Chapter nine
Damron
The world had shrunk to the glow of my phone, which meant I was either bored or waiting for someone to die. Either way, it wasn’t good. The Bloody Scythes’ office was soundproofed, but the distant laughter from the bar vibrated through the walls like tinnitus. I sat with my boots on the desk and the battered Glock within arm’s reach, the only two things in my life that never disappointed.
I scrolled past headlines about local shootouts, cartel busts, and the latest goober who thought he could run meth through Santa Fe County without paying tribute. Then the article stopped me cold: STRIP CLUB BILL DIES IN SENATE—St. James Caves on Eve of Vote.
My jaw flexed. I stared at the headline like I could make it blink first. Three years of her grandstanding, all down the drain in one midnight deal. The story ran the usual pablum: “Senator Carly St. James, citing security threats and lack of bipartisan support, pulled the bill moments before the vote.” They had her on camera outside the chamber, sunglasses covering the bruising, mouth set like stone. Even on my phone, I could seethe way she held her shoulders—braced for war, or maybe just braced for the next punch. I tried to call it what it was: a win for the club, a disaster for the state, another day in the endless shit parade of American democracy. But all I felt was the old acid rising in my gut.
I hit her number without thinking. The phone rang three times. By the fourth, I was ready to snap the plastic in half.
“Yeah?” Her voice was pure sandpaper, just the way I remembered. Half cigarette, half defiance. Not even a hello.
“It’s me,” I said, even though she damn well knew.
A pause. I pictured her in a cheap hotel, surrounded by lawyers and FBI handlers, all of them eavesdropping on a call she’d never admit to wanting. “You read the news?”
I looked at the phone like it might bite me. “I’m not a moron. I saw.”
She exhaled, not quite a sigh. “It was the only move. You know it.”
“You don’t cave, Carly. Not unless you’ve got something better lined up.”
She let that one sit. On the other end, I could hear the click of a Zippo, a muffled cough, maybe the rattle of a prescription bottle.
“They had leverage,” she said, low. “It was Giammati, wasn’t it? The shooter.”
A thread of something—fear, or maybe disgust—curled around my tongue. “You said it yourself. He wanted to rattle you, not finish the job.”
“He’ll try again,” she said. Matter-of-fact. I almost admired her for it.
I leaned forward, elbows creaking the desk, eyes drilling a hole in the wall. “He tries, he fails. I’ll see to it personally.”
A soft laugh, like static. “You always did think violence was the answer.”
“Only when it’s the right question,” I shot back. “Besides, that’s why you came to me. For the violent response.”
She went quiet. I heard a distant door slam, the rumble of traffic, and then her voice again, thinner this time. “I need you on this, Damron. Not the club, not your boys—just you.”
I rolled my empty ring finger along the scarred desktop. “You don’t ask for much.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “You’re still the meanest bastard I know.”
I almost smiled. Instead, I let my anger do the talking. “I’ll protect you, but if you run, it’s on your head.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” The words were a dare, but I heard the shiver under them.
“Good. Because once I take a job, I finish it. Even if the client is an ungrateful pain in my ass.”
A real laugh this time, raw and short. “Yeah. That’s what I remember.”
The silence yawned wide. I let it stretch, waiting for her to hang up first. She didn’t.
“You kill the bill, and I keep you breathing until election night,” I said, voice flat as a gunshot. “That’s the deal.”
She inhaled slow, let it out. “It’s done.”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see. My throat was dry as bone. “Call if anything feels off. I mean it.”
