Bastian (THe Wounded Sons Book 2) Read online

  BASTIAN

  BOOK TWO

  THE WOUNDED SONS SERIES

  BY

  LEAH SHARELLE

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER eight

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright © 2019 Leah Sharelle

  BASTIAN: The wounded sons – Book Two

  By Leah Sharelle

  All Rights Reserved.

  Editing and Proofreading: R Corcoran

  Photography: Chic Professional Photography

  Cover Models: Lance Golding

  Cover Design: Formatting & Design by Jaye

  Interior Design: Formatting & Design by Jaye

  This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the properties of the author, and your support and respect are appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  This author writes using Australian English and may include Australian diction

  DEDICATION

  To my bestie, without you I would never laugh. Love ya props Handsome. xoxo

  A NOTE FROM LEAH

  I have no illusions that I am an expert in the ways of the Australian Army. And while I did quite a lot of research and spoke to the appropriate sources I am sure I have taken some liberties. All mistakes are my own, do me a favour and cut me some slack yeah? Enjoy the love. xoxo

  CHAPTER ONE

  BASTIAN

  “Come on Ammo! Knock that fucker out so we can go get drunk!” I heard Grill shout to me from his position behind the ring corner post. His was the only voice that was penetrating my hype, that and the voice in my head. The voice that belonged to the man I loved more than anyone, and the man whose reputation I could never live up to, ever.

  Be better than that son, don’t go for the fast knock out. Look for his weakness mate, be smart, not tough.

  If there was one thing I learnt from growing up being Deck Johnston’s son it was to use what I had, and always use it to my advantage.

  I had strength, pure brute muscular toughness.

  I stood six feet tall and weighed in at one hundred and thirty-five kilos. I held the golden glove title in the army and beat everyone on the card in the underground fights I attended, and yet I still couldn’t beat my old man in the ring.

  Thanks for the advice dad, but get out of my head old man.

  Lifting my hands in front of my face, I danced on the balls of my feet and waited for the ref to finish his countdown on my opponent.

  Why there was even a referee baffled me. These kinds of fight nights had no sanctioning body, the bets were as illegal as they could get and most of the time every fight consisted of dirty tactics.

  I watched the guy brace himself on the side of the ring, blood poured from his nose, eye and mouth. My punches had been spot on so far, each one that landed caused the maximum amount of damage. Just how I liked it.

  Get in. Knock out the prick. Then get out.

  “Ammo, we’ve got to get this down and out before the police turn up,” the ref said coming over to me, “this crowd is pretty rowdy tonight, I imagine we are causing a bit of attention.”

  “Copy that,” I clipped, not waiting for his okay to continue; instead, I pushed passed him and stalked forward, my fists flying hitting their targets in quick succession. Delivering blow after powerful blow until I finally stood over the heaving body of my latest conquest.

  Sorry, dad, sometimes fast is better than smart.

  Shaking my stinging hands, I glowered at the blood splattered on the once-white bandages with a hint of pride. I never used gloves if I had the chance, and these unsanctioned fights gave me the opportunity to really test my skills as a boxer.

  My uncle, Jason, and his mate Chase introduced me to bare-knuckle bouts back when I was fifteen. After yet another detention for fighting at school, Jason decided to teach me old school boxing under the condition I gave up the playground fighting. Of course, me being me, I agreed straight away, and he and Chase became my trainers for real.

  That was when I learned discipline, technique, and how to control my anger. Jason never said anything, but I always got the feeling he understood where my rage stemmed from. He had a similar issue growing up under the huge shadow cast from being Deck Johnston’s brother, which was why he took me under his wing and helped me.

  Without my uncle’s intervention, my latter teen years would have been much different, with a lot more nights in the local lock-up.

  Holding my hand out, I waited for the man to take it and easily helped him to his feet, using my other arm to steady him.

  “Good fight mate, maybe next time, yeah?” I said with encouragement. For me, once the fight was over, that was the end of any animosity. Taking the rage out of the ring was just asking for trouble, now I was able to control my temper a lot more than I used to.

  Except, when it came to pissant commanding officers who sat behind desks all day or in air-conditioned units tucked safely in an FOB away from flying bullets and exploding devices, I thought ruefully. My temper still showed then, but I couldn’t be expected to change overnight, right?

  “Fuck you hit hard, Ammo,” Mick complained, wiping the blood dripping from his nose. “You fucking broke my nose again, you big bastard.”

  Laughing at him, I slapped him hard on the back of his shoulder.

  “Mate, what did I tell you last time I faced you? If you don’t protect your face, then you can expect me to break something,” I told him without waiting for him to answer me.

  Giving him a wolfish grin, I winked then headed off to my mates waiting for me at my assigned corner. All three of them were busy counting the money they’d won off my arse.

