Too Good Girl Read online

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Too Good Girl

  Copyright © 2018 Eleanor Lloyd-Jones

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, aside from small quotations or excerpts to used in critical reviews and / or promotions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidentes are either the products of thr author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

  Editing: Katie Fox, Heather Ross and Schmidt’s Author Services

  Cover design and interior graphics: Schmidt’s Author Services

  Formatting: Katie Fox

  www.facebook.com/HeathersRedPen

  www.facebook.com/groups/schmidts.author.services/

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  Too Good Girl is a novel by Eleanor Lloyd-Jones.

  For more information on the author’s work, and to keep up to date with new releases, please visit:

  www.linktr.ee/eleanorlloydjones

  PLAYLIST

  As always, music has played an integral part in the writing of this book, and under each chapter heading is the title of songs that have inspired scenes or inspired the author to write.

  If you would like to listen to the playlist before reading, whilst reading or after reading, please follow this link to Spotify.

  bit.ly/TooGoodGirlPlaylist

  DEDICATED TO...

  silent warriors whose scars we might not see

  When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

  William Shakespeare

  Syra

  Lost In Translation by Alice Kristiansen

  “FUCKING COCK TEASE.” The words hissed from between his teeth as he slapped me across the cheek.

  I felt nothing, though, because I was numb.

  I was always numb.

  I’d been numb since the twenty-third of September 2014, and even though it stung like a bitch, I didn’t flinch. Instead, I rolled my eyes, which seemed to frustrate him more. “Move. I’m going home.”

  “Like fuck you are.” He shoved my knees apart, fumbling underneath the sheet to find what he was looking for. “You don’t make a dick hard and then leave. You hear me?”

  I glared at the semi-stranger hovering above me before shoving at his naked chest to knock him away, grabbing the blankets and covering myself with them. He reached out and tried to pull them from me, his sickly breath in my nose, but I resisted and held on tighter. He was much bigger than me, and when I found myself pinned beneath him again, the effort to try to remove myself from beneath him seemed far greater than the effort it would take to lie there and let him pump and grunt for a few minutes. I closed my eyes and let my head drop against the pillow, my arm flopping over my forehead. “Hurry up then.”

  The self-important grin that spread over his face was enough to make me vomit. He was like the cat that got the cream except there was nothing cute and cuddly about him.

  I released my grip on the bedding and watched as he dragged it from my naked body, dropping it over the side of the bed. His hands started roaming immediately, his greedy eyes following their path up the insides of my thighs, his thumb running up my entrance and circling before he journeyed across and up my stomach to grab at my tits. His fingers were rough on my skin, and when he shoved them inside of me, I held my breath.

  It hurt.

  It always hurt.

  I always hurt because I was never wet.

  But it was the hurt that kept me coming back for more—more and more of the same mindlessness where I would let them use me as a vessel. I would let them empty themselves in me, on me, over me, beside me… whatever they needed.

  Sometimes it was easy.

  Some days, like today, I loathed myself and tried to run away from what I had become, but it was always easier to stay, and I was resigned to the fact that there was no escaping my life. It was what it was, and shame wasn’t going to save me.

  He wormed his way into my mouth, and I clicked into role for him. I made the right noises, writhing at his touch to make him think I was getting off. For a few moments, I actually reciprocated his kiss, pretending I was in love: I closed my eyes and tried to drift away to a better place, dancing and swirling the tip of my tongue with his. My hands climbed his toned forearms, reuniting behind his neck as I pulled him closer to me, his dick between my legs, and bucked my hips to tell him I wanted him. He groaned into my mouth and rolled my nipples between his fingers, pinching hard as if it were something I should enjoy as he thrust himself inside me without warning, breaking the spell; shattering the dream-like existence I had been creating for myself.

  Pump.

  Pump.

  Pump.

  Grunt.

  Flop.

  And there I was, stuck forever and a day underneath a heaving mound of sweaty, male flesh. I sighed and attempted to slide from underneath him, but he was hot and clammy, and our skin stuck together. I tried to push him up and off me, but he wasn’t budging.

  “Gavin.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Get the fuck off me.”

  He chuckled. “You’re so fucking tight and sexy. You know that? Give me a minute and we can go again.”

  Like fuck we could. “Get off. I’m going home.” I gave an extra hard shove, just enough to squeeze out from beneath him.

  “You’re sexy, but you’re fucked in the head.” He rolled onto his back, linking his fingers behind his neck, and watched me with a certain sinister lust. It was a look they all had—one tainted with mirth and ridicule. “You know, you'll never end up with the good guy, Syra.”

  “Like you even care.” My words were mutterings, barely audible, and as I crawled clumsily to the edge of the bed, leaning over to look for my clothes, he slapped my bare arse and muttered something back. I was sure he thought I hadn’t heard him, but his words sliced through my internal organs, causing me to swing around with venom in my eyes, teeth bared like a wild animal as I shoved my face in his. “Fuck. You.”

