Anything For You Read online

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  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 EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright © 2021 Leah Sharelle

  Anything For You

  By Leah Sharelle

  All Rights Reserved.

  Editing and Proofreading: R Corcoran

  Photography: Chic Professional Photography

  Cover Models: Tamara Leckie & Stephen Hogg

  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

  IMPORTANT NOTE FROM LEAH

  THIS BOOK CONTAINS SCENES THAT MAY TRIGGER SOME READERS. IN IT, I DEAL WITH MENTAL HEALTH ISSUES AND SEXUAL ABUSE. THE CHARACTER TELLS THESE THROUGH FLASHBACK SCENES AND DISCUSSIONS.

  IF YOU NEED HELP DEALING WITH SUCH ISSUES, PLEASE DON’T HESITATE TO REACH OUT AND ASK FOR HELP.

  PLEASE.

  DEDICATION

  To Handsome, this is the one, my friend, with love, Frog. XO

  PROLOGUE

  NATALIE

  “If you walk out of that door, Natalie, don’t bother coming back.” My step-mother’s shrilled threat carried all the way down from her room to where I was standing with my hand on the doorknob. “You won’t get a cent from me or your father, so don’t bother going to him for shelter or money.”

  As if I would! My parents might be married, but there was no love between them, just their shared common bond of being money-hungry, heartless, cold and calculating humans. All they cared about was their perception in the community, their businesses and getting as rich as possible. All while maintaining the outward appearance that all was perfect.

  Yeah right! They wanted people to see the Brady Bunch when in reality, growing up in this house was more like a reality show on crack.

  The pain in my arm was nothing compared to the pain my mother caused by taking the side of my rapist. My forearm getting broken by a tennis racket whacked down it didn’t hurt half as much as finding out my mother admitted she heard what had happened to me behind the closed door of the bathroom two weeks ago. Instead, she chose to walk away and put herself to bed for a while rather than listen to her own daughter’s screams for help.

  “You brought it on yourself, I told you walking around in those tank tops is not the behaviour of a lady.” This time the voice was closer; looking over my shoulder, I saw my mother standing in her fancy dressing gown, her face pinched in disgust as she stared at me with hatred in her cold eyes.

  “And what about his behaviour, Mum? Where is his punishment for doing what he did?” I choked out, my voice raspy from the fight we’d had earlier when she backhanded me across the face after she tried to shake some sense into me by wrapping her hands around my throat.

  Mum huffed, her lips thinned and her fists clenched at the sides of her thighs.

  “Boys will be boys, Natalie. You dress provocatively and you get what you deserve.”

  I wanted to scream and shout how fucked up that was for her to say. How did a mother justify a rape that happened in her own home? How could she stand there and blame me, her own daughter?

  Tears clogged my throat, tears I refused to shed in front of her. So what would be the point? She was unaffected by emotion as much as she was unmoved by what had happened to me.

  Seventeen years old, born into wealth, educated at the finest girls’ schools, and here I was carrying one bag with as much as I could fit into it. Mum gave me no more than fifteen minutes to pack up my things, forbidding me from taking anything of real value other than my clothes. All presents given to me over the years were to stay.

  Turning the knob, I opened the heavy glass door, the most expensive one Mum and Dad could find in a display of wealth and opulence.

  “Brother’s don’t do that,” I whispered, “they should never do that.” Then, walking out into the darkness of the night, I turned back around and took one last look at the only mother figure in my life.

  “And mum’s don’t break their kid’s arm or heart. But you did.”

  Not bothering to shut the door behind me, I left the one place I knew of as home for the last time, my mother’s screaming rants and demands that I remain quiet about what had happened to me or else, ringing in my ears.

  Oh, don’t worry, Mum, telling anyone about this nightmare is the last thing I will do.

  PROLOGUE

  BEAU

  “Nice day for it, don’t ya think?” The guard asked me with a nasty grin that I was so used to it no longer affected me.

  “Fuck you, Jenkins,” I growled, waiting impatiently for the last automatic gate to open and let me out.

  “I will remember that little slur when you come back arsehole,” Jenkins promised, standing beside me, his hand on his sidearm in a pathetic display of authority.

  “Won’t be back ever again, so you are shit out of luck.”

  The sarcastic laugh didn’t deter me; I knew more guards than Jenkins had hot dinners and he was one of the less than impressive ones. He was more of an I have a small dick, so I got a job as a prison guard to prove I am a man, kind of a guy. He didn’t care about inmates or their backgrounds. He thought rehabilitation was a waste of time for blokes like me.

