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  Carrie Duffy

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue: Detroit

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Extract from Diva

  About the Author

  Also by Carrie Duffy

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Detroit

  Dionne Summers was hurrying down the dark, deserted streets, just off Livernois Avenue in downtown Detroit. It was what the middle-class residents of the city, cosy in their smart, roach-free houses in the affluent suburbs, termed ‘a bad area’, but Dionne had lived here all her life and knew everyone in the neighbourhood. Yes, they were poor, but the people round here looked out for each other – well, most of them, Dionne thought darkly. Some just looked out for themselves, only interested in what they could get.

  She pulled her denim jacket more tightly around her as she walked, her heels clacking on the sidewalk. The late evening air was chilly, and the dress she was wearing was hardly going to keep her warm. Made of cheap, black lycra, she’d picked it up for a few dollars at K-Mart, but it showed off every curve of her blossoming body. Only sixteen years old, she already had a figure that the girls at school envied and which drove the boys wild. Her breasts were overly ripe and generous, with a handspan waist and a booty to rival Kim Kardashian’s. Her chocolate skin was dark and glossy, her black hair running loose in a riot of curls. In short, she was stunning.

  As she neared the house she was looking for, Dionne slowed. The street light outside was broken, making it appear even more menacing – set back from the road, the property was low and wide, a threatening bulk that lurked in the darkness. Dionne could make out piles of rubbish dumped in the overgrown front garden, a couple of glossy BMWs parked incongruously in the driveway.

  Dionne stood for a moment, exhaling slowly through her nose as she tried to steel her nerves. The thought of what she was about to do made her feel nauseous, but it would all be worth it. She just had to keep believing.

  She strode purposefully down the path and up the front steps to the porch, knocking sharply on the front door. Inside a light flickered on, filtering through a crack in the curtains, and a couple of vicious-sounding dogs began to bark.

  Then a man Dionne recognised answered the door. His name was Leroy, and he was black and stocky, ridiculously muscular. The kind of guy you didn’t want to mess with. His hair was plaited into cornrows, and there was a scar above his upper lip. His gaze ran sleazily over her, leaving Dionne feeling horribly exposed in the revealing dress and cropped jacket, and she knew instantly that he’d seen those photos of her. The ones she’d been tricked into taking. The ones that would make her daddy disown her if they ever saw the light of day.

  “Well, look who it is,” he grinned, his lip curling at the corner as he spoke. There was nothing friendly in the smile – his whole air was menacing. “Whatcha doin’ here, Dionne?”

  Dionne threw her hair back over her shoulders, willing her voice not to shake. “I’m here to see Dash.”

  Leroy laughed hollowly. “Yeah? Why you wastin’ your time chasin’ him, huh? I can give you everything he can,” he leered.

  “I’ll tell him you said that,” Dionne shot back. She waited a second, watching to see her comment register on his face. Dash Ramón was Leroy’s boss, and when a woman turned up asking to see your boss, you didn’t try it on with her. In Dionne’s neighbourhood, people were scared of Dash Ramón – and with good reason.

  “So, is he in?” Dionne repeated, trying to sound confident even though her heart was hammering like a subway train.

  Leroy grunted. “I’ll go see.” The door was slammed unceremoniously in her face and Dionne let out a long, shaky breath. Out on the road, a car slowly cruised by, its headlights temporarily illuminating the street. Kids, Dionne guessed. It wasn’t a cop car; they didn’t dare come round here at night.

  She knew she was messing around in a world that was way out of her league, and the thought terrified her. Dash Ramón was a big shot in her neighbourhood – a gang leader and a dangerous man. He controlled the area west of Twelfth to the Jeffries, and ran drugs rings, brothels, protection rackets. He’d done a couple of stints inside, but on the whole the cops couldn’t touch him.

  The door opened suddenly and Dionne jumped, betraying her nerves. Leroy gave her that same, crooked smile and jerked his head to indicate that she should come in.

