Saved by the Mountain Man (The Men of Misty Peaks Mountain #1)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Emma

The stench of dirty water crawls beneath my nostrils as I step inside my apartment building. Treading over broken glass, I navigate my way towards the stairs, almost landing in what I’m pretty sure is a pile of vomit. Disgusting.

I hold my breath and stare up the stairwell.

This place is putrid. But it’s all I have.

To say I live in a rough neighborhood would be the understatement of the century. It’s in one of the worst areas of the city, but I barely scraped up enough for the deposit, let alone making rent every month.

Every day is the same. I wake up, sneak out of my apartment, dodging the passed out bodies laying unconscious in the corridor. If I make it to the parking lot without being threatened or chased, I call it a win. Then, I cross my fingers that my car will start and make my way to my job as a waitress. I make minimum wage for twelve hours a day, and because money is tight for everyone, my tips barely do enough to get me by.

It’s been like this since I was fifteen and my mother died. Each day I survive is a win. Constantly fearing for my safety has become normal, but lucky for me I have my father’s fight.

Mom’s death was sudden. I’ve never been the same since the day I found her, laying on the floor of our apartment, pale faced and lifeless. The doctors said it wasn’t suicide, but I’m not so sure. I watched her crumble with the weight of my father’s military career, the stress of never knowing where he was, if he was safe, or when he would be home.

She loved him. More than anything.

I’ll never forget the day we got the news.

Dad had died while on duty. Mom was a wreck, completely devastated. It was a slippery slope after that for my mother. Her will to live dwindled week by week, until it all became too much.

Now… I’m all alone. No family. No friends.

But I’ve survived.

Gripping the handrail, I kick aside a vile old bong that’s been abandoned in the middle of the third step. It crashes to the foyer, and I shake down any gross feelings in my gut. Treading quickly, I get to the sixth floor in record time, my legs burning from the sprint.

I creep down the hallway, skin crawling on the back of my neck. It’s dark and stinks like dope up here, and there’s loud music coming from somewhere.

Fuck I hate it here.

One day I’ll get out. One day I’ll live in a nice place, in nature. I like the idea of living by the seaside, but I hate sand. Perhaps a forest instead? I visited a mountain with my father when I was twelve. We went fishing and cooked with fire. It’s one of my favorite memories, one I cherish deep in my heart.

I find my keys and retrieve them quietly from my bag. I tread towards my door, and feel the relief flooding my veins. I’ve made it.

But just as I push the key in the lock, a door bursts open down the hall. Fuck. I jump in shock. I’m swarmed by the same creepy guy who’s been harassing me for months. Harold? Harry? Fuck, I can’t remember his name. I’ve been trying so damn hard to forget that he exists, despite the fact I see him watching me everywhere I go.

I’ve had him kicked out of the café multiple times now, but he’s relentless.

Those cold, heartless eyes give me nightmares. Bloodshot and whacked beyond all belief. His face is scabby, matching the track marks on his arm. He races towards me, lanky limbs tripping on the ripped carpet. He looks like a ghost his skin is so damn pale.

I try to twist the key in my door. It clicks and I move inside just as he reaches me. I go to lock it, but he slides a foot inside the door, wedging it open.

“Emmmmaaaa!” he yells. “Emma, open this fucking door!”

I flatten myself against the door, shifting my entire weight against it. Shit . I’m not sure how long I can hold this. He might have a diet of meth and cigarettes, but he’s a lot stronger than me.

“Go away!” I shout, my mouth dry.

“I just want to talk to you,” he slurs, pushing harder against the door.

My lungs are pumping hard, setting my chest on fire. I can’t hold on much longer. Fuck, what am I going to do?

“Emma! Please, just talk to me.”

My arms are tiring, my body weak. I’ve been doing this for too long. Every damn day, sneaking into my apartment, escaping the clutches of this crazed stalker. Most of the time I’m lucky, but days like today make me question if it’s all worth it.

Maybe Mom was right. It’s all too hard sometimes. Maybe life isn’t worth living.

My heart deflates. That dark temptation in the back of my head, the one telling me to give up the fight, it’s getting louder.

