Page 21 of Monster's Madhouse
Angel—it fit her. But if he were a betting man, he’d put money on her not being too angelic. She looked like she had been through a bit of hell lately, and he wanted to hear all about it—right after she agreed to be theirs for the night.
The road had brought her, just like Ghost said it would, and now, the rest was up to them. One thing was for sure—there was no way that he wanted to let her walk out of that bar without taking his shot with her. Jackhammer was pretty sure that neither of them had the faintest idea how much destruction—and salvation—was about to come with her. And he was ready for all of it.
Ghost
Ghost wasn’t born with that name. He earned it. His real name was Ethan Kane, but no one in the club had called him that in years. Too many men had heard his story, and too many whispered it like a warning. They were right to be afraid of him, too. He had become something that he was afraid of, and nothing usually scared him.
Ghost grew up in the foster system, bouncing from one broken home to the next. He never knew his parents. Hell, he had heard a few stories about what had happened to them that he wasn’t sure which one to believe. When people used to ask him about his parents, he’d just shrug and tell them that they were carnival people and he couldn’t handle the acrobat act, so they dumped him into foster care. He thought it was hilarious, but most people looked at him with either pity or thought he was crazy. Ghost had learned early how to fight, how to steal, and how to keep his heart locked up tight. The only constant in his life was his older foster brother, Levi. They weren’t blood, but they swore they’d ride for each other until the end.
When they aged out of the system, Ghost and Levi found a place together. It was a hole in the wall and furnished with boxes and things that they had found in the trash. Dumpster diving was their favorite pastime, and while that would have upset most people, he and Levi loved living on their own. It was the first time that they weren’t property of the state, and it felt damn good to be free to make their own decisions.
By the age of twenty, Ghost and Levi had found the Toxic Monsters MC. It was the first real family Ghost ever knew. Levi patched in first, and Ghost right after. For a while, it felt like they’d finally beat the world at its own game. They weren’t alone anymore, and Ghost felt as though they had finally found their path. Until the war with the rival club started. That was when his world turned upside down and changed him forever.
Levi caught a bullet meant for Ghost in a back-alley shootout. He wasn’t even supposed to be hanging out with Ghost that night, but Levi insisted that he tag along because he wanted to talk to him about something. Ghost told him that he could come along as long as he stayed out of the way—something that he regretted agreeing to every day of his life since losing his brother.
Levi was hit in the chest, and Ghost dragged him through the dirt, down the back alley. His hands were covered in blood, and he screamed Levi’s name the whole way as though that might bring his brother back to him. By the time the other guys arrived, Levi was gone, and all Ghost could do was sit in the middle of the alley, holding his foster brother against his body. He was alone again, and that made his heart hurt.
That night, Ethan Kane died too. He stopped smiling, stopped laughing, and stopped letting anyone get too close to him. His MC brothers started calling him Ghost, because he moved like one—quiet, dangerous, untouchable. And he let the name stick.
Ghost never fell in love. There was no point—not really. Women were distractions, warmth for the night, but nothing he let get under his skin. Every time someone tried, he remembered Levi’s blood on his hands, and the thought of losing someone again was enough to shut him down.
The only man who ever got past the walls he had in place was Jackhammer. Maybe because Hammer carried the same kind of emptiness, or maybe because they’d both buried too many people they cared about. Either way, Ghost trusted him, and that was a rare thing.
But deep down, Ghost still wanted what Levi never got to have—someone to fight for, someone to keep. He just didn’t believe it was possible, even after he had made that stupid deal with Jackhammer. They promised each other that they’d be patient and wait for the right woman to walk into the clubhouse. When she did, they agreed that they’d share her. That way, neither of them would have to go and get involved with a woman and take on something that they both wanted, but neither of them was prepared for—a relationship. He never thought that a relationship would work for either of them.
Not until Angel walked into Monster’s Madhouse and turned their worlds upside down.
Ghost had seen a hundred women come through the clubhouse doors. Most of them were loud, too made up, and chasing patches like they were tickets to heaven. They came, and they went, but none of them stuck around for very long.
But when she walked in—Angel—he felt the air shift, and it felt like a sucker punch to the gut.
She moved like she belonged there with her chin high, eyes sharp, hips swaying. She was hot as hell without even trying. Every head turned in the club, but she didn’t seem to give a damn. That was the first thing Ghost noticed about her. The second was the way she ordered her whiskey. No hesitation, no sweet mixers, no pretending. Straight. Clean. A woman who didn’t flinch.
He leaned against the bar, watching her. And he wondered if someone like her would ever give him the time of day. All he could do was try to get her attention, because he knew that if he failed, there would be ten other guys lined up behind him to take their chances with the beauty.
“I don’t usually see a woman drink whiskey straight unless she’s got stories worth hearing,” he said, voice low, smooth. Ghost hoped that his assessment of her might get him a second look, and it seemed to work. She turned, her gaze boring him with enough heat to make most men choke. Not him. He was used to staring ghosts in the eye, and this woman was definitely a ghost.
“Maybe I do,” she said. “But my stories aren’t any of your business.” Ouch, that one stung a bit, but his best friend was standing on the other side of her, ready to take his turn up at bat.
Jackhammer slid up beside her, steady as always. “Then maybe you’re in the wrong place. We don’t run from stories here. We drink to them.”
Her gaze moved between the two of them. Bold. Curious. Like she saw something under their cuts and, under their scars. Ghost almost laughed at her inspection of him. If she thought she could read him so easily, she was dead wrong.
He pushed off the bar, closing the space just enough to make her feel his presence. “Name’s Ghost. That’s Jackhammer. And you are?”
She hesitated, and he wondered if she’d actually give them her name. She had already blown him off when Ghost asked to hear her story. She seemed like she’d be a handful, and Ghost’s hands were itching to find out if that was true or not. “Angel,” she breathed.
The name coiled in his chest like smoke. Angel. It was a good name, but it didn’t seem to fit her. He had a feeling that she was anything but an angel. For the first time in years, the ice in him cracked—just a little, not that he’d admit that to anyone.
He was about to ask Angel if he and Hammer could buy her another drink when the front door burst open. A prospect stumbled in, blood on his shirt. “Hammer, Ghost—we’ve got trouble!”
Ghost’s hand went to his piece without thinking. Adrenaline hit, sharp and electric. “It’s a rival crew,” the kid stammered. “North road going into town. They have two trucks and are armed.” Shit—that was the last thing that the Toxic Monsters needed right now. They were trying to lay low and play by the rules for a while, but something like this wouldn’t allow them to do that.
The room shifted instantly—brothers grabbing guns, boots pounding against the floor, the hum of violence in the air. Ghost thrived on that hum. He was born for it, shaped by it. But his eyes didn’t leave Angel. Most women would’ve bolted. Screamed. At the very least, gone pale. But she stood there—jaw tight, eyes lit, her hand curling into a fist on the bar. Ready, steady. Like she’d seen worse.
“She doesn’t flinch,” Ghost muttered, almost to himself. Jackhammer’s jaw ticked, seeming to catch the same thing.
Ghost slung his cut on, loaded his weapon. His body was already humming with the need to ride, to bleed, to end whoever thought they could touch his club. But the thought that threadedthrough his mind, louder than the chaos, was one he hadn’t felt in years. Don’t let her go.