  The hallway carpet was grotty and threadbare, and Dionne stepped inside cautiously. The air was thick with reefer smoke, and another, more potent scent that Dionne strained to identify. Crack? Meth? It didn’t smell good, whatever it was.

  Inside, the walls were cracked and peeling, with the furniture kept to a bare minimum, and everything was cheap and functional. It was hardly what you’d call luxurious; there were no home comforts and most pieces looked like they’d been picked out of a dumpster. Dionne knew Dash had money – that was the whole reason she was there – and she’d expected something better. This place was little more than a squat.

  The door to the sitting room was open, and the smell of weed got stronger as she approached. Ramón’s entourage – a dozen guys of various ethnicities, dressed in bomber jackets and baggy jeans – were sitting around on saggy old sofas, smoking and talking on cell phones. They looked up as she entered, staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and outright lust, their eyes lighting up as they blatantly checked out her body. A couple of scantily dressed white girls were perched on the edge of the seats, eyeing her with open hostility.

  And in the centre, reclining in an enormous armchair as he took a pull on a fat joint, was Dash Ramón himself. Hispanic-looking, his head was shaved and his features were heavy. He wasn’t good looking in the conventional sense, but there was something about him … he radiated power, a menacing authority that translated into charisma. At his feet, two dogs – big, meaty looking brutes – were settling back down, growling softly. Guard dogs, Dionne realised, not pets.

  She forced herself to hide the hatred in her eyes as she looked straight at Dash, drawing herself up to her full height and trying not to seem like a schoolgirl who was way out of her depth and nervous as hell. Then she caught sight of a handgun lying casually on the chair beside him and seriously considered running straight out the house and abandoning this whole crazy idea.

  “Whatcha want, Dionne?” Dash asked finally. He gazed at her with dark, stoned eyes.

  Dionne swallowed. “I wanna speak with you. In private,” she added, with a pointed glance at the hangers-on in the room.

  “If you think you’re getting those pictures back, it ain’t happenin’,” Dash warned. He gestured towards the table, and Dionne saw with horror that amongst the mess of cigarette butts and blackened aluminium foil was a thick pile of glossy photos. She could just make out the image on the top one: her naked body, dark-skinned and curvaceous, reclining on a shabby chaise longue. The other guys sniggered as they saw the expression on her face, and it was all Dionne could do not to throw up right there on the carpet.

  But instead she managed to smile, holding Dash’s gaze as she spoke. “Keep them,” she shrugged airily. She paused for a beat, letting her next words have maximum impact: “But why look at photos when you can have the real thing?”

  Instantly, the room fell silent, as the others registered what she’d just said. Everyone’s eyes were on her, and the tension hung thick in the air.

  Dash looked at her suspiciously. “What you sayin’?”

  “What I’m sayin’,” Dionne began, her voice low and seductive as she took a step further into the room, “is that maybe
you should take a closer look at what you bin dreamin’ about over there.” She dipped one shoulder so that her jacket slipped down a little, tossing back her hair to give him an unobstructed view of her cleavage. Her body was knock-out and she knew it.

  Dash took his time weighing up the options. He took another long drag on his spliff, watching as the smoke curled towards the ceiling, then dropped it in the ashtray beside him.

  Without saying a word, he got up from his chair and walked towards her. Jabbing a finger into the centre of her stomach, he forced her backwards, out of the room. Then he turned and beckoned for Leroy to come with them.

  “What the—” Dionne began, as Dash pushed her into a room across the hallway. Her heart was thumping, her eyes darting anxiously between the two burly men as Leroy shut the door behind them, trapping her inside. He didn’t lock it, Dionne noticed, and the thought calmed her. But he remained standing in front of it as though to keep guard, his arms folded and his chest puffed out like a nightclub bouncer.