The pounding of my heart thrashes in my ears and I turn my back against the door, my blurring vision catching sight of the wooden box I keep on the shelf. It sits atop a neatly folded flag, the only possession of my father’s that I have.

With a sudden burst of strength, I kick at my attacker’s leg, giving me a momentary advantage. I slam the door and twist the lock.

The banging starts up again. It gets harder. And harder.

I’m done with this shit.

Racing forward, I grab the wooden box from the shelf. Shoving it in my handbag, I collect the folded-up flag and throw that in too. Pacing around my apartment, my head is in too much of a whirlwind to think straight.

The banging at the front door gets louder.

I should get some clothes.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

No. Make up first. I need that for work.

BANG. BANG.

Somehow, I end up in the kitchen, standing in front of the refrigerator. My head is a fucking mess. I open the fridge and go to throw some food in my bag, but there isn’t anything in there. I’ve been living off the lunch the café provides me for weeks now.

BANG. BANG. CRUNCH.

My eyes widen at the sight of my front door swinging open. My stalker bursts in, a wicked sneer making my blood run cold. He takes two slow steps and closes the door behind him. He starts laughing, his chest bouncing beneath an evil laugh. He grips his crotch and looks me up and down.

Yeah. He’s not here to share a cup of coffee now, is he?

I squeeze my hands and make my move. He might be stronger than me, but dammit, I’m fast.

Zipping across the kitchen, I reach the window leading out to my balcony. There’s a fire escape out there and although I doubt it’s up to code, it’s my only way out. With one leg hooked over the ledge, I glance back and see the photograph of my mother and father holding me. It’s sitting on the table by the sofa.

It’s our only family photo. I can’t leave it behind.

I lunge forward and grab it, risking everything. Shoving the frame in my bag, I feel fingernails claw into my back. Pain grinds down my spine, but I hook my elbow back and make contact with the man, right on his fucking nose.

I stand up and see him holding his face, blood streaming through his fingers. So I lay another boot into his gut. He falls to the floor, doubled over in pain. I can’t breathe. Can’t move. But I take a chance, gritting my teeth and racing out the front door instead of down the rusty fire escape.

I don’t remember how I get to my car, but when I do, I’m racing down the street. Tears stream down my face, emotions pouring out of me as I speed away. The road is blurry, and my breathing is sketchy as fuck. I’m a complete mess.

A mess with nowhere to go.

When the tall buildings turn into smaller suburban homes, I decide I’m far enough away to pull over. I need to get my shit together, but all I manage is to grab the photo of my parents and hold it against my chest.

“What do I do?” I ask, begging for my parent’s guidance. “What do I do now?”

Warm tears spill onto the glass frame, and I break down, my parents smiling back at me as my life falls apart. Why can’t I go to them? Why aren’t they here to support me? Isn’t that what parents are for?

“Fuck you,” I say, clenching the sides of the photograph. “Fuck you, you do this to me! You both failed me! You both left and now look!”

I cast the frame aside and let the hatred spill out. Grabbing the folded-up flag, I drape it over me and use it as a blanket. I clutch the flag tightly and pull it up to my neck. It smells dusty and old, but there’s a hint of something nostalgic about the scent.

Dad.

My mind drifts to my father. He would have spent nights like this in the military. Cold, alone and scared. I take a deep breath and imagine his strength and determination. What he gave for us, the ultimate sacrifice to defend his country.

To defend Mom.

To defend me .

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the raging chaos inside. Reaching back for the photograph, I wipe my tears off the glass. It’s then that I see it.

Behind my parents is a wooden cabin, nestled in amongst a dense forest. It’s the cabin we visited every time Dad came home from duty. His best friend lived there, Jack Collins. He must have taken this photo, all those years ago when I was small enough to nestled in my father’s arms.

Jack was my father’s best friend, a Navy SEAL, too, and we shared some fun memories with him. He was a strong presence, a safe person who is as close as I’ll ever get to real family.

I wipe my tears and place the photo down on the seat next to me. Taking a deep breath, my shaky hands grip the steering wheel. A ping of hope ignites inside my chest as I start the engine and drive forward, the memory of how I felt on the mountain guiding me.

My parents would want me to find a safe place. To get out of this hellhole and get on with my life.

It’s a start. And with a fresh sense of hope, I don’t look back.