A Little More Hope (Hot Property #2)

Chapter One

Mason

Strong arms wrapped tightly around my chest like a vise, yanking me backwards and dragging me into the shadows down a dimly lit alley. A second pair of hands joined in the tussle as I desperately battled to break free. Screaming loudly to try to attract attention at the same time as twisting rapidly from side to side, I haphazardly kicked my legs out to do everything possible to dislodge the grip of whoever held me.

Cold, hard, metal jammed painfully into my temple. I instantly froze, my screams dying in my throat, heart pounding wildly as my scrambled brain recovered enough to register the barrel of a gun.

I tensed, my body becoming rigid as someone chuckled darkly beside me. “Yeah, buddy. Life has suddenly got all serious for you.” His words chilled me to the bone and carried the remnants of a foreign accent I had no hope of placing.

The guy’s arms squeezed painfully across my body, pushing the remaining air from my lungs as he dragged me deeper into the darkness and shoved me hard against a dumpster. My legs slipped under me on the greasy ground beneath my feet, as I tried to gain traction. I made a futile attempt to calm my erratic breathing, but as I pulled a shallow gulp of air down, the stench of rotting food and God knew what else made me gag. “Wh-whatever you want, take it. All of it. Phone, wallet, whatever you want,” I stuttered out.

My pulse hammered so hard in my veins their reply barely registered as the bigger, stockier guy not holding the gun rummaged through my suit jacket and pants pockets, pulling out every item he laid his hands on. There wasn’t much, only what I’d already told them. Wallet, phone, and keys, nothing else.

Looking through my new designer wallet, a thirtieth birthday present I’d received from Gabe this morning, he found my driver’s license, which he tugged out of the narrow slot before throwing the leather aside. Watching my gift land in the dirt, knowing the pristine leather would be covered in whatever crap littered the floor, annoyance flashed through me for a split second.

“Nothing,” Stocky Guy spat, pulling my eyes back to him. Forties maybe. Beard, buzz cut, definite muscle head. He held my license up to the alley entrance. “Pretty Boy.” He peered closer. “Mason Wilder has nothing.” He flicked the license away in disgust.

My heart sped up even more.

What did that mean for me?

I hardly ever carried much cash; who did these days? So the only items in my wallet were my driver’s license, gym membership, the couple of credit cards I regularly used, and a few notes. I didn’t wear jewelry or a watch, so the only item of value I had was my phone.

Roughly grabbing the front of my shirt, Stocky Guy half lifted, half dragged me farther into the alley and the darkness, away from the streetlights and safety of the sidewalk.

I turned to the other guy: taller, thinner, and with his curly hair pulled into a ponytail. Definitely the one in charge. “P-please. I don’t have anything else. I swear.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he ground out. “It ain’t my fault you don’t have more than twenty bucks.” He spat in my face. “Fucking piece of crap.”

“You got nothing we need,” he growled, “so I think it’s time we taught you a lesson; ya know, for your stupidity.”

Stocky Guy turned to his accomplice. “Whaddya think?” he asked before turning back to me, forcibly grabbing my face—his fingers pressing hard into the flesh on my chin—then painfully twisted my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “Time to make you a not-so-pretty boy.”

The other guy cackled, the empty sound sending a shiver down my spine. I was about to speak, I was sure, to say something to try to prevent what was about to happen next. I was gonna die, right here, in a dingy alley, a few feet from the bar I’d stupidly left, and where my friends had remained, not yet ready to stop celebrating my thirtieth birthday.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the first punch hit me right in the gut, the blow rattling my insides, knocking the air from my lungs. Doubling over, I fought to drag in air, but a punch to the side of the head had me seeing stars and sent me sliding to the ground. I tried to roll away and received a heavy boot to my ribs as my reward, pain instantly erupting through my chest, carving into me like a knife.

There was no letup with the punches and kicking to my body and I instinctively curled into a ball, hands covering my head, my legs drawn up tight to protect myself. Losing count of the number of blows they rained down on my battered body, I began to slip in and out of consciousness, my brain shutting down as the constant pain became too much.

