Jackhammer
He’d tried to find love once. Hell, he tried more than once and had failed miserably.
Cassie had been the first. The girl from back home, the one who used to sneak into his truck after midnight when they were kids. He’d gone prospecting, and she’d sworn she’d wait. But when he came back after his patch, she had a ring on her finger and a baby on her hip. She hadn’t waited.
Now, here he was. Forty years old, patched and respected, but with a bed that felt colder every damn night.
Always alone.
He fired up the engine, the familiar rumble settling in his chest, and told himself for the hundredth time: maybe love just wasn’t written in his story. But the road had a way of throwing curves when a man least expected it. And Jackhammer’s story was far from over.
It was four weeks until Halloween, and Jackhammer knew that his only hope was to either find a woman to take to the party or bow out with some lame excuse, again.
It worked for him last year. He had helped his Prez, Monster, get the place decorated, and then, he took off before the party started.
He said that he wasn’t feeling well or something stupid like that, but the guys seemed to buy it.
Jackhammer decided to go into the club for a beer and, hopefully, to find a warm, willing woman.
The clubhouse was louder than hell. Music thumped, laughter spilled through the air, and the smell of spilled beer and smoke clung to the walls like a second skin.
Jackhammer wasn’t in the mood for a party, but his best friend, Ghost, had dragged him out of his usual corner with a hard clap on the back and that wolfish grin of his.
“Stop sulking, Hammer,” Ghost barked over the noise, shoving a fresh bottle of whiskey into his hand. “The deal’s been made, remember? Just keep your eyes open. She’ll come when she’s supposed to.”
Jackhammer smirked, shaking his head. Ghost was a believer in fate, in the road bringing what a man needed exactly when he was ready.
Jackhammer wasn’t so sure about that, though.
Ghost was right—the pact had been made, and somewhere deep down, it gave him a strange kind of hope.
He never thought that he’d be the kind of man who would agree to sharing a woman, yet when Ghosts made him the deal, he couldn’t seem to refuse him.
His friend made it sound like fun, and he hadn’t had any fun in a damn long time.
That’s when the door opened. She walked in like sin wrapped in leather.
Dark hair spilling over her shoulders, jeans that hugged her like they’d been painted on, and boots that clicked sharply against the wooden floor.
Every head turned. Every man in the room noticed.
But Jackhammer felt it in his gut—a low, hard punch of recognition.
Ghost seemed to notice it too. He leaned closer, voice dropping into a growl. “Told you she’d come. She’s the one.”
Jackhammer swallowed, eyes locked on her as she moved through the room, scanning faces like she was looking for something—or maybe running from everything. One thing was for sure; she didn’t belong to anyone here—not yet.
When she hit the bar, the bartender asked what she wanted. Her voice was steady, but Jackhammer caught the edge of nerves in it. “Whiskey. Straight.”
Ghost slid off his stool, cutting through the crowd like he owned it. He leaned against the bar beside her, tattoos catching the neon light. “We don’t usually see a woman drink whiskey straight around here, unless she’s got stories worth hearing.”
She turned to face him, shamelessly looking him over. “Maybe I do.”
Jackhammer joined them, not wanting to miss out on his chance with her. “Then maybe you’re in the right place. We don’t run from stories here. We drink to them.” Ghost said. He raised his shot glass to her, and she did the same, drinking down the fiery liquid in one gulp.
Her gaze flicked between them—two patched men, both watching her like predators who’d found their prey. She didn’t flinch. Hell, she didn’t seem to be intimidated by them at all. If anything, her chin lifted a little higher as though accepting their silent challenge.
Ghost’s grin was slow and dangerous. “Name’s Ghost. That’s Jackhammer. And you are?”
She hesitated for half a beat, then said, “Angel.” Jackhammer felt the word like fire in his chest.
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.