Page 42 of Damron
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 itwouldn’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.
Chapter fifteen
Damron
You never realize how much noise the world can make until someone brings war to your doorstep. Suburban nights have their own breed of silence—a distant lawnmower, a barking dog, the slow wash of sprinklers on automatic timers. At Carly’s temporary rental place, you could stand in the living room and hear the click of the fridge every hour, the whisper of central air through the registers, the faint hum of her campaign laptop left open on the kitchen counter. The most dangerous thing in this neighborhood was a low cholesterol warning on the HOA newsletter.
So the first sign of trouble wasn’t the roar of motorcycles. It was Nitro’s eyes, catching something in the glass door that nobody else did. A red glare, then the vibration—just a hint, like a small earthquake starting in the bones. He was already at the window, the radio pressed to his mouth, before anyone else was on their feet.
“They’re coming,” Nitro said. “Whole pack. Not ours.”
He didn’t have to explain. The Bloody Scythes in the house—all six of them—were instantly vertical, grabbing shotguns,carbines, even a fucking pool cue. Augustine sprinted down the hall, yelling for the girls to bunker in the laundry room. I took a second to check my pistol, racked a round, and glanced at Carly. She was standing by the stairs, arms wrapped around her ribs, face pale but eyes dead steady.
“Basement,” I said. “Go.”
She shook her head. “You’ll need me. I know the house. I’ve stayed here before.”
“No arguments,” I growled.