“Let’s finish this,” one of them stated as the cold steel of the gun rested against my temple once more. In the distance, I thought someone shouted a warning, their voices coming from a long way off, accompanied by shots being fired, or maybe not. I was too delirious to think clearly enough to tell the difference between what was real and what was my imagination anymore.

Bang, bang, bang. The explosive release of the gun against my ear jolted me. Tearing pain ripped through my skull, and I tensed, as the last seconds of my life flashed in front of my eyes before unconsciousness took over.

Bang, bang, bang.

I awoke with a start, tangled in my soaking wet bedsheets, covered in a layer of sweat. My heart thumped rapidly against the wall of my chest trying to hammer its way out of my body.

Struggling to sit up, pain ripped through my side as my fractured ribs protested the action, the effort almost too much for me. Forcing air into my burning lungs I tried to take in deep breaths as I’d been shown by the doctor at the hospital, the ones meant to magically calm me down.

The supposed remedy wasn’t working.

Shoving a hand roughly through my damp hair, I fought to get control over my own fucking body.

Two weeks in the hospital and now a week back home, and absolutely nothing had changed.

Nothing.

Sleeping meant a repeat of the night in the alley, reliving each and every blow to my body, and feeling the unforgiving metal of the gun pressing into the side of my head, its barrel digging against my temple. The heat and searing pain of the shot that should have killed me, the one that should have ended my life, had only grazed the side of my head instead of penetrating my skull and splattering my brains all over the alley wall when Gun Guy had gotten distracted for a split second by the shouting.

Bang, bang, bang.

“Jesus.” My heart leapt again.

The door. It’s just someone at the damn door.

Carefully hauling my ass out of bed, I managed to pull on my sweatpants and a T-shirt, the same ones I’d worn for I don’t remember how many days, and stumbled into the living room and over to the entrance to my apartment.

Bang, bang, bang.

“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I grumbled, stabbing the button on the video screen on the wall beside the door, then sighing heavily at the face on the small display.

Gabe.

Turning the deadlock and newly installed bolts and iron bar, I unlocked the reinforced door and opened it wide before retreating into the kitchen.

My friends had come to a decision among themselves to become my nursemaids. Messaging or calling at least once a day or, like now, dropping round to check up on me, making sure I was okay.

What a banal term: “making sure I was okay.”

I’d never be okay again.

Gabe sauntered in carrying a takeout bag and flicked the door shut with his foot.

“You gonna lock that?” I groused. He rewarded me with a glare and a look of disbelief. My friends knew the routine, and I waited, tense and silent until all the locks and bolts were engaged, only then releasing my fingers from their stranglehold on the back of the bar chair.

Making his way straight over to me, he placed the food on the countertop, and after a couple seconds for the aromas to reach my nostrils, salt beef and sauerkraut filled my senses and made my belly rumble in appreciation.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. A couple of days ago perhaps, maybe more?

Gabe stared at me. “Christ, you look like shit.” Leaning closer, he sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “When did you last take a shower? You stink.”

I couldn’t remember that either. Probably longer than when I’d last eaten. Gabe looking immaculate as usual didn’t help. Dressed in a navy three-piece suit, handmade, knowing him, white shirt, pale-blue tie, and black Italian leather shoes, also handmade. He looked the epitome of a successful businessman. Me not so much.

I smoothed my rumpled clothes and gave another sigh. “We can’t all be so damn perfect.”

His laugher echoed around my empty apartment, filling the space. “I know, right?” A couple seconds later his brows furrowed, and he stared at me seriously, his eyes losing their humor as he switched into protective friend mode. “Go clean up, and I’ll sort out the food,” he ordered me gently.

Nodding, as I really did need to wash, I shuffled back to my bedroom and into the attached bathroom.

Turning on the shower, I shucked off my two items of clothing and climbed in, letting the hot water rain down on my tired body. As I dipped my head under the shower, a stinging pain zapped through my skull. “Shit.” Snapping out from under the spray, the intense throbbing a vivid reminder of the wound in my hairline, I lifted my hand and gently ran my fingers along the line of stitches holding together the deep graze in my scalp.

I was so, so lucky. I shouldn’t be here. I should be dead. Yet I wasn’t, and I had no idea why or how to handle the fact.