  Shaking my head, I climbed out of the ring and immediately reached for the water bottle Kodah was holding out to me.

  “Took you long enough mate, I thought we were going to go to a third round,” he said with a smirk, knowing full well there was never a third round when I got in the ring.

  “Blah, blah, blah! Now get these fucking wraps off my hands and let’s get the hell out of here. There is a beer out there somewhere waiting for me,” I grunted, with my usual barely friendly persona, but I was eager to get the hell out of here and not because of a beer.

  Grill paused from his task of attending to the wraps to give me a knowing grin.

  “Somewhere or the same place we always end up,” he stated knowingly.

  We went to one place to drink when we were off deployment and off base.

  The club’s Bar and Grill.

  Not because the club owned it and we drank for free.

  Not because the food was great or because Steel hired the best live bands.

  And not because of the pool table which Grill, Kodah, Cole and myself liked to add to our fight winnings by taking university student’s money.

  It was because of her.

  The
Bar and Grill was packed to the rafters by the time we entered the front door later that night.

  It took us longer than we expected to leave the old warehouse after the fight. First, I decided to shower, then Kodah met some chick he knew back in high school and he spent over a half an hour leaning on her car and chatting her up; copping jeers and general crap from the boys and me waiting in the car for him.

  Being late didn’t bother me, not really. After a fight I was usually so wired so hyped I wasn’t the best person to be around. I’m not saying I was an arsehole, or maybe I was, that was up to others to say.

  So, the last hour had worked in my favour in a way. Kodah getting all sappy over a former girlfriend meant I was calm and clean, and in the right frame of mind to face the woman who was hardly ever far from my thoughts.

  Not having any trouble seeing over the crowd of people, my eyes roamed the long bar until I found the object of my turmoil.

  Wren stood taller than most women I knew, at five foot eight, and a body lush with full curves she would stand out in any crowded room. Her long sun-tinted blonde hair normally hit just on her waist, though she tied it in a high ponytail when she worked like tonight, but even that still reached the middle of her back.

  Her green eyes sparkled as she giggled at something one of the other bartenders said to her. Even over the noise in the room the sound of her laugh reached my ears, travelling straight to my dick.

  Jesus why is this happening to me? Why out of all the women in this town, or even Queenscliff or Sydney did I have to fall in love with this one?

  Letting out a heavy sigh, I pushed my way through the people dancing and standing around the pool tables towards the bar. My very size had people making a path for me; all the regulars who knew me called out my name as I went. Some were yelling out my given name, some the shortened version and some called out my nickname. I ignored them all only having eyes for one person.

  “Yo, Ammo! You win tonight?” one particularly loud reveller called out to me, making Wren whirl around pausing with a bottle in one hand and three tumblers propped in her fingers in the other.

  A huge grin split her gorgeous face when she saw me coming to the bar. Fumbling with the things in her hands, Wren dumped them unceremoniously down on the bar, a high-pitched squeal coming from her pouty lips.

  “Bestie!” she called out, excitedly rushing around her co-workers and ran to me.

  Like the pervert I am, I watched her ample breasts jiggle under the white V-neck tee she wore, the words Bar and Grill stretched deliciously over her perfect chest.

  “Bastian, Bastian. Bastian!” she cried out, just as she threw herself into my arms, squashing those tempting globes against my chest.

  Closing my arms around her, I hugged Wren to me tightly not able to help putting my nose in her neck and take a deep hit of her sweet scent.

  Being in love with a woman who is beautiful, kind, gorgeous and … and who totally friend-zoned me sucked fucking balls.

  CHAPTER TWO

  WREN

  I breathed in the ocean scent that was all Sebastian, or Bastian, as he liked to be called. His beefy arms around me, holding me close to his amazing chest, I closed my eyes and sighed.

  I knew the minute Bastian entered the Bar and Grill.

  I always knew when he was close.

  I could be blind-folded, ear plugged and drunk out of my mind, and I would still be able to sense his presence. It had been that way for years, basically, since Year Nine when I moved to Ballarat from a small country town, well thirty minutes out of town. This happened when my father lost his job, and we hadn’t been able to stay on the family farm that my grandfather handed down to my parents, only my dad didn’t uphold his end of the bargain when gramps retired. Instead of nurturing the farm that had been in the family for three generations, dad unintentionally fucked it all up in less than ten years.

  Everything gramps, his father and his father before him worked to build was gone, and all that was left was a mountain of debt. The day the bank came on the property with the auctioneers was probably the worst day of my life, followed closely by the news that we had to move into Ballarat because dad’s new job didn’t pay enough for him to commute the thirty-five kilometres twice a day. Things were better now, of course, dad managed to fix his financial problems eventually, I didn’t know how he did it and was not privy to any of the details. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen until after we had to move.