  Dash flicked a switch and a dull light flooded the room, a bare bulb overhead swinging dangerously on a frayed wire. The room was just as grimy as the rest of the house, everything dirty and neglected. Piles of clothes were strewn all over the floor, beside a filthy mattress stained with God alone knew what.

  Dash grinned, showing a diamond stud in his front tooth. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuckled his belt, letting his jeans drop to the floor, followed by his underwear. Naked from the waist down, he was instantly erect. Dionne looked at him with pleading eyes, silently begging him not to make her do this.

  “Ain’t that what you’re here for?” he asked cruelly. “I seen those photos. I know you’re a big ole whore, just like your momma,” he chuckled.

  Dionne burned with hatred, white-hot anger running through her veins. She longed to tell him to go screw himself and walk right out of that hell hole. But she’d come too far now, and there was still a chance she might get what she wanted. Besides, she realised, with an anxious glance at Leroy guarding the door, she didn’t think she could leave now, even if she wanted to.

  “Take off your clothes, Dionne,” Dash told her.

  Dionne hesitated for a fraction of a second. She knew she didn’t have a choice. Biting her lip, she slipped off her jacket. Dash grinned. Dionne lowered her gaze so she didn’t have to see the look on his face as she removed her dress, her bra, her panties.

  It doesn’t matter, she tried to tell herself. Plenty of people used their looks or their bodies to get ahead in life. Just this once, and then it would all be over.

  “Get down on your knees, bitch,” Dash sneered. Dionne did as she was told, taking him in her mouth as he pushed his way between her lips and began to thrust. He held her head steady, his fingers digging into her temples as he forced himself deeper, hitting the back of her throat. Dionne’s eyes started to water, choking sounds escaping from her as she struggled to breathe. Mercifully, it was all over quickly. She felt him go rigid inside of her, then her throat was filled with thick, foul-tasting liquid. It made her gag, and for a horrible moment she thought she might vomit. She tried to swallow but her body protested; unable to help herself, she spat out the contents of her mouth on the floor beside her.

  Dash laughed as he pulled up his jeans. “I need to take a piss.”

  Leroy stood aside as Dash left the room, while Dionne remained helplessly on her knees, furiously wiping at her mouth as she tried to get rid of the vile taste of him.

  What the hell was she going to do next? This wasn’t how the plan was supposed to go, Dionne thought, her brain working foggily as she tried to focus. She needed to be alone in the room, not have this goddamn ape watching every move she made.

  Warily, she glanced up at Leroy. It was a mistake: the second they made eye contact his face lit up, that leering grin creeping over his features. He lumbered across the floor towards her and grabbed her roughly by the arm.

  “Get off me, you piece of shit!” Dionne screamed, genuinely terrified now. Frantically, she tried to escape, twisting her body away from him in an effort to break his grip. Stark naked, she felt horribly vulnerable and exposed, turning her back on him to try and hide herself.

  Then the door burst open and Dash ran back in.

  “Take your fucking hands off her, man,” he yelled.

  Dionne looked up, startled, as Leroy dropped her wrists and jumped away from her, breathing heavily.

  “Now get the fuck out,” Dash swore. Leroy curled his lip, but did as he was told. Dash turned round and glared at Dionne. She had the weird sensation of being grateful to him, wanted to thank him for what he’d just done. But before she could say a word, he snapped: “Hey, bitch, get dressed and get out.”

  He stalked off, and Dionne realised she was shaking. Instinctively, she pushed the door closed to give herself a little privacy then scrabbled on the floor for her clothes, her hands trembling as she dressed hastily, keeping one eye on the door the whole time. She didn’t want any more of Dash’s Neanderthals coming in. But no one seemed to be around.

  Pulling on her jacket, Dionne realised she was alone. This was what she’d been waiting for, her whole reason for coming here. And she had to do it now.

