Page 13 of A Little More Hope

“No,” I shouted, jumping up from my seat, making him tense up and flick his eyes to me. “Your bare feet.”

Confusion marred his face as he dropped his gaze down to his feet and then up at me. Despite his assertion he was okay, he clearly wasn't. The combination of the drugs and all the alcohol were clouding his judgment and ability to think rationally.

“Please,” I stressed, “you’ll cut yourself if you move.” The panic in my voice must have registered somewhere in his addled brain because he looked at me, really looked. Then his hand reached out to grip the top of the rail. He swayed slightly but stayed put. Relief washed over me as I rushed to him, the glass crunching under my shoes. I cradled his face in my hand, his own fingers coming up to firmly grip my wrist. “Stay right here, okay?” He blinked a couple of times before agreeing. “I’m going to get a broom to sweep the glass away and get you some shoes.” I continued to look at him before adding, “I’m sorry for being so judgmental.”

“It’s okay,” he said, his voice strained, and I wasn't sure he truly believed me.

“No, no it’s not,” I answered, “I barely know you. Barely know anything about you or what you’re going through. I overstepped again, and it wasn't my place.”

He dropped his forehead to mine, his right hand snaking up to hold the back of my neck, sending shivers down my spine at his firm touch. “Your words sounded too much like pity,” he whispered, his grip tightening. “I hate being pitied. Especially by you.”

I had no clue as to why he specifically put the emphasis on me, but I didn’t currently have the time to analyze his words as, for the time being, he needed my reassurance, not my questions. “I’m worried about you, Mason, but I don’t pity you, and I won’t…ever. I promise.”

He sighed, long and deep, obviously needing to hear my words to believe them.

“Wait here,” I repeated and, reluctantly letting go from his hold, headed inside. Unable to find a broom, I did instead find a pan and brush in a cupboard. On my way back out, I also grabbed his pair of leather flip-flops from inside the doorway. I held onto him as he put on the footwear, then methodically cleared a path on the deck, allowing him to walk without fear of any glass accidently cutting any part of his exposed feet. When I’d finished tidying up, I took Mason by the hand, instantly liking how he intertwined his fingers with mine. I gently tugged until he got the message and followed directly behind me as we made our way inside.

Chapter Five

Mason

As I followed Ash, his hand, warm and comforting in mine, sent a fascinating tingle along my nerve endings where my fingers curled around his. I’d never held another man’s hand. Even before my assault, it wasn’t something I’d ever done or ever needed to. After all, if I wanted to hold someone’s hand, I held my girlfriend’s. Yet this felt right. Better for some reason. Ash’s hand was larger, hotter, and his strong fingers fit perfectly with mine. Looking down, I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began.

All I did know was how relaxed and comfortable Ash made me feel, which had nothing at all to do with the amount of alcohol I’d consumed today. With his hand in mine, anchoring me, I felt safe and protected, something I needed more than anything after spending so much time on my own with nothing to do but think how different my circumstances were now.

He led me over to the sofa and sat, pulling me gently along with him, our thighs so close they brushed, the heat from his body warming mine. Relaxing against the cushions, mindful of my ribs after cracking them against the railing outside, I deliberately ignored the twinge of pain the action caused, choosing to focus instead on how irrationally pleased he made me when he didn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he held on a bit tighter, seemingly not yet ready to release me.

I liked the feeling.

Angling his body toward mine, Ash studied me for a few moments, his eyes roving over my face and body, mapping the remaining bruises lingering on my skin.

“Will you tell me what happened to you?” he asked quietly. “Help me understand.”

His request came out almost a plea, the honesty resonating in his words. He really did want to understand the pain and suffering I endured. And I wanted to tell him. I wanted to confide in the only person I’d allowed to see a small slice of the man I used to be, instead of the shell I’d become, so I steeled myself and told him everything. About my birthday. About the attack. About me becoming a recluse, hiding away from my friends and family, letting no one in. My gaze remained locked on him the whole time, studying his reactions, as I revealed the details of the last few months of my life. Horror and fear marred his expression, along with understanding when I described the attack and its subsequent effect on me. True to his word, I didn’t see one iota of pity.

Once finished, I rested my head against the sofa, eyes closed, energy drained from reliving the memories I tried so hard to forget. A couple of seconds later, Ash’s palm brushed tentatively against my face, his thumb caressing my temple where the last of my bruises remained. His fingers slid into my hair to lightly trace over the scar where the bullet had grazed my skull.

He abruptly stopped his exploration when I opened my eyes, and he started to pull his hand away. I didn’t think about the reasons why I didn't want him to remove it, only able to process how much I liked the feel of him on me. So I swiftly raised my fingers to gently catch his wrist, halting his movement, holding him in place. “You can touch,” I said, my voice low.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked, caressing me again, eliciting goose bumps wherever his fingers connected.

“It’s a bit sensitive, but no, it doesn’t hurt.” My husky reply caused him to exhale sharply, his lips parting slightly. I wasn’t dumb and recognized when someone was attracted to me. His pupils dilated and his cheeks colored as he continued running his fingers over my skin, no longer tentative, rather more assured, more confident.

I’d missed being touched. Wrapped in the warmth of someone, having them near, surrounding me with their body heat. I closed my eyes, leaning into him, needing to get closer. And when his blunt nails scraped along my scalp, the sensation so, so good, I couldn’t have held back the low moan escaping my lips if my life depended on it.

Ash’s hand disappeared in an instant, coolness replacing his touch, making me shiver. Snapping my eyes open, I followed his rapid rise off the sofa, his hands balling into fists as he stood, his spine rigid.

“I should go,” he stated shakily.

“What? Why?”

“It’s late. I should go, and you need to rest,” he stuttered, his eyes looking anywhere but at me.

I hastily stood, then gripped him around the upper arm. Not restrictive, but enough to keep him from moving. He stiffened but didn’t pull away. “Please don’t go.” I placed my other hand on the side of his neck. His eyelids fluttered briefly shut and a light tremor ran through his body under my palm.

“I’m sorry if I unsettled you. It’s just— I’ve— It’s—” I sighed, trying to explain. “I haven’t let anyone hold me since the attack. Not friends or family. I haven’t wanted to.” I waited until his eyes opened and stormy green focused on my own. “You’re the first I’ve allowed.”

He stared at me for the longest time before whispering, “Why?”

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