Everyone at the hospital kept telling me how fortunate I’d been to survive. If the bullet had penetrated a few millimeters deeper or a fraction lower, the outcome would be very different.

I knew that. Fuck, did I. It was my fucking head, after all.

Shivers racked me as my internal TV screen flickered to life and replayed the attack scenario for the thousandth time.

The fear and pain, so much pain…

Forcing the memories away, I grabbed the body wash from the tray and squeezed some into my palm and then lathered my battered body.

Gabe mentioned I looked like shit, but he didn’t know the half of it. My body was covered in bruises. Some purple, others a sickly gray-yellow color. They covered almost every inch of me, and I hated them with a vengeance as they were yet another visible reminder of the trauma I’d suffered. Like I needed one.

Emotion caught me unaware, encircling me with sharply barbed edges, digging deep, and I desperately tried to fight back the tears before they overwhelmed me. The cycle was the same each time. Why had they picked me instead of somebody else? Did I look weak, helpless? I must have. Otherwise, out of all the other people on the street, why choose me? The endless questions in my mind were a continual downward spiral I fought hard not to let suck me into oblivion.

But I refused to break down. They’d win if I did, and I’d never let them have the satisfaction. The police had informed me I’d done nothing wrong—simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. If the assailants hadn’t picked me, they’d have chosen the next person who happened by.

Theoretically, I understood their reasoning, but frustration and anger continually plagued my mind, knowing there’d never be an answer. The shout hadn’t been in my imagination but had come from a cop in a passing patrol car who’d stopped to investigate when they caught movement in the alley. My assailants had fired three shots—one at me, and two at the cops, who’d instantly retaliated, ending with my attackers being shot and killed. So, according to the police, I’m safe apparently.

Safe .

A single word encompassing a whole world of images and feelings.

Cozy nights in front of the TV.

Being held in the arms of a loved one.

Safe. Something I recognized with bone-deep certainty I’d never feel ever again.

Rinsing the suds from my body along with my dark thoughts, I shut off the water and opened the shower door, cooler air filling the stall, setting off goose bumps along my skin. Grabbing the nearest towel and carefully drying myself off, I hissed at the tenderness in my muscles as I bent to rub my legs, the pain from my damaged ribs a constant ache in my side.

Shit, I was a mess.

After padding into the bedroom, I dressed carefully in clean sweatpants and a T-shirt, mindful of my injuries. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone, least of all Gabe, who’d already seen me at my worst. I wasn’t going out and hadn’t since the first day I’d gotten out of the hospital, so who cared what I wore?

Running my fingers through my damp hair to settle the too long strands in place, I emerged from the bedroom to see Gabe in the kitchen, his jacket now hanging on the bar chair. He’d pulled a couple of plates from the cupboard and set them out on the countertop, ready for the food.

When I reentered the living area, Gabe pressed a couple of buttons on the microwave. “You were in there awhile, so I decided to give them a reheat,” he said by way of explanation. When the bell pinged, he retrieved the two sandwiches, and unwrapping them from their paper packaging, placed them on the plates.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, “I didn’t realize I’d taken so long.”

He shrugged. “No problem,” and he gestured with his head as he picked up the plates. “Go sit.”

I carefully sat down in my favorite black leather armchair as he handed me my sandwich before he settled on the sofa to my right.

We sat together in silence. He was waiting for me to speak, but I didn’t have much to say. To give myself thinking time, I picked up my food and took a large bite of my sandwich. The sweetness of the salt beef slid over my tastebuds before the bitter sauerkraut followed. After days of nothing, the simple meal tasted delicious.

“So?” Gabe’s tone made me inwardly groan.

Putting down my sandwich I gave him a direct look. “I’m fine. Okay?”

He scoffed. “So fine you’ve not left your apartment in over a week?”

I sighed. I’d been doing a lot of that lately.

“Look, Gabe.” I stopped talking, as whatever I said next would be a lie. I wasn’t fine, but I wasn’t sure how to go about fixing my mess, or how to express my thoughts clearly enough to tell him so.

I wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

Sitting forward on the edge of the sofa, Gabe gave me a sympathetic smile. I fucking hated it. “Look, I know it’s a struggle, and I get it.” He held up his hands. “And I’m not trying to patronize you.”

I gave a slight head tilt, in appreciation of him saying so.

“But you can’t continue on this way. You do know that, right?”

Deep down, I did, but any decisions about how to move forward with my life were all so muddled in my mind that I struggled to find a way out.

“I do,” I replied. “But it’s hard. There’s so much noise in my head, but I can’t work out how to make it stop.”

“Maybe you should take a break for a while, get a change of scenery.”

I frowned. “Change of scenery?”

“Yeah, get out of the city for a bit. Relax.”

“Relax?” I kept repeating him, but for some reason, his words weren’t registering.

“Is there an echo in here?” he deadpanned. “Yes, get away, relax.”

Hmm, maybe. I’d not thought about leaving the city, preferring to barricade myself inside my apartment behind a solid closed door where no one could get to me. But leaving my sanctuary meant being exposed, being vulnerable, and I wasn’t comfortable with the concept at all.

Regardless, I mulled his comments over, and in theory, I agreed my current situation wasn’t healthy, and I’d reluctantly admit to going a little stir crazy, but venturing out into the city unnerved me. All the noise and the people, the narrow side streets and alleyways made me shudder inwardly. But going somewhere quiet, somewhere peaceful, away from everyone and everything currently reminding me of my assault?

“Where would I go?” I asked, unable to recall the last time I’d not worked in the office twelve or more hours a day, at least six days a week. Even if traveling to inspect a construction project in another city, I’d be on-site all day and ordering room service in the evening. I’d never had any time at all to relax and unwind.

Despite being the partner in charge of our luxury eco hotels and resorts, I didn’t have any clue where to go now.

“I have the perfect place,” he replied, answering my unspoken thought.

“Oh?” I waited expectantly for him to elaborate.

“I’ve a house a few hours up the coast in a small community, so not too many people to contend with. The place is perfect. On the edge of town and overlooking the sea, there’s even direct access to a beach only the locals tend to use.”

I stared at the man on the sofa opposite me. Gabe, who thrived on excitement and adventure, who loved nothing more than immersing himself in all the activities a major city had to offer, and I mean all , had a second home, a beach house in a quiet coastal town?

“You have a beach house?” I sputtered, incredulity clear in my voice. “Somewhere… quiet?”

Gabe snickered, “Glad to know I can still surprise you, but yep”—he held up his hands—“guilty as charged.”

“Since when?”

A dark shadow crossed his face, making me frown. When the penny dropped, I could have kicked myself. Of course, this was after his split with Karl and David.

“Sorry, I should have thought.”

He waved my apology off. “It is, what it is,” he stated far too blandly, making it obvious, despite being over two years since their split, the wounds remained painfully open. “I needed somewhere to regroup. To sort my head out. My assistant told me about the place. Apparently, her mom and dad love it, so I thought ‘what the hell’ and went to check it out.”

“I’m guessing you liked what you saw?”

A genuine smile crossed his face this time, one actually reaching his eyes. “I did, and when the house I rented came up for sale last year, I bought the place.”

“Wow.”

Gabe stared at me squarely. “So I do know something of what I’m talking about. Okay, the scenario’s not the same as yours, but I understand the need to get away and work through your trauma at your own pace, and with minimal distractions. To remove yourself from familiarity to regain some semblance of order and control over your life.”

He’d hit the nail smack bang on the head, as that’s exactly how I felt.

“It’s yours if you want it,” he said, and I instantly wanted to grab this lifeline he offered and so badly needed. As if sensing my mood, he sat back and shoved his hand into his pants pocket, and pulling out a single key, he placed it on the coffee table between us. “I got an extra one cut,” he explained. “I’ll email you the directions this afternoon.”

“You’re so sure I’d go?” I asked.

“Hell, no, but I like to be prepared.”

“Thank you.” Some of the tension I’d carried around the last couple of weeks melted away. “Really, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied simply as he pointed at the food on my plate. “Now eat. You look like a scrawny ass chicken for fuck’s sake.”