble that had nothing to do with thunder and everything to do with trouble.

This is the part I loved about being an outlaw biker.

That and the endless supply of pussy. I didn’t pretend with the women around me.

They knew exactly what they were getting and what they weren’t.

Hit the road or not. I called it honesty.

They called it being an asshole. What they didn’t understand is that once a man liked me was burned by a woman, there was no coming back from that shit. Not now. Not ever.

The old truck kicked up dust like a fucking sandstorm, a human hurricane of leather and guns riding its wake.

I dropped into a crouch, muscles coiled.

The first bullets splintered a crate next to me, spraying the deal’s careful planning into the dirt.

I rolled to cover, the familiar heat of a Glock filling my hand.

Nitro was already moving, tossing a fresh magazine his way.

The kid didn’t need words to understand. It’s why I kept him close.

Rival cuts sped toward us, a moving wall of gunfire. They were hoping to catch us flat-footed, hoping we’d run. They didn’t know us at all.

“Get ready to fucking die, Scythes!” someone shouted from the truck, a voice already lost to chaos. I could barely hear it over the sweet roar of blood in my ears.

I stood calm in the middle of that chaos, popping up from cover long enough to line up my first shot.

A man pitched sideways from his bike, blood misting the air where my head used to be.

My second shot took down another rider, the guy spinning like a broken doll before hitting the ground.

The truck skidded to a halt, and the rest of the rivals fanned out.

It was seven to two, odds that I liked just fine.

The acrid bite of gunpowder filled the air as I moved through it with precise efficiency, always one step ahead of where they expected me.

Nitro had taken position behind a stack of crates, rifle barking out cover fire.

I felt a sharp burn along my side, but refused to slow down.

My shoulder drove into a biker’s gut, knocking him to the dirt.

With a strong right, I broke the man’s jaw with a wet crack.

Nitro’s voice came sharp over the radio. “Damron! Right!”

I ducked as a volley of shots hit where I’d been standing.

Two more bikers closed in, using the dust cloud as cover.

I crouched low and waited, timing it just right.

They thought they had me, but the fight was already over.

I moved with brutal efficiency, my knife flashing out like it had a mind of its own.

I drove it into the first attacker’s ribs, twisting until the man went limp, eyes wide with surprise.

A kick to the knee dropped the second attacker.

I finished him with a bullet to the head, point-blank and merciless.

All that was left was the rival leader, a man who thought his men would be enough to take us down.

He was learning how wrong he was, and he was learning it fast. I came at him with the knife, knocking away the gun he held like it was a child’s toy.

We grappled, but my knuckles were there, punching out any last thoughts of resistance.

I had him on his knees, broken and bleeding in the dirt.

The rival leader coughed, blood staining his teeth. “Whitman sends his—”

The bullet in his skull ended that conversation.

Smoke curled into the sky, black and lazy.

The dust settled, revealing seven bodies scattered like torn-up paper.

I stood amidst the wreckage, untouched by the chaos we’d created.

A quick pat on my side showed a clean shot through my shirt, nothing more than a scratch.

I grunted with satisfaction, avoiding death once again.

Nitro emerged from cover, scanning the horizon. “Look at this fucking mess.”

I nodded, a flicker of a predator’s smile still on my lips. “Bag the money. We’re done here.”

We moved with a quiet that only men like us could manage. The sound of distant sirens floated on the wind, but it was nothing that concerned us. By the time we reached our bikes, we were already ghosts, fading into the desert heat.

###

My boots thudded through the clubhouse, drawing the attention of other club members.

The place was a haze of whiskey and laughter.

Brothers nodded with respect and wariness, giving me space to think and brood and bleed in silence.

In the weapons room, I checked my gear with mechanical efficiency, pausing to wipe dried blood from my knife blade.

The empty space on my ring finger itched with memory.

By the time I hit my office, I was ready for a drink or three.

Nitro peeled off as soon as we got back, the kid slinging a quick salute. “Hell of a morning,” he said, vanishing into the mix of smoke and brothers.

“Hell of a morning,” I muttered, watching his back.

I racked the slide on my Glock, cleared the chamber, and checked the magazine.

Old habits. The ring finger drew my attention for a second time, the phantom memory of a wedding band digging at me like a bad tattoo.

Goddamn woman. Goddamn life. The two of us knotted up so tight I thought I could make it work.

I thought I could bridge the distance, the differences.

Instead, we pulled each other apart. I remembered her voice, the way she’d said my name that last time: Carly St. James, full of ambition and fire and just enough grit to keep me coming back for more.

I never wanted that name to be past tense, but hell, if I was going to ask twice.

But fuck, three years had passed and I’d yet to move on.

I finished with the knife, the blade reflecting harsh lines and hard decisions.

I stayed in the quiet of the room a moment longer, letting the air grow still, letting the weight of leadership rest heavily on my shoulders.

I could lead two dozen men into battle, but couldn’t keep one woman.

Fuck. I shut the door, sealing myself off from the noise, poured three fingers of whiskey, and downed it in one hard swallow.

The liquor was warm and clean, burning down the memory of that morning’s gunfire, the memory of what I used to call a marriage.

I dropped into my chair, letting it take some of the load from my shoulders.

I stretched out my legs and rubbed at the spot on my side where the bullet had nicked me.

“Goddamn rookie,” I said, smiling without humor.

I drained another glass, letting the fire cut through my isolation.

I was president, leader of men who’d die for him, but the chair across from my desk sat empty, and I kept it that way.

Carly thought she could save me from it, save me from myself.

Senator St. James now, riding off to Washington while I stayed in the dust and blood.

I filled my glass again, slowly this time, looking at the amber liquid like it might give me answers. Or better questions.

I walked to the door and cracked it, and watched my brothers, a clan of rough loyalty. I ran my thumb along my empty ring finger, pressing hard until the phantom feeling was gone.