Page 40 of Damron
“It’s not great optics,” Jamie said, voice climbing an octave.
I snorted. “You want to try telling him to go away?”
They didn’t answer.
Marcy set the tablet on the table and switched to campaign manager mode: rapid-fire, dry, merciless. “We’re getting hammered with calls. Donors are spooked, the party chair is demanding you make a statement, and local news is camped outside the building.”
“What do they want me to say?” I asked. “That I’m not fucking him? That I’m not being hunted by cartel-funded bikers? That I don’t bleed if you cut me?”
Jamie rubbed his temples. “We just need you to get ahead of it, Carly. You’re polling strong with independents, but this kind of thing—”
He flinched as my fist came down on the supply table, hard enough to rattle the Keurig and send three pens rolling onto the floor.
“Listen to me,” I said, voice steady but barely. “He’s the only reason I’m not dead right now. If the press wants to hang me for having a security detail that actually works, let them try. But don’t you dare treat him like a liability.” What the fuck was I doing?
A silence fell. Marcy picked up the pens and realigned them on the table, a nervous tic I’d seen a hundred times. Jamie’s hands were shaking.
I took a breath, counting out the inhale. “What’s the plan for the debate?” I asked.
Marcy was ready. “You’ve got four segments. Crime, border security, economic development, education. Giammati’s team already leaked his opening: he’s going to hammer your ‘criminal associations’ in the first two minutes.”
Jamie winced. “And he’s bringing up the shooting.”
“Of course he is,” I said. “I’d do the same.”
The comms director appeared in the doorway, face pale. “There’s a reporter from the Post here. He wants to do a ride-along tonight. With you. And, uh… Damron.”
I almost laughed. “You think the optics are bad now, just wait until they get a load of him up close.”
Jamie checked his notes, searching for a silver lining and finding none. “Is there any way to get St. James to lay low? Even for one night?”
I shook my head. “He won’t go away. He’s not wired that way.” And, I thought, neither am I.
Another silence. Marcy checked her phone and let out a sigh. “Polling just updated. We’re down another half point.”
I grabbed my debate folder and stood. “Get the cars ready. We’re leaving in twenty. And for fuck’s sake, make sure security is actually tight this time. I don’t want another repeat of the parking garage incident.”
Jamie nodded, half-relieved, half-terrified. “You got it.”
Marcy lingered as the others filed out. She waited until the door shut, then leaned in, voice low. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“Ask me tomorrow,” I said.
She nodded, not satisfied but out of options. “We’re behind you, Senator. You know that, right?”
I nodded, softer now. “Thanks.”
Marcy slipped out, heels clicking down the hall. I slumped back in the chair and stared at the wall, where my own face smiled back at me, untouchable and serene. I wondered what it would feel like to finally let that mask slip, just for a night. Then I remembered the warehouse full of men with guns who wanted me dead, and decided the mask could stay on a little longer.
###
The debate venue was a high school auditorium dressed up to look like a Vegas fight night. Spotlights circled the ceiling,rows of folding chairs gleamed under a coat of emergency wax, and everywhere you looked there were camera crews threading cables like they were prepping for a small war. I could feel the collective nerves of the place—somewhere between the first punch of a bar brawl and the moment right before a courtroom verdict.
Backstage was a meat locker. The AC was cranked so high I could see my own breath when I talked. My makeup artist hovered like a mosquito, touching up the foundation under my eyes and muttering about “shine” while I scanned the room for threats. Most of the staff was glued to their phones, either panic-texting donors or doom-scrolling for the latest poll numbers. I recognized half the reporters waiting in the wings—hungry, hostile, some just bored and hoping for a soundbite.
Damron was impossible to miss. He lurked in the far corner, leaning against a supply cart, black jacket zipped to the chin, hands in pockets. It covered his cut but didn’t hide the way he scanned the room: every exit, every shadow, every guy who looked like he might be carrying a weapon or a grudge. Security eyed him but kept their distance. Everyone knew who he was, even if nobody wanted to say it out loud. A part of me felt like an asshole for dragging him into this, knowing if the tables were turned, I would have said no. He might be biker trash, but he was loyal to the bitter end. A man of his word, something you never find in my line of work.
“You ready?” Jamie said, sidling up beside me. His hair was shellacked in , in place, his shirt a size too tight. He handed me a bottle of water and tried to smile.
