The Scars of Life
Book 4 of the Working Girls Series
K.L. Humphreys
The Scars Of Life
First Edition published in 2019
Text Copyright © K L Humphreys
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Cover Design by Lee Ching of Undercover Designs.
Formatter Tammy Clarke of Formatting by Tammy.
Editing by Kay Springsteen Tate of Word Whisperer.
Proofread by Gemma Woolley of Gem’s Precise Proofreads.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without the prior written permission of the author. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For Wendy and Gemma.
Without the two of you I’d be lost. You ladies are what keep me sane, you’re there to talk me down and make me smile.
Love you both so very much.
Sometimes love needs a second chance, because it wasn’t ready the first time.
It fails at first, but only grows stronger and learns how to last a lifetime.
Prakhar Sahay
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
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Chapter 1
“Bloody cheapskate,” I mutter under my breath as I watch the black Lexus pull away. Men like that piss me off; they can afford a top of the range car but don’t even tip me when I service them. Not only that, they get rough and handsy with me because they think they own me. It doesn’t work that way, you’re not allowed to hurt me just because you’re paying me to have sex with you. I’m a human being and just because I’m a prostitute it doesn’t mean that I don’t deserve respect. It never happens, my clients view me as a whore and that’s all I’ll ever be to them.
I’m bone tired, and all I want to do is sleep but today I’ve had four clients and I’ve barely made over a hundred and fifty pounds. That’s just enough to pay for three days’ stay in the hotel. Never mind food that I’m in desperate need of. Typical, men only think with one thing and it isn’t the brain in their skulls. I’m going to have to find a few more clients tonight just so I can bloody eat.
Walking up and down this street waiting for a car to pull up beside me is degrading, but it’s what I have to do. I’ve survived worse; this is just a way for me to try to get some money together so that I can pay for college. I’m seventeen and the only thing I have to my name is three outfits. That’s it, those outfits have lasted me for the past three years that I’ve been on the street and the way things are going, they’ll be lasting me a few more too. I’m lucky in the sense that I don’t live on the street, I just work them. I’ve witnessed what living on the streets can do to someone, it’s where I started out after running away from home and honestly, I’m not sure what was scarier? Living on the streets with every nut job out there and wondering what they were going to do to me or living in my stepdad’s house.
My mum had a one-night stand when she was eighteen, she did what every teenager did, she went out and had fun. The man gave her a fake name so she never knew who he truly was so she raised me alone up until she died. She married not long before she died but my stepdad didn’t really bother with me. I was ten years old when she died in a car crash. My mum loved me with every fibre of her being, she made sure that I knew every day how much I meant to her. When she died my whole world came crashing down around me.
My stepdad began molesting me. He would crawl into bed with me every night. No matter what I did he wouldn’t stop. I knew that one day he’d escalate, and he did. On my fourteenth birthday he deemed me ‘old enough’. That night he raped me, and I lay in bed long after he had finished with me and I couldn’t take it anymore, I had to get out, I had to leave. So, I did. I nicked money out of his wallet— there wasn’t much, only thirty-five pounds. I travelled to London, thinking a city that big would keep me hidden. So far, it’s worked, I’ve not seen him since that night, and I never want to again.
A droplet of rain hits my nose, and I look up at the sky. It’s dark out. I haven’t a clue as to what the time is. Usually when the lull begins on the streets, I head towards the hotel, if I don’t, I’m leaving myself vulnerable to everyone else who comes out, the druggies along with those who are looking for trouble. I try my hardest to keep away from trouble; I don’t need that hassle in my life. I’ve had enough to deal with to last me a lifetime. More droplets fall, and I pull my arms around my stomach and carry on walking towards the hotel, wanting to get inside before it pisses down.
No luck, I get halfway there and the heavens open on me; within seconds I’m drenched. I keep on walking as puddles are forming on the roads. My teeth are chattering from the cold. It’s weird, I wasn’t cold before it began to rain but as soon as I’m drenched, I’m freezing. No doubt I look like a drowned rat, I don’t have it in me to care right now, I just want to get in and have a shower.
I come to the traffic lights and hit the button, and I wait for the green man to come on. The road’s busy so there’s no way that I can cross without the lights turning red. A swooshing noise catches my attention, glancing to my right I notice a lorry coming towards me and quickly take a step back from the curb. Just as I do, a deluge of water cascades over me as the lorry passes.
“Ahhh… fucking arsehole,” I curse although the driver can’t hear me as the lorry’s long gone and I’m soaked from head to toe. What a complete wanker.
