His Dream. Book 1: The Wounded Souls. Queenscliff Chapter

By Leah Sharelle

Zachariah 'Doc' Keiffer was raised to go after his dreams.

Successful career in the army—check.

Beautiful girlfriend—check. Everything was going to plan—until it wasn't.

Injured and medically discharged with a girlfriend unable to accept his injuries, Doc turned to the people and place he knew where he had a chance to be part of a brotherhood again.

Finally, he once more had a purpose—with the Wounded Souls MC. Life was going well until she happened. His dream.

Meagan Steel was born to be a princess. Growing up as the daughter of the Wounded Souls VP, she never doubted she was loved and adored. Her MC family was everything to her, she loved them beyond measure, but there was always something missing. Meagan wanted what her beloved parents had together, and she wanted it with the newly appointed president of the Wounded Souls Queenscliff chapter.

Doc wanted her, that much Meagan knew. Transferring closer to the new compound, Meagan knew the risks she was taking. Doc had more troubles than just his new position, his life was complicated, to say the least. Not only that, she may not live long enough to get that first kiss she had been dreaming about, once her father finds out his firstborn is lusting after a biker.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leah Sharelle
• Release date: Sep 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201321000

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Copyright © 2021 Leah Sharelle

His Dream

By Leah Sharelle

All Rights Reserved.

Editing and Proofreading: R Corcoran

Photography: Chic Professional Photography

Cover Models: Katrina Leckie & Darren Ridsdale

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.

FROM LEAH

And they are back!! The wounded Souls is starting up a new chapter, led by Doc, who you first saw in Her Prince. It is so good to be back in the Souls world.

Where it all began.

Listed is the new chapter members and where you have met them already.

Members:

Zachariah ‘Doc’ Keiffer—President (Her Prince)

James ‘Kojak’ Steel—Vice President (His Lady)

River ‘Rigger’ Campbell—Enforcer (Into the Fire, Rafe)

Thomas ‘Breaker’ Johnston—Road Captain (Love Heals, Rafe)

Vance ‘Battle’ Masters—SAA

Prospects:

Roman

Fist

Fletch

Hunter

DEDICATION

To Katrina, baby girl, we started this journey together with you on the cover of His Sweetness, through to Angel. Thank you for agreeing to grace one last cover for me. It’s fitting that you are on the first cover of the new Souls series. Thanks to my son-in-law Darren for being Doc for me, xx.

Love you, Poo Bear.

XOXO Mum

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PROLOGUE

DOC

You’re going home, Corporal Keiffer, the nurse said as she bustled around the hospital bed, fixing my blankets, so they weren’t sitting directly on top of my legs and arms. When the IED exploded while I was driving our Humvee, the blast fused my door shut, trapping my team inside the burning vehicle and me. The pain from the shrapnel and the fire was nothing compared to the screams from my mates. Hearing a man cry in terror was not a sound I was likely to forget … not ever.

You were very lucky, corporal, the other men in the Humvee weren’t so lucky. The nurse continued to bustle and fuss, her bedside manner doing nothing for my anxiety. I knew that my team was dead. Knew that because I saw each one die from the catastrophic explosion that blew me down to the footwell of the vehicle, the seat and dashboard collapsing on top of me.

Saving my life, but taking the lives of three of my best mates.

My parents? I rasped through dry lips and pain.

Your parents are aware of your situation, the nurse informed me, not looking at me once. They have been calling every day since.

Resting my head back on the hospital pillow that, mind you, was absolute shit, I breathed a sigh of relief. My parents and I were really close, same with my little sister and brother. They always worried whenever I went on deployment, and until now, there was no reason to be. Mum always liked to say I was born under a lucky star. I escaped broken bones as a kid, and never got caught or arrested whenever my mates and I did stupid shit when we were teens. And after five years in the army, and my first two deployments, I came home whole.

Until now.

Did they mention my girlfriend? I asked, closing my eyes, holding my breath.

Did I want to know if Jazz cared enough to ask about me? Her ‘Dear John’ letter was still burnt into my brain; her reasons for breaking up with me pissed me off the more I read the letter. It was filled with nothing but bullshit excuses why she didn’t want to wait for me, shit that a soldier didn’t need to have in his head when driving through a fucking warzone.

Nope, sorry, the nurse clipped, not sounding the least bit sorry.

You know, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re crap at the whole empathy thing, I mumbled around a hiss of pain as Nurse Rachet began the painful process of removing the bandage from one arm.

Not here to stroke your ego, corporal. Just here to tend to your wounds so you can catch the medic flight back to Darwin.

Lucky me, I growled, feeling the fragile skin lift and tear with each harsh movement from my torturer. Pain killers would be good about now … just saying.

I didn’t hear her response, didn’t feel any more of the excruciating pain.

Just blissful darkness.

Hmmm, I guess she showed me some mercy after all and pushed the button.

***

A YEAR LATER

Jazz, they are just burns, they aren’t fucking contagious. I didn’t hold back with the anger in my voice, Jazz wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed when it came to understanding when I was angry with her.