  “You’re a career crim, Burdett, an outlaw biker, scum like you always come back,” he sneered, but I could hear the tremble in his voice. And that gave me more power than he ever could have against me.

  Not that he wasn’t entirely wrong. Spending over twelve years of my thirty-nine years behind bars for various offenses did kind of make me a career criminal. However, he was wrong about one thing. I was never coming back, and it was time to put my dubious criminal career behind me and make something of my life. Starting with some serious consideration about leaving the MC, which came with complications, I only had this chance left because I would not make Jenkins’ proclamation come true. I refused to give the prick the satisfaction.

  Finally, the rusty sound of the chain link and barb wire fence sliding open brought a smile to my face.

  “Go fuck yourself, Jenkins,” I muttered, then stepped off government-owned property for the last time. “You pathetic piece of shit.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  NATALIE

  SIX YEARS LATER

  “Hey, George,” I greeted the elderly man who delivered my groceries and other supplies I ordered once a week at precisely the same time every Monday from behind the screen door.

  “Hello, Miss Natalie, and how are you today, sweetie?” George replied warmly, dropping three bags of groceries gently to the p
orch floor while balancing a box in his other arm.

  “Same shit, different day, George,” I muttered dryly, but still, a smile pulled at my lips.

  “Ain’t that the truth, darlin’.”

  George had been delivering my food and work supplies to me for the last five years. He was the closest thing I had to a friend and the only human contact I had with the outside world, other than three others, but they were all only contacted through phone and email. Of course, when I say contact, I mean me on this side of the screen door and him on the other. I never went out, never shook his hand, I left the money owed in a small box on the porch step, thanks to Maddie sending me a supply of petty cash through a courier every week. George knew the drill, he drops off, takes the money and I don’t go out to get them until he is safely back in his car. He always waits for me to come out and wave, then he takes off down the long driveway until the following week when we do it all over again.

  “How are the grandkids, George?”

  “Good thanks, Taylor is starting University in February. She got into RMIT, doing Civil Engineering. The missus and I are so proud of her.” I could hear the pride in George’s voice as he continued to relay news of his granddaughter’s achievements and his other grandkids, all fifteen of them.

  How nice for those kids to have such a wonderful, caring grandfather. One who not only cared about them but knew what grades they got in school and every other detail of their lives. The concept was so foreign to me, and I really couldn’t understand it. Just to have someone interested in me … and not someone I paid to listen to me, like my doctor.

  “That’s great, George,” I said quietly, feeling the familiar tremble rush through me, the need to be alone, for the lovely old man to go overcome me.

  “Okay, darlin’ girl, you are all stocked up for the week,” George announced, taking the money from the box and pocketing it. “See ya next Monday, Nattie.”

  I couldn’t help yet another pull of a smile when George called me Nattie. In truth, I didn’t like my name being shortened, hated it in fact, but telling George that would only hurt the man’s feelings. He didn’t have to deliver to me every week, and his country-style supermarket didn’t offer a home delivery normally. With the town so small, having one main street, one post office and one pub, and only seven hundred and sixty-three residents, Pike’s Bluff was not a thriving metropolis in need of Menulog or Uber deliveries.

  “Bye, George, and thank you,” I called out to him, as I always did, watching him move slowly to his car, only to stop and turn back to look at me.

  “The house over the fence has been rented out, darlin’, just thought you would want to know that,” George called back, his head turned in the direction of the house to the left of my property that had sat idle since I moved here five years ago.

  Panic gripped my throat as my hand shook at my thigh.

  “Do you know who?”

  “Someone that wants to be left alone, I’m guessing. Much like you.”

  “When?” I asked, trying not to sound too panicked. From my porch, you couldn’t see the house for the thick prickle bushes along the fence line. It was much like my place, high up from the road, hidden by dense trees and scrub bushes. And, like mine, it was a log cabin with a porch that wrapped all the way around. That was the first thing that drew me to the place, other than the location. The road was a dead end, only my house and the other one here, so there was no need for cars to be travelling down here other than George. The seclusion suited me because it was so quiet.

  “Moved in fours day ago, a middle-aged bloke. Didn’t you hear him come down the road?” George asked, slightly worried.

  “Ummmm, no, I guess I didn’t,” I muttered, annoyed at myself and the world. “I have been stuck in the shed working on my latest piece.”

  “That isn’t like you, Nattie.” George clucked, shaking his head at me. “You are normally more alert.”

  I couldn’t exactly defend myself in the way I wanted. To explain to George that this week my nightmares were more intense than usual, making it impossible for me to sleep and instead, spending more hours welding than sleeping. Only to drag my tired body down the long, winding path back to my house at dawn, completely exhausted, obviously too tired to even notice lights coming from the house. No, I couldn’t tell him that.

