Nitro found them by the pool table, as always. The man looked like someone had carved his face out of granite and then set it on fire. He wore his burns and ink like medals, and his laugh carried across the room like shrapnel. “Prez, you gonna introduce your old lady or just let her walk in blind?” Nitro asked.
“She’s not my old lady,” Damron said. “Show some fucking respect.”
Nitro grinned, all teeth and reckless. “You got it, boss. Welcome to the Scythes, not his old lady. Don’t step on any blood stains that look fresh.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Carly said, not missing a beat.
Damron saw the way the men moved around her. Always a step back, always looking to him for cues. Some clubs ran onfear, but the Scythes ran on a different kind of respect. He’d built it that way.
The meeting bell clanged from the back room. Nitro barked, “Church in five!” and the place snapped to attention.
Damron leaned close to Carly, voice low. “Time for the real business. Nitro will show you to the women’s room.”
She bristled. “You’re benching me.”
“I’m keeping you alive,” he said. “And keeping them calm. Trust me, you don’t want to see what happens when someone takes a run at the Prez in his own house.”
She was already bracing for a fight, so he added, softer, “Look, Car—just let it go for now, yeah?”
Nitro motioned for her to follow. Damron watched as Carly squared her shoulders and walked off, her heels clicking over stained tile, not even a tremor in her stride.
From the doorway, Carly’s voice carried: “Don’t worry, Damron. I’ve survived worse than a roomful of bikers’ wives.”
Every head in the room snapped up. Even the old-timers grinned. He watched her until the door closed, and the clubhouse felt twice as empty.
Nitro walked Carly to the back, pausing at a heavy steel door marked “Private—Family Only.” He rapped on it twice, then swung it open with the easy entitlement of someone who never expected to get shot from behind. “Ladies, you got company,” he said, and shoved Carly through like he was tossing her into the ring.
Inside, the air was less smoky but twice as tense. The room was part rec room, part fallout shelter. Framed photos and club banners covered every inch of drywall. A patched-up couch sagged under the weight of three women who looked like they could take a punch—and probably had.
Tess was all muscle, with knuckles like bricks and the hard blue eyes of someone who never lost a bar fight. Shellywas younger, maybe mid-twenties, cheekbones sharp as glass and a bruise blossoming under one eye, already turning the sickly green of old fruit. Maggie was old-school; late fifties, cigarette pinched between two fingers, hair dyed the red of an emergency flare. They all looked up at Carly the same way: taking bets on how long she’d last.
Carly sat at the only open seat, crossed her legs, and set her purse on her lap. The silence was a dare.
“Didn’t know Damron had a new one,” Tess said, leaning forward, elbows on knees.
“He doesn’t,” Carly replied, forcing a smile. “I’m just here for a consultation.”
Shelly snorted. “That what they’re calling it these days? You look more like a babysitter than an old lady, no offense.”
Maggie flicked her cigarette in a cracked ceramic tray. “You used to be one, didn’t you?”
Carly’s smile was tight. “I’ve had a few jobs. None as interesting as yours, I imagine.”
The women exchanged a look. Tess shrugged. “You ever had your house raided at three a.m. because some asshole said your man was running meth? Ever have a cop point a gun at your kid?”
“No,” Carly said, voice even.
Maggie took a drag, exhaled sideways. “You got kids?”
“No.”
“Lucky,” Shelly said, rubbing the bruise on her face. “Less for the state to threaten.”
Tess grinned, and for a moment Carly saw the girl she must’ve been before the world soured her. “Best one I got: year before last, Viper breaks a guy’s arm at a strip club for trying to grab my ass. Next day, the same guy tries to get Viper locked up. So I drive to the fucker’s apartment, knock on his door, andintroduce him to a baseball bat. He decides not to press charges after all.”
Shelly rolled her eyes. “Tess loves the classics. But I got a better one. Nitro comes home with a hole in his side—gunshot. Says he’s fine, but blood’s everywhere. Cops come by, so I have to hide him in the crawl space while stitching him up, high as a kite on stolen painkillers. Ended up using dental floss. He still brags about the scar.”
“Jesus,” Carly said, laughing despite herself. “Did you actually have to hide from the police?”