I never said they were, Zachariah, Jazz spat back. I just don’t understand why you can’t go get the skin grafts.

And … here we go. Always Zachariah, not Zach, and always the same fucking argument we have every time after sex. Jazz hated my scars and couldn’t understand why I wanted to keep them there.

She never would.

Dropping back down on the bed, I took in several deep gulps of air. Today I was not in the mood for Jazz’s crap. If I had come to terms with my scars, and my parents and siblings had, then why the fuck couldn’t my girlfriend?

For a year, Jazz and I had been doing a dance of being together and breaking up. We had become each other’s bad habit. Going back when we got to that low point of loneliness or just because for some fucked up reason, we thought it be a good idea to give us another shot.

After a year, I was getting sick of the same old bullshit. Jazz was gunning for a fight, which meant one thing.

She’d cheated on me again.

I have told you over and over, Jazz. There isn’t enough skin that hasn’t been burned to use. And before you say it, no, I am not using donor skin, so leave it. Counting to ten, I waited for the tantrum that always came after I told her that I refused to have my arms and legs grafted, and the wait was not long.

Jesus Christ, Zachariah, can’t you think of someone other than yourself? Jazz exploded, jumping out of our bed. It’s me that has to touch you, and it’s me that has to see the gross puckered and lumpy skin. Don’t you care about me at all? Her voice was reaching beyond shrill volume, and fuck if I wasn’t sick of that too.

A whole year. What the fuck was I thinking!

I’m so sorry you find my body so repugnant, how hard this must be for you. Sarcasm? Fucking oath.

Unfortunately, it was lost on Jazz.

It is hard for me too, thank you. You know what? Hearing her walk around the room, picking up clothes off the floor, I sat silently waiting for her to deliver that speech I knew only too well.

This isn’t working for me, you don’t give me what I need to feel like I am special to you. It’s over, Zachariah, this time for good.

And there it was. The same worded line she gave me every time. The eighth time this year, to be precise.

Fine, I muttered, completely over the whole relationship. If Jazz wanted out, then that was fine with me, at least it was her ending it and not me. For some reason, I could not fathom or explain, Jazz had a hold over me that was not only strong but my downfall. No matter how many times she cheated on me, no matter how many times she lied to me, I always took her back.

Every. Single. Fucking. Time.

I can not believe you. You changed when you came home, I don’t know who you are anymore, Jazz fired at me, her accusation making me laugh out loud.

Well jeez, honey, I wonder why? I tossed back at her, holding up one puckered and lumpy arm. Might have something to do with nearly frying to death after a bomb exploded under me, killing three of my mates.

Oh, give it a rest, my now ex-girlfriend spat at me from behind. You aren’t the only one with problems, okay.

Oh, I’m sorry, baby, did you break a nail when you fucked whoever it was you fucked last night? As the last word left my lips, what felt like a shoe hit me square in the back, shocking and knocking the breath out of me.

You are nothing but a dick, I don’t know why I come back to you time after time. It’s me that has to touch your disgusting, gross skin. Where is your sympathy for me?

Jumping to my feet, I turned on Jazz and nailed her with a hateful stare.

Get the fuck out of my house now, I gritted out between clenched teeth. Get out and don’t come back. Without another word, I walked into the adjoining bathroom, slamming the door and Jazz behind me.

Leaning my hands on the vanity, I attempted to control the burning desire to throttle Jazz. Since I’d returned from Afghanistan, I’d received support and encouragement from everyone in my life except for the one person who should. Looking into the mirror, I tried to see what Jazz saw as disgusting. Yeah, the skin on my arms, legs and back was pretty bad, the angry welts were fading in colour, but nothing would take away the ugly puckering or the pain when I knocked myself, but fuck me! I was fucking alive, and I came home; I didn’t die. Why couldn’t she be happy about that?

Dropping my gaze from my reflection, I listened to Jazz storming around in the bedroom, gathering her things and cussing me out when I spied a tiny zip-lock bag amongst her bag of makeup and lotions.

What the fuck?

Reaching over, I pulled the small clear bag out from the jumble of crap Jazz insisted was important and held it up for a closer inspection. It was empty, but I could see a residue of white powder. My insides froze as I broke the seal on the bag, dipped my pinkie inside, and then brought it to my lips, touching my tongue to the tip of my finger, rage boiled inside me.

My time in Afghanistan wasn’t just about shooting bullets at the enemy. Sometimes, we had to infiltrate cocaine labs and close them down. I knew what was in my hand, and I knew the taste from the briefings we’d received from the intelligence agency sent to the country to stop the drug trade financing the Taliban.

Cocaine.

Jazz was doing cocaine.

Without thought, my fist hit the mirror, smashing it and my hand, but I felt nothing but pure rage. How the hell did I not see this until now? Her mood swings, her unrelenting foul mouth and switch in personality. Jazz was never the most loving of girlfriends, and yeah, we broke up and got back together all the time, but she cared about me … in her own unique way. What kept us together was the sex, our connection was physical, our only link to each other.