  ***

  Stuffing my knickers in my coat pocket, I ran quickly down the flight of stone steps that led from the top floor of the high rise block of flats. I yanked my hood up, kept my head down and squirmed at the feel of my pride between my legs.

  Another one for the list.

  “Oh fuck off.” My own voice echoed in the emptiness of the stairwell, bouncing off the walls like a shield of justification, protecting me from facing the truth.

  Reaching the bottom, I shoved past an old woman struggling with her shopping bags and pushed the door open, bursting out into the cold autumn air as a stab of guilt at not stopping to help her caused me to wince. A light drizzle gave the whole town a misty feel, and as I strode down the street with a warped sense of purpose, I let my tears mingle with the rain drops on my face until I couldn’t even tell whether I was crying or not.

  Heading north down Campbell Street, I stopped at the corner shop to buy cigarettes. I didn't even smoke, but as I leaned up against the alley wall, sheltering the match flame from the wind, I inhaled the nicotine like my life depended on it, purely to fill my lungs with something other than hurt. A cough and a splutter later, I was screwing the packet up and hurling it angrily at the adjacent wall, letting out a yelp of frustration.

  Gavin was wrong: I wasn't a whore.

  I never accepted money. It wasn’t about that. It wasn't about making a living. It was about staying alive. It was about goin
g through the motions of trying to work out who I was and what I felt—what I believed in and what I was made of. The men were a consequence of my past and I needed them to survive my future.

  I was a fuck up—I knew that—but I was an addict, and mindless sex was a hard habit to break. If you’d asked me to explain it, I wouldn't have known how to. There was something about being used and sometimes abused that gave me a sense of control. It was a mutually beneficial exchange: I gave them what they wanted, and I got what I wanted in return, only I wasn't sure how to define what that was. I always berated myself afterwards—shame and anger at my careless and reckless behaviour, ensuring that I hated myself even more—but it didn't stop me from seeking out the next opportunity. It didn’t stop me going back for more.

  It wasn't rape. It was consensual.

  I needed it to survive.

  It didn't much matter who they were. I didn't need to find them particularly attractive. I had mastered the art of sensing whether or not they were interested in my body and, like a tigress, I would pounce and convince them that I wanted theirs, too. It was an easy game. Men were easy prey, so I was never short of this relief that I craved. It wasn't sexual relief by any stretch of the imagination, but my head would clear in those short minutes as I let them take me however they chose. I would feel empty instead of full to the brim with every emotion possible.

  And I was in control of that feeling.

  It took me twenty minutes to walk home, and I was soaked to the bone by the time I slid the key into the lock of my front door. I sighed and closed it quietly as I waited for Jack to give me his thoughts of the day.

  “Afternoon.” He stood with his shoulder resting on the kitchen doorframe, his huge arms folded tightly over his broad chest and his brows raised.

  “Not now. Please.”

  He shrugged and stood straight. “Okay. Hungry?”

  I shook my head and walked past him, slipping out of my coat as I did and hanging it over the banister.

  “Sy.”

  I turned to look at him, his green eyes full of questions, not one of them judgemental. “What?”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  I pulled my mouth into a thin line and shook my head again, curling my fingers into a fist and thumping it once against my heart. “Only here.” Smiling sadly, I turned away again to the sound of Jack’s sigh. “I’m going for a shower.”

  I could feel his eyes on me all the way up the stairs to the bathroom, and when I turned to close the door, I saw him duck his head, pretending he was doing something else. Sliding the lock across, I leaned over the rusting bath to turn on the shower. The cistern chugged like a wheezing old man before a slow stream of lukewarm water spluttered out of the shower head. I unbuttoned my skinny jeans, peeling the wet denim from my legs—my jumper, T-shirt and bra joining them to create a soggy pile on the floor—and shivered at the thought of standing under the less than inviting spray. After piling my dreads on top of my head and securing them with a hair tie, I stepped into the bathtub and dropped my chin, letting my arms hang limply by my sides. I watched the water trickle over my skin, drip from the ends of my extremities and form rivers that bled into one another, joining at the curves and dips of my body. Tipping my head back, I squeezed my eyes closed, wrapping myself up in my arms, and I waited.

  For what, I wasn’t sure.

  Absolution? Forgiveness? For a sign that I was understood by the people who mattered? I was sure it was a waste of my time even hoping for that. I was tarnished—broken. I was a disgrace and an embarrassment, even if no one else seemed to notice.

  So what was the point in trying?

  The water suddenly ran cold, and I dragged in a huge lungful of air as the shock of the temperature change hit me. “Jack! For fuck’s sake!” I stomped my foot three times on the bottom of the bath, hoping the sound would carry to the kitchen below.

  “Sorry!” His voice travelled up the stairs, and I shook my head, scrubbing my skin quickly with shower gel, rinsing before climbing out and wrapping myself up in my towel.

