Page 51 of Damron
She jabbed a finger at my chest. “And I took a beating because of you.”
We circled each other, wolves in a cage, every word another set of teeth.
“You left me,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.
She faltered, just for a second. “Don’t.”
“You left me for your precious career. Looks like history’s repeating itself.”
Her face went pale, then set like stone. “That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, Senator,” I said, grabbing my cut from the chair. “Thought you’d have learned that by now.” I shrugged on the leather, the pain just another reminder of how alive I was. She stared at me, hands clenched at her sides, and for a second I thought she might hit me. I almost hoped she would. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked out.
I watched her go, then sank onto the futon, the world spinning slower than I wanted. Maybe she was right. Maybe I didn’t know honesty. But I knew this: the only way out was through, and I’d rather die standing than live on my knees.
Carly
I was halfway to the car when I heard the rumble of his boots behind me. The clubhouse was alive with noise, but it all went quiet as Damron burst through the door, cut slung over one shoulder and eyes burning holes in the back of my skull. He didn’t say a word to anyone—just brushed past Augustine, who tried to steady him, then shouldered out into the parking lot like he had a score to settle with the night itself.
I followed, adrenaline killing the last of the pain meds. “Where are you going?” I called, hating how desperate I sounded.
He ignored me, made a beeline for his Harley. The thing was a beast—black, battered, patched up with more duct tape than chrome. He winced as he swung a leg over, then forced the engine to life with a roar that rattled the windows.
“Damron!” I yelled, running after him. “Don’t be an asshole.”
He looked back, and for a second I saw the man I’d married—the reckless, infuriating bastard who would die before he let you down, unless you counted all the times he had. “Go home, Carly,” he said, voice cold. “There’s nothing for you here.”
I stopped, the air punched from my lungs. “Is that it?” I said, my voice cracking on the last word. “You just run away again?”
He sneered. “You’re the one who always leaves.”
The words landed, sharp and true. I stumbled, one hand at my ribs, the other clutching the edge of my blazer like it might hold the rest of me together. He revved the engine once, twice, then peeled out of the lot, gravel and exhaust choking the air behind him. I stood there, blinking against the wind and the sudden, stupid sting of tears. The bikes in the lot gleamed under the security lights, their engines silent witnesses to the mess I’d made. I slid down the wall, knees to my chest, and tried not to sob. My hands shook—part pain, part rage, all of it useless now.
Inside the clubhouse, I caught a glimpse of Nitro through the window. He watched me for a long time, face unreadable. Then he picked up a phone, lips moving in a low, urgent cadence. He’d seen enough wars to know the next one was already coming.
And this time, I’d have to survive it on my own.
Chapter seventeen
Damron
Ilimped into church with a gutful of stitches and a head full of revenge. The clubhouse was hotter than hell and twice as loud. Fifteen men—some patched, some prospects, all carrying that wide-eyed, post-trauma voltage—watched me shoulder my way to the center of the room. Augustine, one arm in a sling, was already perched at the table, a stack of burner phones lined up in front of him like little plastic tombstones. Nitro sat at my right hand, field-stripping a SIG with the kind of reverence priests save for communion. Seneca sat smug, chest out, chin up, waiting orders.
I didn’t waste time on ceremony. “Listen up,” I said, voice steady. “We lost two good men last night. Three more are in the ICU. Dire Straits did this, and they did it on our patch.” My voice hit the drywall, bounced back harder. “So here’s what happens next: We hit them at home. Tonight.”
A few guys looked away—maybe they had wives, maybe kids, maybe just a functioning sense of mortality. But most nodded, jaws set, fingers twitching toward the loaded weapons on the tables. I took a second to catalog every man in the room. Somewere hungry for payback. Others just wanted to survive the week. All of them were mine.
“They came to our turf,” I said, letting each word sink like a punch. “They shot at ours. Now we bring the war to them. Nitro, run ‘em through the plan.”
Nitro stood, eyes scanning the room like he was about to brief a squad of Marines before a suicide op. “Santa Fe. Bowling alley off Cerrillos. Old AMF, been theirs since Ghost bought it out of bankruptcy. Main floor’s got two exits, both caged, but there’s a side door near the dumpster that’s not on the blueprints.” He slapped a printout of the building onto the table. “We go at midnight, stack up here.” He pointed to the map. “Flash-bang first, then in hard. We take out the VP, then torch the stash room on our way out. Total time, two minutes, max.”
Augustine grunted approval and started passing out comms—earbuds and mics, nothing that would last more than an hour before it jammed with blood or static. The prospects began loading mags, their hands shaking just enough to rattle the table. Nitro started a checklist, military-style: “Weapons. Vests. Gloves. Masks. Nobody rides without a helmet. No drugs until the job’s done, unless you want to die with your head up your ass.”
A nervous laugh, then silence.
I leaned over the table, ignoring the fire in my side where the nurse had gone at me with a staple gun. “Nobody gets left behind,” I said, locking eyes with every man in turn. “If you run, I’ll put you down myself. If you freeze, I’ll drag your corpse out by the balls. Clear?”
A mutter of “yes, Prez.” Some were more eager than others.
