Page 20 of Monster's Madhouse
Monster’s grip tightened around her body, his voice a vow more than words. “And God help anyone who tries to touch our little family, baby.”
Blitz snuggled between them, knowing that she was finally right where she was supposed to be—caught up between her two alpha bikers in the middle of Monster’s Madhouse. And she wouldn’t want things any other way.
The End
I hope you loved Monster, Drifter, and Blitz’s story! Now, buckle up and get ready for anotherToxic Monster (31 Days of Trick-or-Treat Collab), coming in October 2026 from K.L. Ramsey! Here’s a sneak peek at Monster Mania.
Jackhammer
Jackhammer sat at the end of the bar, at Monster’s Madhouse, his leather cut hanging heavily on his shoulders. The whiskey in front of him was as untouched as the half-pack of smokes by his elbow. The brothers around him were laughing, swapping stories, but all of it washed over him like distant static. He wasn’t into it tonight. Hell, he hadn’t been into anything for months.
The truth was simple—he was tired. Not of the road, not of his club, not of the nomadic life he had chosen to live until this point. No—Jackhammer was tired of being alone.
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.
Then there was Marlene. Wild, sharp, the kind of woman who looked like she belonged on the back of a bike with her hair in the wind. And for a while, she had been. Until the drugsgot her. Jackhammer had tried to save her, but love couldn’t compete with a needle. One night, she just never came home. He still woke up some nights expecting the phone to ring, but he knew that it never would.
And then—God, then there was Ellie. Sweet, strong, the one he’d almost believed was forever. She’d been different. She wanted a house, a white picket fence, and life outside the roar of engines. Jackhammer had tried to give her that, but he wasn’t made for quiet neighborhoods and nine-to-five jobs. She left him with a note on the kitchen counter, and his heart split wide open.
Now, here he was. Forty years old, patched and respected, but with a bed that felt colder every damn night.
Jackhammer tipped back the whiskey, letting it burn down his throat. He stared at the amber liquid a long time before muttering to himself, “Guess I’m just not meant for love.”
He pushed off the stool, heading for the door. The night was cool. October never disappointed with its cooler weather and colorful leaves that fell all around the parking lot, and onto his Harley as it gleamed under the yellow streetlight. The club would be gearing up for their Halloween bash soon—every brother with a woman on his arm, the place full of laughter, music, and heat. Jackhammer already knew how it’d feel—he’d play the role, pour the drinks, flash a grin. But when the night was over, he’d ride home alone.
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 thathugged 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.