“Ah love, you must be frozen,” Someone calls out and I turn and gaze at the handsome man who is jogging towards me. “Are you okay?” he asks as he comes to stand beside me.
My breath hitches as I gawk at him, he’s gorgeous. His blonde hair and piercing green eyes stare at me with so much curiosity that I have to look away. “Lady, are you okay?” He’s Irish; his accent sends shivers through my body causing me to immediately take a step back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to ensure that you’re okay.” He’s dressed really smartly, wearing a blazer and a shirt but no tie. He’s in jeans too. I guess this is what they call smart casual for men.
My eyes narrow as I stand up a bit straighter. “You didn’t scare me, I’m okay thank you,” I say snottily, I hate that anyone thinks that I’m weak.
He takes a step backwards, but he quickly smirks. “Okay, love,” he says, that accent of his thicker as his eyes alight with humour. His gaze darts across the road
and back to me again. “How about we get you into the warmth and I’ll buy you a cup of coffee?”
I can’t stop staring at him. I’m so confused! I’ve never met this man before, why on earth would he want me to get a cup of coffee with him? He looks smart and handsome, the men who I come in to contact with don’t bother wasting their time with the small talk. Hell, most don’t even talk at all, except to tell me what they want from me, that’s about it. What’s he getting out of bringing me to get some coffee?
“It’s okay, you don’t have to. I just thought it would keep you out of the rain. I’m paying if that helps you come to the right decision?” He’s a cheeky chap, that’s for sure. His bright blue eyes tell me that, well along with that grin of his.
“The right decision?” I cock my hip to the side as I cross my arms over my chest, I’m bloody intrigued by him and that is something I’ve never had before. Usually when it comes to men, I’m indifferent, they don’t affect me, it’s like I’m dead inside; I’ve put it down to my stepdad and the shit he did to me when I was growing up.
The grin of his widens. “Yeah love, the right decision. How else are we going to get acquainted and have you fall madly in love with me?”
My eyes widen, and he bursts out laughing. “Come on love, what do you say?”
For the first time in my life, I throw caution to the wind. “Sure,” I tell him with a shrug and watch as his face lights up. “But one cup of tea.” That way if he’s a raving lunatic, I can get the hell away from him quickly, if not then it’ll be the first time in over four years that I’ll have a conversation with someone that doesn’t involve sex or money.
He laughs just as the lights change and is followed by a loud beep indicating that it’s safe to cross. “Where are you from?” I ask as we cross the road, he’s standing really close to me and every time we move his arm grazes against mine.
“I’m from Ireland…” He smirks; he’s acting like a damn idiot.
“You think?” I roll mine. God, I’m not that stupid. “Whereabouts in Ireland?”
“A county in the west of Ireland; called Sligo. Have you heard of it?”
I can tell from the way he speaks and the way he’s holding himself that he’s proud of where he’s from. His chest is puffed out and his chin is tilted upwards. He’s been so nice to me that I don’t want to say no and upset him, but no, Sligo doesn’t ring a bell.
He laughs. “Don’t worry, love, not many English people have.” He opens the door to the cafe and lets me walk in ahead of him. He’s a gentleman, that’s for sure. “But let me tell you something, Sligo has the best beaches in Europe. I’m not even lying, and one day I’ll take you, what do you say…?” He frowns. “What’s your name? I never did ask.”
My face flames when I realise how bloody stupid, I am. I’ve agreed to have coffee with him, I can’t believe I’m so dumb, I mean he could be an axe murderer or anything, and I’ve willingly gone with him. It’s weird, I go with men every day of my life, yet, never like this. I’ve never met a man who wants to be with me for me. Not because I’m a prostitute.
“Hey love, we’re learning about one and other, that’s all. So how about we try this again?” He pulls out a chair for me to sit in. I can’t believe how gentlemanly he’s being, I’ve never met anyone who still does the old-fashioned chivalrous things. He takes a seat opposite me and sticks out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Richie Murphy.”
Placing my hand in his, I get weird butterfly movements in the depths of my stomach but brush it off. “It’s nice to meet you, Richie. I’m Natalie Adams.” I give him a small smile, and he returns it with a wide, tooth-showing one. It’s weirding me out, how at ease I am around him. I’m always on guard around men, hell around women and yet here I am sitting opposite Richie and I’m not even shaking. I have no idea what to think about it and no doubt later on tonight I’m going to internally agonise over everything, meaning I won’t be able to sleep. Then again, I don’t remember the last time I had a full night’s sleep. Probably when my mum was alive.