  Changing schools, finding new friends and starting over would have been excruciating had I not met Bastian.

  I lived the first fifteen years of my life in a small country town, attending the local school, which had been a combination of primary and high school year levels. One teacher and a principal made up the staff; both took on the roles of teachers, receptionists, medical officers, and anything else that was called for within the school environment. Even though the town of Ballarat was only a thirty-five kilometre drive away, it felt like Harvwood might as well have been a million miles away. And to be honest special shopping trips to the bustling town were few and far between, at least for me they had been.

  I was the kind of girl that liked to hide, stay in the corner and prayed no one would see me. My horses were my friends, and that had suited me just fine.

  Growing up I was not the kind of girl that could turn a boy’s head– my size putting them off.

  I wasn’t fat, well, now I wasn’t, but back then, my weight struggles plagued me. Lucky for me my mum, who was also a little on the chubby side, understood that being at a school where the kids didn’t know me and I didn’t know them, made me more anxious about my size. So, mum and I embarked on a weight loss program of walking and eating correctly. I wanted to do the whole diet shake routine, but mum insisted we do it right. At first, the going had been slow; at my new school, I was not only one of the tallest girls there but practically the only size eighteen one too.

  It took two months of hard exercise every afternoon after school to lose enough weight to stop the meanest of the girls from snickering behind my back every time I walked past the locker area.

  It was around that time I met Bastian for the first time. I had gone to school that day incredibly happy because I had lost a full dress size. Mum rewarded me with a new top, not an expensive one because we couldn’t afford designer clothes, but it didn’t worry me. It didn’t say eighteen on the tag, and at the time, that meant more to me than anything.

  Then one day, eight weeks after I started at Ballarat Secondary, my confidence and my new size took a major nosedive when the most popular girl dropped her meat pie on the seat she had just vacated; her clean-up job had not been the best. So, I sat down, not knowing that she’d doused the blasted meat pastry with an overabundance of tomato sauce, and not all had been wiped away. I ate my lunch by myself as I always did, then when I got up and busied myself with my rubbish, all I could hear were giggles and snarky laughter.

  At first, I didn’t understand what was going on; most of the kids had stopped laughing at me once I started losing weight. It wasn’t until a year twelve boy called out ‘someone is on their rag’ while pointing at me that I realised I was the reason everyone was laughing, but the reason why had been very unclear. Then, the best thing happened to me at the worst time of my teen life.

  Suddenly, the whole lunchroom quietened with an eerie hush. Stalking towards me was a huge bulk of a boy, I knew him to be two years above me, I also knew he arrived at school every morning on the back of a massive blue Harley, sometimes a black one, and now and again in a ridiculously large ute. I was very aware that he was the most gorgeous boy I had ever seen in my life, with the deepest voice that spoke to that part of me I never knew existed. I initially noticed him on my very first day; he was the boy everyone greeted with the most enthusiasm, boys and girls gave him looks of hero-worship, while I slinked down the halls praying no one noticed me. That day, standing in the lunchroom embarrassed and confused by my fellow student’s behaviour, something so amazing
happened, the likes I would never ever forget. Every word he spoke had imprinted in my brain forever.

  “Hey there beautiful, why don’t I walk you out of here and to the girls’ bathroom?” the gorgeous boy said to me, his impossibly deep voice mesmerising me as much as his brilliant blue eyes did.

  “Huh?” I asked bewildered, my eyes pinging back to the room of suddenly shocked onlookers and back to him again.

  “The idiots are laughing because it seems you sat in some tomato sauce, babe,” he explained, pointing at my backside. He didn’t smile, or laugh or even smirk at me, he just turned his head and glared at the table of older boys who’d laughed the most, and called out the worst comments.

  I felt my cheeks heat so hot with realisation and humiliation all I wanted to do was run out of there and get home. But my Good Smartian wasn’t having any of it.

  “I can see the panic setting in, babe, but don’t. Don’t let them win, sweetheart, if you do, then the rest of your time here will be nothing but miserable.”

  Holding out his hand to me, he smiled. “Name’s Sebastian, but I go by Bastian. No one but my mum calls me Sebastian or my sister when she wants to piss me off. Come on, Bombshell, let’s get out of here. No one will mess with you ever again; I promise you that.”

  Smiling at the memory, I couldn’t help think that Bastian’s promise was the only one never broken in my life. He not only led me out of the room, standing close behind me, covering me from prying eyes and laughter, but that day I formed the most important bond of friendship. One that carved out the person I became during my time at Ballarat Secondary College and the years since. That day I became Sebastian Johnston’s Bombshell, and every time he called me that lights and sparklers lit up in my stomach, but my heart also cracked each time. He was friend-zoned, he had to be because nothing would ever be able to come from Bastian and me being together. Nothing. I wasn’t the type boys like him found attractive.