  I rubbed the condensation from the cracked mirror that balanced on the back of the sink and stared into it. My eyes stared back at me, questioning my morals, questioning my choices and reminding me of my father. They were exactly like his—bright blue with a dark blue rim—and as I thought back to that time, they welled with more tears.

  Sniffing hard, I spun away from my reflection and wiped the two-day-old mascara, now mixed with salty liquid, from under my lashes before shaking my hands by my sides and breathing in deeply through my nose to fight past the emotion—to fight hard to keep those tears at bay. Jack knew most of what made me who I was, but I was reluctant to let him see me upset. I didn't want the pity or the sad looks. I was dealing with my grief in my own way, and I didn't want him to feel obliged to help.

  My heartache was my own and it wasn’t something I needed to share with anyone else.

  Syra

  Whitelady by LYRA

  BANGING ON THE front door woke me from an unusually deep sleep, and I pulled the duvet over my head in a bid to ignore it. On the third attempt, I shouted as loudly as my morning voice would allow for Jack to answer it. There was no reply, and when I listened a little harder, I heard the shower running and cursed again, kicking the covers off my bed angrily and swinging my legs over the edge. I stomped out of my room and down the stairs, the banging continuing, and as I yanked the front door open, my facial expression very much reflected how I felt about the rude awakening and indeed who had woken me.

  Doug stood on the doorstep, sharp as a whistle in a navy blue suit, his hair slicked back and with a million-dollar smile on his face. It was an awkward scenario: me in my flannel pyjamas and bed socks, my hair unruly and the previous day’s mascara on my face, and my landlord eyeing me up like I was lunch. I glared at him, my hand still on the door, and when he didn’t move or speak, his eyes travelling over every inch of me in the most unsubtle of ways, I raised my eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “Well good morning to you, too, princess. You’re looking as lovely as ever. Where’s Jack?”

  I went to slam the door shut, shouting Jack’s name again, but Doug caught hold of it and stepped inside behind me.

  “Do you mind?” I turned back to face him, folding my arms across my chest.

  After running away from home aged sixteen, I’d been alone and on the streets, switching between squatting in abandoned cars and boarded up shops until I was picked up by Jack. Doug Patterson ended up being a saviour to both of us—a saviour with ulterior motives it seemed, but a saviour nonetheless. He was a businessman through and through with his fingers in any number of pies, so I was told. I didn’t know much about him because Jack would never divulge. There was some bad history between him and Jack’s father, a whole backstory that I wasn’t aware of, and somewhere along the line, Jack had ended up working for Doug to pay off some debt or other. The way he talked about it, he was stuck with no way out due to the threats Doug would throw around—one being homelessness, the other, which seemed rather far fetched, being a dead father. I knew Jack and his dad didn’t get on, but all of it remained a mystery to me, one I never pushed to find out more about because I of all people knew what it was like to need privacy and for other people to butt the hell out. The long and the short of it was that we had somewhere to live, and for that I was grateful, even if he did creep me out.

  Jack appeared at the top of the stairs, freshly showered and in his old jeans and a t-shirt, his dirty blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. “Sorry. Slept in.”

  “That’s okay.” A shit-eating, sarcastic grin spread across Doug’s face. “You can pay me back in time at the end of the day. Come on.” He swivelled around on the heels of his expensive and highly-polished brogues to face the door, tapping my arse on his way past.

  I watched the muscle in Jack’s jaw tick as he watched it happen.

  He glanced at me giving me a tight smile and closed the door.

/>   Sometimes Jack did odd jobs for Doug, but mostly he spent the day scoping out the cars he would steal at night. That was his job. I hated watching him leave for work. I hated the feeling in the pit of my stomach that remained there until he would walk back through the door—sometimes in the evening, sometimes in the early hours depending on the situation. Every time my phone rang, I would flinch and hold my breath for the split second it took for me to see who was calling.

  I expected the worst every time.

  He would be given a list at the beginning of the week and, along with another of Doug’s minions, he would ride around, tracking down the desired make and model, monitor the owner’s movements and then, when the coast was clear, he would hotwire and steal.

  I hated it.

  He was good at it, but there was always the possibility of him getting caught.

  There was rarely a custodial sentence for car theft because it was apparently too difficult to prove intent to permanently deprive the owner of the vehicle. Instead, the accused was likely to be charged with joyriding, which would result in a fine that Doug would cover if the time came. So it wasn’t the fear of him getting caught that scared me: it was the fear of him being involved in some sort of collision. Breaking into the cars and starting them was the easy part. Driving them away was more difficult, and I’d seen the way he drove. I did not want to see how he did it when he had the filth on his tail.

  I padded into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on, running my finger along the worktop as I moved to the cupboard. On opening the door, I blinked a few times before nudging one of the cups a couple of millimetres to the right. I tapped the handle to twist it slightly so it was flush and in line with the rest of them, a wave of satisfaction engulfing me at how perfectly lined up they looked. After grabbing the same cup, I dropped a tea bag into it and sat on the countertop to wait for the water to boil.