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“You have no idea,” he growled.
The smile she gave him nearly knocked him on his ass. “Bye, Jackhammer.”
“Hammer,” he corrected.
Angel started the engine. “Bye, Jackhammer.”
He watched her pull out of the lot. He kept watching long after her taillights disappeared. “You're fucked.” Jackhammer didn't turn around because he knew that voice. Ghost walked up beside him, fully dressed now, lighting a cigarette.
“Morning to you too,” Hammer grumbled.
“You're completely fucked,” Ghost said.
“Shut up,” Hammer said.
“You invited her to Halloween, didn't you?” Ghost asked.
Jackhammer finally looked at him. “How'd you know?”
“Because I know you.” Ghost took a drag on his cigarette as Jackhammer stared toward the empty road.
“She said she'd think about it,” Hammer said.
“That's woman-speak for maybe,” Ghost said.
“I know,” Hammer admitted.
“Which you're translating into yes,” Ghost said.
“Pretty much,” Hammer said.
Ghost laughed, and then his expression sobered. “She was lying.”
Jackhammer knew exactly what he meant. “About leaving town?”
“Yeah,” Ghost said. Jackhammer nodded. Something wasn't right about the story she told them. Angel hadn't just been reluctant to see them again—she was planning something, or running from something. Maybe both.
“She grew up around an MC,” Ghost said.
Jackhammer turned sharply. “How do you know?”
“She knew what was happening last night before anybody explained it to her. She didn't panic when the prospect came through that door covered in blood. She waited for us. She knew exactly what that kind of trouble meant.”
Jackhammer had been thinking the same thing. “And she looked at our kuttes before she looked at our faces,” Ghost added.
“Could mean nothing,” he said.
“Could.” Neither believed that. Jackhammer looked toward the road again. Three and a half weeks until Halloween. Three and a half weeks until Angel either walked through those doors again or disappeared from their lives. For some reason, he didn't think the road had brought her to Monster's Madhouse just so she could give them one night. Ghost believed in fate and Jackhammer believed in something simpler. If a man wanted something badly enough, he fought for it, and Jackhammer wanted Angel. The problem was, he was beginning to suspect that keeping her might mean fighting whatever she was running from. He smiled because that was fine by him. He was a Toxic Monster, and Fighting was what he did best.
GHOST
Ghost knew Jackhammer was in trouble. Hell, they both were. He stood in the doorway of Monster’s Madhouse and watched Hammer stare down the road like Angel might suddenly change her mind, turn that piece-of-shit SUV around, and come racing back to them, but she didn’t. Of course she didn’t because women like Angel didn’t turn around—they ran. Ghost knew because he’d spent most of his life doing the same damn thing.
“You’re fucked,” he said. Jackhammer flipped him off without looking his way. Ghost chuckled and took another drag from his cigarette. He’d been giving Hammer shit about Angel since the second they woke up, but the truth was, Ghost wasn’t doing much better.
Last night was supposed to scratch an itch—that was all. He and Jackhammer had made a deal months ago after too much whiskey and too many conversations about how fucking lonely their lives had become. Neither wanted a traditional relationship. Neither wanted to give up the club, the road, or the life they had chosen. So, Ghost had come up with what seemed like the perfect solution. They'd find a woman they both wanted, and share her. There would be no jealousy, no bullshit, and no expectations. Apparently, they had forgotten to include a clause about what happened when the woman they chose crawled under both their skin in less than twenty-four hours.
Ghost dropped his cigarette and ground it beneath his boot. “She was lying,” he said.
