Page 48 of Damron
She faded out, already on her phone, spinning my performance for the party chair and the comms director and probably her own mother. I stood alone for a moment, staring at the sickly green of the break room walls, at the lineup of campaign posters and the one battered American flag they wheeled out for every holiday.
The painkillers were wearing off. I reached for the bottle in my blazer pocket, thumbed out a pill, dry-swallowed. I looked down at my hands again. They still shook, but not from fear. Not anymore. On the other side of the glass, the press lingered, waiting for the next slip, the next fuckup, the next moment of weakness. I watched them watch me, the way a zookeeper might watch a tiger behind bars.
I wondered who was really locked in with whom. The thought made me laugh, sharp and bright and real, for the first time in months. Then I put my mask back on, straightened my blazer, and walked into the next round, ready to fight like hell to keep from bleeding out in front of the cameras.
Damron
Pain is just another flavor, once you get used to it. Mine was bourbon, Advil, and whatever back-alley shit Augustine jammed into the IV after the doctors kicked me loose from the hospital. The second I could walk, I limped straight to the clubhouse and let the real medicine take over: smoke, sweat, and the half-choked laughter of men who’d seen you bleed and decided you were still worth following.
I lay shirtless on the patchy futon in the back room, bandages crisscrossing my torso like someone had tried to gift-wrap a side of beef. Every time I moved, blood seeped through the gauze, but the hospital said that was normal. “Pink is good, red isbad,” they’d said, as if colors mattered when you’d been stitched together with dental floss and spite. The IV bag dangled off a bent curtain rod, dripping slow as an old faucet. The nightstand was a shrine to medical neglect—unmarked pill bottles, half a roll of duct tape, and a hunting knife caked in dried blood that was probably mine.
I ignored all of it, eyes glued to the phone. News coverage cycled in a hateful loop: Carly at the podium, voice calm, eyes flat, saying exactly what I knew she’d say. “While I appreciate the assistance provided during a time of personal danger, I want to make it clear that I do not condone or support any illegal activities—by anyone, under any circumstances.” The headline under her face read: “St. James Ex-Husband Linked to Biker Gang Violence.”
Every time she said “my ex-husband,” my jaw ticked harder, until I thought I might crack a tooth.
The door creaked open. Nitro sidled in, arms full of fresh bandages and a bottle of something brown. He looked me over and smirked. “You look like a busted pinata, boss.”
I grunted, then tried to sit up. Mistake. The pain flared, white-hot, and I nearly bit through my tongue.
“Easy, tiger.” Nitro set the bottle on the nightstand, uncapped it, and handed it to me. “Drink before you bleed out.”
I took a swig. The whiskey burned like justice. “You catch the show?” I said, nodding at the phone.
“Yeah,” he said, voice a little too smooth. “Our girl’s a real tap dancer. You shoulda run for governor, Damron. You got a better poker face.”
I snorted. “Fucking politicians. Always covering their own asses first.” I tossed the phone onto the bed. “How bad’s the fallout?”
“Not great.” He stripped off his cut and rolled up his sleeves, prepping the bandages. “Clubhouse is on lockdown. Policecruisers circling every twenty minutes. But the Dire Straits are even more pissed. We picked up chatter—they want you dead yesterday.”
I watched him unwrap the medical tape. Nitro was careful, methodical, the way only a man who’d once diffused roadside bombs for fun could be. He peeled away the old dressing, whistled low. “That’s a pretty one.”
“You should see the other guy,” I said, but the laugh died halfway up my throat. “What’s the body count?”
“Three confirmed. Two in the wind, but they’re leaking from at least two holes each.” He dabbed something cold on the wound. “Augustine’s rounding up prospects, but half of them are ghosts already. Cops are hitting everyone who ever wore our colors.”
I winced as he tightened the bandage. “Let ‘em. Only the strong stick around.”
Nitro looked up. “You really mean that?”
“Always have,” I said, then bit down as he jerked the tape tight. “It’s the only way we outlast these fuckers.”
He finished, then handed me the pill bottle. I popped two, chewed, swallowed them dry.
“So what’s the plan?” he asked, sitting back in the busted office chair.
I gestured at the wall, where a map of New Mexico was riddled with colored pins. Most of them marked Dire Straits territory, but a few red dots crept closer every day. “We’re losing ground. And with Ghost out of the picture, they’re gonna get sloppy. That’s when we hit back.”
The phone buzzed. Nitro glanced at the screen. “It’s her again.”
I ignored it. Instead, I stared at the map, eyes tracing the roads between here and Santa Fe. “What’s the word on the warehouse job?”
“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.”