  “I guess not. Okay, George, thank you for telling me.”

  George walked a few steps back in my direction, his eyes kind and worried.

  “Nattie, if he hasn’t been over to introduce himself after four days, I reckon that means he wants his privacy too. You have my number if you need it.” Waiting for me to acknowledge his offer, George then headed back for his car and took off, leaving me to worry and speculate about my new neighbour alone.

  Damn it!

  When I moved from my hometown, I didn’t just land here by accident. I did my homework. I researched small country towns at least three hundred kilometres from my childhood home, looked until I found the perfect one, then went about obtaining every government subsidy available to me. Finally, I took up a grant that allowed me to go to Trade School, learned how to use power tools, and use my hands so I could find something that would allow me to make money where I didn’t have to be with people.

  Men.

  It didn’t take my teacher long to figure out I had an affinity for creating things out of nothing. He also figured out that I wasn’t keen on him being too close to me, so he let me pretty much learn on my own, getting one of his female assistants to take over my supervision in class. One year in night school to get my Year 12 while doing trade school during the day to become a qualified welder.

  Strange choice of qualification, but for me, it had been the best decision I’d ever made. Creating sculptures out of old twisted metal most people saw as useless junk seemed to be my forte. So, spurred on by my teacher’s advice and encouragement, I found Pike’s Bluff on a map, researched the area, population, pretty much everything, then got on a bus and moved.

  I just up and left, only giving my new address to my teacher and his assistant. The only two people I trusted with the information. With already getting another grant to relocate and set up a business, I organised over the phone to rent a house. Funnily enough, with George.

  Ringing around the businesses I’d looked up on the web, I accidentally rang his supermarket instead of the real estate, and after an hour on the phone with the old man, I secured a rental with a shed and no neighbours. Lucky for me, George’s family owned this property and the one beside it, the other house just as old-fashioned as mine. I didn’t think anyone existed that was crazier than me, craving the lonely life.

  Apparently, I was wrong.

  Pushing open the screen door, I walked out and grabbed the bags of food, leaving the box of welding rods on the porch to take down to my work shed after breakfast. Moving swiftly, I allowed myself to glance over to the fence line. Through the thick prickle bushes, the only part of the house that was visible from this vantage point was the brick chimney.

  And the smoke billowing out the top.

  Damn it, Natalie. How have you not noticed that someone had moved in?

  Chastising myself for my lack of concentration, I sniffed the air and smelled the scent of burning wood.

  Good move, moron.

  Rushing back into the house, I let the screen door slam behind me, turned and flipped the hook lock, then closed the heavy wooden door, engaging the deadbolt, the safety chain and quickly kicked the door jammer lock down into place. Then, as a second thought, I punched in the six-digit code into the panel on the side of the door, hearing the familiar beep letting me know that all my ducks where in a row.

  My security.

  Taking a deep cleansing breath, I moved slowly to the kitchen with the intention of unpacking my groceries.

  Over the years, I came to understand that living with order and precision helped me focus on the here and now and not on the past. That’s why I chose welding as a profession and not waitre
ssing or office work. Typing or carrying plates of food would never keep the horrible visions at bay—too much time to dwell when the chores became too mundane … too many people.

  Welding pieces of metal together with plasma torches that reach up to and over twenty-seven thousand degrees Celsius, or thereabouts, required one to have one hundred percent focus.

  Normally I had that focus.

  Usually.

  Until I found myself with a neighbour.

  Pulling the cans of peas, carrots, and ready made bolognaise sauce from the bags, I quickly put them away, making sure the labels were facing to the front and sitting in a single line. Unable to stop myself from fixing the ones that weren’t completely straight, I counted to make sure that I had twenty-two cans in the cupboard. I slammed the door shut and started to put away the items that needed refrigeration. Going through the same routine with the celery, tomatoes and lettuce, ignoring the scar on my hand each time it passed in my line of sight.

  Of all my scars, I hated that one the most. There was no confusing it for anything

  other than what it was—Teeth.

  Straight from years of braces, as the life of the rich afforded their kids, without needing to scrimp and save.

  Abandoning my chore, I instead reached for my mobile phone.

  Maybe Doctor Bale could fit me in for a quick Zoom appointment.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BEAU

  The first day I drove up the beaten-up dirt road and saw the house I rented without seeing it, my first thought was, what the fuck did I do?

  I was born and bred in the city. I spent years incarcerated with hundreds of other men and lived a life in an MC compound that was never quiet, save for a few hours before dawn when the last drunken brother finally passed out.