Page 15 of Damron
He smiled, but it was a mean smile, all teeth and no light. “Most people don’t come to me for help. They come for a problem to go away.”
“This is a problem,” I said. “And it’s not going away.”
He watched me. He could have stayed silent for hours, but I was desperate, so I kept talking.
“There was an attempt,” I said. “On my life. Today. Rally downtown.”
“I saw it on the news.” He said it like he didn’t give a shit, but I caught the twitch in his jaw. He’d watched, all right. “Said the shooter missed. FBI is already making noise. One of those assholes stopped by the club earlier. Bout shit his pants when the entire club walked outside to greet him.”
“He missed because he wasn’t trying,” I said, pulse hammering in my neck. “He wanted to spook me, maybe rattle the campaign. I don’t think I was supposed to die. Not yet.”
He raised an eyebrow, waiting.
I dropped the purse on the desk, hands shaking now. “I know how this sounds, but I think it was Robert Giammati. My opponent.”
Damron barked a laugh. “The corporate asshole?”
I nodded. “He’s got money, muscle, and the personality of a shark. He’s been running a dark campaign for months—anonymous threats, fake leaks, all that shit. But this… this was different. Felt like a warning shot.” I paused, collecting the words. “I know I should let the FBI or Secret Service handle it. But—”
He held up a hand, silencing me. “You already did. And they told you to lie low, hide in a safehouse, maybe drop out.”
“They can’t protect me from this,” I said, voice almost breaking. “Not the way you can.”
He leaned back, running a thumb over his empty ring finger. The silence was brutal. “You want me to put a crew on you?”
I shook my head. “No. I want you. I want the man who survived fights and battles and the worst parts of me. I want you to keep me alive, because if it gets bad, you won’t hesitate. And because you know the people who play these games, and how to play dirtier.” I looked at the club motto on the wall. “I need your brutality.”
He didn’t move for a long time. I felt my composure cracking, and I hated myself for it.
He finally spoke. “You walked out three years ago, Carly. You could have had all of this. You chose suits and donors and a different kind of violence.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But I’m here now.”
He looked at me, really looked, and for a second I thought I saw something almost human behind the armor. Then he pushed the chair back and stood, his shadow filling the room.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it. But you don’t get to pull rank, and you sure as hell don’t get to lie to me. Not this time.”
“Deal,” I said, my voice steadier than it had any right to be.
He nodded once, like a judge passing sentence. “Then we start now. Lose the shoes. They’ll get you killed in a chase.”
I smiled, and it was the first real one in months. “Yes, sir.”
Out in the main room, every biker in the place was pretending not to stare. I felt Damron at my shoulder, and for the first time in a year, the world seemed a little less likely to end tonight.
We didn’t even make it three steps before the whole club knew something was up. Maybe it was the way Damron’s jaw set when he left the office, or the way I followed—shoes in one hand, face still hot with shame and adrenaline. The main area was even louder now, men jostling around a stack of cue balls, shots being poured, the game blaring over a battered speaker. But the noise thinned when we entered, and by the time Damron reached the center of the room, you could feel the eyes on our backs like a row of loaded pistols.
He stopped, dead center, and turned on me. The look was pure courtroom: no mercy, no way out.
“Listen up,” he said, not shouting but projecting in that way he did—voice like a judge with a grudge. “We got a guest.”
Every head swiveled. Even the woman behind the bar put her phone down and watched, her tattooed fingers wrapping around a beer mug with the kind of grip reserved for hand grenades. I wondered, though I don’t know why, if Damron had hit that yet. I glanced at him—the man, the muscle, the alpha male.
I opened my mouth, but Damron beat me to it.
“Three years ago,” he said, “this woman decided she’d had enough of outlaw life. Walked out my front door and straight into the arms of every politician and TV camera from here to DC. Now she’s back, looking for protection. From us.”
Someone snorted, and half the room chuckled—mean, but not untrue.