“Hi, what can I get you?” the waitress asks upon stopping beside me, I glance at her, taking in her sagging shoulders, the heavy eyelids, lines around her eyes, pinched forehead, and pale face with no makeup. She can’t be more than twenty-five but already has the appearance of someone who is worn out, used up. “Hi, can I get a cup of tea please?” I ask, and she immediately nods and writes it down on the notepad in her hand.
“Can I get a cup of coffee please, black.” His accent is so strong, I wonder if he lives here or if he’s on holidays for a while.
“Sure, I won’t be long,” she tells us as she walks back towards the counter.
My eyes glance around the room. It’s quiet, and other than Richie and me there’s only three people here—and that includes the waitress. There’s a couple sitting in the corner. They’re all loved up, and since I’ve laid eyes on them, they’ve been constantly touching each other, whether it be holding hands across the table or one or the other stroking the other’s arm. They look so happy and so naive, but I’ve realised the truth, happiness isn’t real. It’s something that gets you into a false sense of security. You’ll think you’re so happy nothing could possibly bring you down and then something happens and bam, your whole world falls apart and nothing will ever be the same; you’ll never be happy again.
“Are you okay? You got soaked by that artic,” I frown, artic? “The artic lorry that splashed you…” His eyes twinkle with laughter and it bugs me that he finds it amusing when I don’t understand something. “You must be frozen.”
I shrug. “I’m not too bad actually, this place is warm and once I have my tea, I’ll warm up even more.”
“Good, such a beauty like yourself shouldn’t be soaked…” He winks at me. “By the rain. You could catch the death of cold.”
I roll my eyes yet again. This man, I can’t figure him out. “I’m fine honestly, but thank you for caring.” I’m so snotty sometimes, it’s like a defence mechanism, it’s either snotty or sarcastic; my sarcasm is something that Richie has yet to witness.
The waitress comes and places my tea and Richie’s coffee down in front of us.
“Thank you,” I say as I lift the cup to my lips and take a sip. My body hums in pleasure; there’s nothing I love better than a perfectly made cup of tea.
“What were you doing walking along this road at this time of night by yourself?” There’s a reprimand in his voice. He’s actually trying to tell me off.
“I was coming home from work. Some of us have to earn money.”
He puts his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I was only asking. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.” His hands ball into clenched fists as anger moves through his eyes. “You must work some hours for you to be coming home at this time of the evening.”
He’s an odd one, I’m not sure if he’s putting on a show. If he is, he’s doing a hell of a job; he’s coming across genuine and caring. If he’s for real, then I’m screwed. I’ve never reacted like this before.
“I try to work as many hours as I can,” I tell him, my lips pressing together in irritation. He nods. I think there’s a glimmer of respect in his eyes, and I decide to change the subject. “What brings you to London?” When he spoke about Sligo, he had sounded so proud, why would he leave there?
“My brother and I moved here in hopes of a better life. My dad’s a farmer and my mam’s a housewife; I love Ireland, but I wanted more as did my little brother, Colm, we moved here about two and a half years ago. Colm’s moved back to Sligo and is living with my younger sister Mary-Anne.” His tone is clipped as he talks about Colm. I wonder if they don’t get along, and if not, what happened. They must have gotten along at some point for them to move to a new country together.
“It must have been tough, the change and everything.” I found it hard moving from Plymouth to London and that’s in the same bloody country, I can’t imagine moving across the sea.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. �
�The worst thing about it was having that eejit Colm with me. He’s an arse at the best of times.”
“Do you not get along?” I can’t imagine not getting along with a sibling if I ever had any.
He laughs, it’s a bitter one; “Get along? Does the lord get along with the devil? My brother is a selfish moron and I’m sick to death of cleaning up his mess, he always seems to do all the wrong things.”
I shouldn’t have asked, it’s obvious, I’ve stumbled onto a touchy subject. “Do you like it here?”
“What’s not to like? Honestly, it’s not home but it’s pretty fucking unreal. I’m lucky to be living life, so many don’t get this opportunity I was given.” That accent of his is getting thicker, it’s getting harder to understand but I manage to figure out what he’s saying. “What about you, would you want to move to a new country?”
“No,” I say instantly, “England’s my home, I couldn’t picture living anywhere else.”
“You don’t sound as though you’re from London.” His head tilts to the side almost as if he’s trying to study me.
I’m surprised at his observation, not many people have realised that I’m not a Londoner. “I was born in Plymouth, London’s a great place to live, it has such great opportunities and for me it was the only place I envisioned myself living.” Although at the age of fourteen it was the only place, I could think of that would keep me hidden.
The Scars Of Life (The Working Girls Book 4) Page 1
