Page 50 of Damron
“I don’t like being tied down,” he said, and I caught the double meaning. “Besides, I heal faster here.”
I snorted. “Sure. Alcohol and secondhand smoke are renowned for their regenerative properties.”
He met my gaze, eyes colder than I remembered. “Why are you really here?”
I hesitated, then decided honesty was all I had left. “Because I needed to see if you were still alive. Because I needed you to hear it from me, not from a reporter. And because… I couldn’t sleep until I did.”
He studied me, as if deciding whether to believe it.
I finished with the bandage, then wiped my hands on a towel. “You should keep this clean. No more field surgery.”
He shrugged, which made him wince. “No promises.”
I stood, suddenly aware of how close we were. “I have to go. There’s a press thing in the morning.”
He didn’t move. “You ever think about quitting?”
“Every fucking day,” I said, surprising us both.
He almost smiled. “You’re good at it. Lying.”
I wanted to hit him, or maybe kiss him, but instead I opened the door and stepped into the hall. The noise from the main room had ramped up, the tension diffused by my exit.
“Carly,” Damron called after me. I turned, one hand on the doorframe.
“Don’t get yourself killed,” he said, softer than before. “Not for them.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Then I walked out, leaving the door open behind me. The wind had picked up outside. The bikes in the lot glinted under the security lights, restless and ready to run. I wrapped my blazer tighter, but it didn’t help. There are some wounds you can’t tape shut.
Damron
I slammed the door, pain radiating up my arm as the impact sent a shock through my ribs. I paced the length of my room, fists balled, vision tunneling down to nothing but the memory of her hands on my skin and her voice—steady, patient, always just a beat ahead of my own. I hated that about her. Hated that she could walk into a room and strip me raw with a single look.
Ten minutes passed, maybe twenty. I was halfway through the bottle before she came back. She didn’t knock this time. Just barged in, face flushed, eyes wild.
“You wanted honesty?” she said, voice sharp as a box cutter. “Here’s some: I’m tired of being your fucking excuse.”
I stared at her, dumb. “Excuse for what?”
“For every bad thing you do. For every choice you make. You blame it on me—on the marriage, on the campaign, on my goddamn ‘need for control.’ Like you’re some victim in a story you wrote yourself.”
I swallowed, throat dry. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
She crossed the room in three steps, planted herself in front of me. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to stand up there and pretend I don’t know you? That you’re not the only reason I’m still breathing?”
I looked away, but she grabbed my chin, forced me to meet her eyes. “You want to hate me? Fine. But don’t act like you’re the only one bleeding here.”
Something in my chest buckled. I tried to push her hand away, but she held fast.
“You’re still playing both sides, Carly,” I said, voice rough. “Some things never fucking change.”
She laughed, bitter. “What did you expect? That I’d throw away my career? Stand at that podium and say, ‘Yes, I’m fucking the president of an outlaw motorcycle club’?”
“At least that would be honest.”
She let go, shoved me backward. “You wouldn’t know honesty if it broke your nose.”
I bristled. “I nearly died protecting you.”
