She studied me, waiting for more. I realized then that she’d seen through every lie I’d ever told her, every half-truth and macho bullshit story I’d ever used to wallpaper over the facts. There was no fooling her, not anymore. I leaned back, the chair creaking. “This goes back a ways. Before you. Before the club was even worth shooting at.”
She cocked her head, eyes narrowing. “So it’s personal.”
“Always is,” I said. “You want the whole story, or just the headline?”
She didn’t blink. “The whole story.”
I looked down at my hands, at the new blood spattered on the old scars. I hadn’t planned on giving her the confessional, but maybe that was what we both needed.
“Fifteen years ago,” I started, voice gone rougher than usual, “I was just a prospect myself. Bloody Scythes had maybe a dozen members, all local boys and Vietnam leftovers. Ghost was already running Dire Straits, and they owned every whorehouse and bootleg liquor racket from here to Texas. We weren’t even competition—just a gnat buzzing around his ear.” Carly listened, the old politician’s mask slipping, leaving something softer and more dangerous underneath. I kept going. “They had a daughter, Ghost and his old lady. Eliza. She was wild—really fucking wild—blonde hair, eyes like a wolf. She ran numbers for her dad, collected debts, even drove getaway cars when things got hairy. First time I saw her, she was doing donuts in the courthouse parking lot, laughing while the cops chased her in circles. She was seventeen, maybe, but scared of nothing.”
I paused, pouring another shot for myself. “We met at a party. Neutral ground. I was dumb enough to think I could talk to her without starting a war. My dick was doing all the thinking.”
Carly raised an eyebrow. “You slept with her.”
I laughed. “That’s putting it politely. It wasn’t love—at least not the kind you write songs about. But it was hot, and it was fast, and it was enough to piss off everyone in both clubs.”
She nodded, absorbing it. “What happened?”
I looked past her, at the window and the neon sign flickering outside. “Ghost found us together, out at the old train yard. I was stupid—thought I could hide in plain sight. He and six of his patch-holders boxed me in, dragged me out of her car, and beat me until I was pissing blood.” My hand found the edge of my shirt, where the scar ran white and jagged along my collarbone. “Left me for dead. Eliza tried to stop them—screamed at herfather, even pulled a gun on one of his lieutenants. Didn’t matter. They took her away, and I never saw her again.”
I felt the weight of it, like a stone in my chest. I could tell Carly did, too.
She cleared her throat. “You think this is payback? After all these years?”
I shook my head. “It’s not just payback. It’s Ghost’s way of reminding me that nothing is ever forgotten. He lost his only kid because I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants. So now, every time I get close to something good—something that might make life worth living—he finds a way to burn it down.”
I watched Carly process, her hands finally unclenching, the whiskey glass trembling as she picked it up. She sipped, then coughed, eyes watering. “Jesus.”
“Yeah,” I said, smiling without humor. “Hell of a chaser, right?”
She set the glass down, wiped her eyes. “So now he’s coming after me, because I’m your—” she hesitated, searching for the word. “—what? Your wife? Your last shot at redemption?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe he just wants to see if I’ll break before he does. Plus, the fucker is getting paid for doing something he would have done for free. It’s a win-win for him.”
She looked at me, really looked, and for the first time since she’d walked back into my world, I saw the old Carly—the one who could take a punch and still smile after. The one who’d loved me enough to walk away before I destroyed her. She said nothing for a long time, just stared at the scar on my neck and the blood on my knuckles.
“That’s a long fucking story,” I finished, and it was.
I could see it on Carly’s face—she wanted to believe it was all bullshit, club posturing, the kind of macho grandstanding that filled my nights and ruined my marriages. But when you livelong enough in the blast zone, you start to recognize fallout when it lands in your lap.
She tried for her courtroom tone, but it cracked on the way out. “So what was it with her, Damron? The thrill of the forbidden, or just the first piece of ass that didn’t run screaming from your rap sheet?”
I almost laughed, but it would have come out wrong. “You ever meet someone who made you want to drive straight through a wall just to see what was on the other side?” I watched her expression, let the silence fill the gaps. “That was Eliza. She’d toke on a joint in a police station, then dare you to join her for communion.”
She didn’t push back. Instead, she leaned in, elbows on the desk, eyes sharp as broken glass. The room was silent, just the soft rattle of the vent and the hum of the ancient mini-fridge in the corner.
Carly reached for her glass and actually drank this time. “What happened to her?”
I let the question hang. “Ghost shipped her off. Boarding school, rehab, maybe a nunnery. I heard rumors she married some biker in Arizona, had a couple of kids, but I never saw her again.”
A shadow crossed her face. “And he’s been after you ever since.”
“Not always so direct,” I said. “He’d wait years, then have a member run over by a drunk driver who turned out to be a former club prospect. Or he’d leak my name to the ATF when things got too quiet. If I opened a new racket, suddenly his boys would show up and torch the place.” I smiled, thin. “But now, with you? He’s not pulling punches.”
She looked at me over the rim of her glass, mask gone. “Because I matter to you.”
“Because you’re the only thing that ever did,” I said, surprising even myself with the honesty. “Ghost doesn’t want me dead, not really. He wants me alone. He wants me to remember what it feels like to lose.”