Hearing her mutter something about my scars made my simmering rage boiled over. Pulling the bathroom door open, I clocked Jazz by the wardrobe, shoving clothes into a garbage bag.

Don’t forget this, I growled, flicking the plastic baggie onto the bed, my lips tipping into a snarl.

You brought this shit into my house. It wasn’t a question, I already knew the truth pissed at myself for not putting the pieces together earlier.

Jazz stared at the plastic, her face going from angry at me for telling her to get out to panicked.

It’s not what you think, she stammered, walking around the bed to me, but I put up my hands to stop her from coming closer.

So that isn’t fucking cocaine then? I asked, pointing at the bag.

Jazz had the decency to be honest just once in her life, nodding at me.

Well … yeah, it is. But I don’t use it all the time, just now and again, she mumbled, her face flaming.

I don’t give a fuck if you only use it once a year! You brought it into my house! I shouted at her, completely disgusted with her. You know that I dealt with this shit overseas, I told you how that shit destroyed villages. The carnage it caused families, taking lives.

My time working with the drug agencies taught me that no illegal drug was acceptable. The dealers and the distributors got richer, while the drug they peddled turned lives on their heads.

I had zero tolerance. Period.

It’s not like I deal the shit, Jazz huffed, looking like she thought I was the one with the problem. I just use it now and again when things get rough.

Rough! I exploded. You don’t know what rough is, Jasmine. Using her proper given name deliberately. If she refused to call me Zach, then fuck it.

You go breezing through life without a care in the world. You depend on me for money and comfort, but only when it suits you. I know you fuck other men, why do you think I insist on using a condom every time? It’s because I don’t know where you have been! My voice sounded angry, and by fuck I was too. Who did this chick think she was? Bringing drugs into my home, sleeping around, cheating on me, and still thinks I’m the one with the issue.

Unfuckingbelievable.

Gathering her bags, Jazz stood in front of me, her eyes blazing with anger and guilt.

You know what, Zachariah? Go fuck yourself. I don’t need this shit anymore. Spinning on her high heels, ones I bought for her, mind you, she flounced to the door, then turned to face me, one hand on the knob.

Yeah, I did fuck other guys, at least they didn’t have a fucked up body or head.

The only thing that fucked me up was putting up with you for so long, I retorted, hating the sight of her. Jazz and I met back in high school, and since then, our entire time together was fraught with fighting, making up and fighting again. A toxic pattern that needed breaking.

You won’t be able to stay away, Zachariah, Jazz smirked at me, face it, baby, I’m in your blood. We’ve got a history that can’t be ignored. With that parting shot, she walked out of my room, slamming the door behind her, leaving me with a cold shiver running down my spine.

She was right. No matter how hard I tried to be strong and stay away from her, I always took her back. If I was to be successful and break the cycle, I needed to get away from her. From Queenscliff.

Stalking to the bedside table, I snatched up my phone and powered it up. The photo of Jazz and me on the home screen staring back at me was like a sick, tormenting reminder that I was weak.

No fucking more, I growled, ploughing through my contacts until I came to the name I needed.

It ends now.

Pressing the call button, I brought the phone to my ear.

Mannix? Hey, it’s Zach.

Doc! How you doing, brother? Glad you called, mate, I need you to finish that piece on my back whenever you get some free time. I laughed at the gravelly voice of one of my regular tattoo clients calling me Doc. Mannix Steel liked his tattoos, but his aftercare was not the best. After a pretty bad infection, I helped him not only repair the damage but showed him a foolproof way to heal a tattoo. Since that day, he referred to me as Doc.

Not a problem, Mannix, but I was calling for another reason.

Talk to me, mate, Mannix said, his voice now serious.

I was wondering if that offer you made me last time I tattooed you is still available?

No time frame on that, mate, anytime you are ready, Mannix answered easily to my utter relief.

How about now?

Mannix let out a gravelly chuckle. Come as soon as you can, mate.

Thanks, Mannix, I need a change of scenery and a place where people understand things civilians don’t or can’t. I was talking mainly about my PTSD, and details of my relationship with Jazz could remain mine and mine alone.

I get you brother, Mannix answered quietly, this is the place for you. You come prospect for a year. The Wounded Souls is now your home.

After a quick goodbye, I dropped my phone to the bed, staring at it like it held all the answers for me.

Thank fuck for the Wounded Souls.

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CHAPTER ONE

DOC

PRESENT DAY

Hey, Pres, how you doin’, brother? Fist, a prospect greeted me as I walked through the gates of the compound, the huge, solid, metal gate slamming hard behind me.

Mornin’ Fist, you get that order sorted last night? Creed expects those parts to arrive at the Ballarat compound today as early as possible.

Done and on the road, Pres. Rigger and Roman left before dawn, Fist informed me, jumping into step with me.

Why didn’t Battle go? Vance, or Battle, his road name, was our SAA, and he was supposed