Page 41 of Damron
“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 fistsso 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.
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 keptchecking 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 thelot, 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.
