The Soldier's Christmas Romance.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Six.



Safron’s feet ached from waiting tables all morning. The lunch time rush had become extremely busy, not unusual given the time of year, but although expected was very tiring. Customers wanting greasy food to set them up for an afternoon of shopping, purchasing last minute gifts for the family and friends. She ignored the ache that resided in her heart as she prepared herself for another lonely Christmas. Safron reminded herself, it was better to be lonely, than to have her virginity stolen by a group of evil men, who got off on her screams, and tears. Plus, her day would be better spent preparing for her exit from London, finding another place to call home, for a few months, until she needed to move once more. Her heart hardened, as she thought to herself the whole holiday was pointless once again, and a waste of money. Not that she had anyone to bestow gifts to anyway.

Nancy, the 19-year-old waitress was busy with her section, dressed in a tiny sexy Santa outfit, enjoying the attention and extra tips it brought. Safron shook her head slightly, a shudder washing over her. Touch, of any kind, gave her a violent reaction, one she was unable to control, the lasting effects of her enforced captivity and the disgusting things which had happened to her.

She grabbed the panini, and milky coffee, which, was practically cold, because the customer had insisted upon it being made with iced milk, which was ready for table seven. Safron walked over to the man she would guess was in his mid-twenties, with sandy blonde hair, cut short at the sides, who most women had been eyeing up since the moment he arrived. Nancy was seething with jealousy, when he had taken a seat in her section. He was sat alone, bags of gifts filling the spare chairs around his table. But Safron, was completely unaffected by him, and his good looks. As she went to place the food and drink before him, he reached out and touched her arm. Safron instantly jumped backwards, fear evident in her deep chocolate eyes.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, her fear turning to anger. Better that than when she would go almost catatonic, or have a panic attack, losing the ability to breathe.

“Oh, I am sorry love,” the man said, with a wink, that she was certain would have gotten many a woman to warm his bed.

“I was only being friendly,” he continued, furrowing his brow slightly. It was obvious to her, that the man had never been rejected in his life.

“Well don’t,” Safron simply said. As she turned away from the over friendly man, he went to grab her elbow, for what reason, she did not know, nor did she care.

Her fight or flight instinct kicked in, as fear consumed her. Instantly she grabbed his milky coffee, dumping it on his lap. The man let out a pained cry, even though the coffee was little more than tepid at best, as Arty rushed from behind the counter.

“What the hell, Scrouge?” the chef and manager of the greasy spoon shouted.

“Go home,” he growled at her.

“Your fired,” he added. He was fed up of her miserable face. She may be a looker, resembling a Mediterranean beauty, if a little on the skinny side, but the girl never cracked a smile, he would be glad to be rid of the waitress.

“No problem. Where is my money?” Safron stated, she may be scared of her own shadow in some circumstances, but in this situation with the chef manager, she refused to be bullied, she needed that money. Safron bit back the tears, not from losing her job, but from the residual fear which consumed her, clinging to each of her nerve endings, from being touched by the man. She wanted out of that place, maybe she could leave London now, before the dreaded Christmas day.

“You think you are getting paid!” Arty growled at her.

Safron glared at him, she needed every penny she could get in order to survive. Not every company would employ someone who only delt in cash, and pay them under the counter, it may take some time to find work when she arrived north.

“Give her the money you owe,” the man who had caused the incident said, before standing up. He must have been around 6 foot 4, muscles bulging everywhere, and had a look on his face, which caused Arty to gulp.

“But she…” the manager and chef begun.

“It was my fault; I should have kept my hands to myself. Now, give her the money,” the man continued, his green eyes hardening, becoming unreadable.

Safron took a step away from the man, but continued to glare at Arty.

“Fine,” he huffed out, grabbing a wad of cash, and Safron’s tip jar, practically throwing the contents on the counter before her, because God forbid his fingers touched a scintilla of her skin.

“Now get out, I never want to see your miserable face again,” Arty growled, as Safron, gathered the cash from the counter, before turning on her heel, heading to the brass coat stand beside the door, grabbing her jacket, and leaving the greasy spoon, not looking back.

As Safron made a hasty getaway, she did not see the man from earlier at breakfast approach the ‘toucher’, nodding his head at him. Nor did she hear him say, “Good Job, Grant,” in his thick Glaswegian accent, as she power walked down the lonely back lanes, where the homeless and drug addicts resided, heading for her tiny damp flat, which had been her home for the past couple of months. She stopped by an old tramp, his long grey beard with ginger flecks in it. The streaks of red reminded her of someone who had not done her wrong, and she felt the urge to do something to help the man. He was there every day, and night, and never once asked her for anything. She grabbed a few notes from her wad of money and placed it at his feet.

“Happy Christmas,” she muttered, part of her old self peaking its head above the wall of distrust and fear she had built around herself for protection. At least she had money, and a place to stay. It could have been so much worse. Safron remembered the loud man, with bright red hair, and beard, up in Scotland, in a kilt and sporran, whose daughter, Hazel, had cared for her, helping her heal from her injuries, before giving her money, when she insisted, she must leave. Hamish his daughter and husband Dougals had made her feel safe, in a way she could never fully understand. They had even used one of their own fishing boats, to transport her back to the mainland under the cover of darkness, keeping her completely protected, should anyone question her survival. They knew she was running from something, but never asked what or who, just helped. Safron pulled her coat tighter around herself, turning down the interconnecting back cobble stone ally, before entering the tall, rundown town house, separated into tiny apartments. She entered through the rear door, before rushing up the staircase to her flat. She fumbled with her door key, the adrenaline of what had transpired, causing her hands to shake, and her knees to turn weak. Finally, she managed to get the key in the door, and turned the lock, pushing it open. She stepped inside, determined to pack up her meagre belongings, and get away from London, as soon as she possibly could. As she stepped into the small room that was both her living and sleeping space, she froze. The tattooed woman from breakfast sat in her chair, which had doubled as a bed, a soft smile on her lips.

“I am not here to hurt you, Safron. Do not be afraid. I am here to help you, to get you to a place of safety, where those who abused you can never find you,” the woman stated.

Safron shook her head, her eyes wide, then turned towards the door, and begun to run, as fast as her legs could carry her. The woman followed her, as Safron turned to the right, but the man she had presumed was the husband stood in her way. She let out a small scream, before turning on her heel and heading in the opposite direction, only to have her way blocked once more, this time by the Sandy Blonde, man whose coffee she had dumped on his lap, the stain still evident on his tan coloured chinos.

Safron began to shake her head, her body trembling all over.

“No, no, no,” she chanted, as the Glaswegian stepped forwards, holding his hands up, palms first as if he was surrendering to her.

“We are not here to harm you. We are here to hide you, from those who abused not just you, but hundreds of girls just like you. Please Safron, do not make us have to touch you, we don’t want to trigger you any further. We really do not want to do that, but your protection is paramount, so we will do what we must to ensure we get you to safety,” the Scottish accented voice pleaded with her, as Safron collapsed to her knees, fear consuming every inch of her mind body and soul, as she prepared herself to be taken once more.