  Ears straining for any movement in the corridor, she crept over to the bedside table and opened the top drawer. She rifled through it quickly but … nothing. Slamming it shut, she opened the second. Inside, she found the same old detritus – a porn magazine; old receipts, faded and yellowing; a couple of cell phone chargers; a pile of used tissues. And then, right at the back, a battered old wash bag. Dionne pulled it out and unzipped it. Jackpot! It was stuffed with dozens of hundred dollar bills, all in used notes.

  Her heart rate seemed to have trebled as she looked down at the cash in her hands. She felt vindicated; it proved that she’d been right to come here, to do what she’d just done, however humiliating it might have been. Dash Ramón was the only person she knew with this kind of money, and her hunch that he didn’t trust banks had turned out to be correct. She was pretty sure that guys like him didn’t make an annual declaration to the IRS.

  Her eyes skimmed over the notes, mentally calculating. There must have been around ten thousand dollars in there, but Dionne knew she couldn’t take it all. It would look too suspicious. Quickly, she grabbed a bundle of notes and shoved them in her purse, before zipping up the wash bag and stashing it at the back of the drawer, covering it with the magazine.

  She got to her feet and looked nervously at the door. It was still propped shut, and Dionne hesitated, paralysed by indecision. She felt sure there would be more cash hidden in the room, but she was torn between her desire for more and her terror at what would happen if she got caught. The terror won out. Clasping her bag tightly to her, she fled into the corridor.

  She was brought up short by a man standing there, speaking softly into his cell phone. Dionne froze, certain that her guilt must be written all over her face, but almost before she knew what she was saying, she asked, “Where’s the bathroom?”

  He didn’t break off from his conversation, simply pointed to a door. Dionne nodded her thanks, walking quickly in the direction he’d indicated. Once inside, she locked the door and set to work, opening the cabinet on the wall. It was crammed with all kinds of pills, a bag of coke, a couple of razor blades and, in a surprisingly domestic touch, a bottle of aftershave. But no money.

  Adrenaline pumping through her body, Dionne span round and began checking the rest of the room – behind the pipes, underneath the sink. Still nothing. With a sudden burst of inspiration, she pulled the lid off the toilet cistern. It scraped along the tank as she tried to move it and Dionne winced, convinced every tiny noise would betray her. But already she could see what she was looking for: taped to the inside of the cistern was a waterproof bag. Dionne pulled it out, wrenching it open. Inside was another bag of what looked like coke and, below that, a pile of notes.

  Dionne’s pulse was racing as she pulled out a handful of dollars – about a thi
rd of the stash, so it wasn’t as noticeable. When Dash eventually discovered that the money was gone, she didn’t want him to link it to her. She dreaded to think what the repercussions would be for her momma and daddy after she’d gone.

  Doing her best to replace everything as she’d found it, Dionne flushed the toilet for authenticity and unlocked the door, walking smartly back down the corridor. She could hear talking and laughing coming from the sitting room, but no one paid any attention to her. The guy on the cell phone had gone, and she slipped out of the front door into the silent streets.

  Her heart was thumping so loudly she felt sure everyone in the neighbouring houses could hear it, but she forced herself to walk the first block, past the Baptist Church and the Medical Centre, so she wouldn’t draw any attention to herself. Just another kid from the neighbourhood, out prowling the streets late at night. All she could think about was the money in her purse; there must have been at least five or six thousand dollars, but she wasn’t going to stop and count it.

  Rounding the corner, past the old cinema that had long since burned down, Dionne saw that the streets were practically deserted; only the occasional car driving by in the darkness. Clutching her bag to her chest as if her life depended on it, Dionne began to run.

  1

  The guy sitting opposite her was hot as hell, with dark, Mediterranean looks, and a powerful, muscular body, but Alyson Wakefield didn’t even notice. She was staring out of the train window, fascinated by the view as it flashed past the carriage. The scene outside was far from extraordinary – bleak, grey skies, hanging low over the Kent countryside – but to Alyson, it was one of the most exciting things she’d ever seen. The rolling fields stretching away into the distance represented glorious freedom, the fruit trees coming into bud somehow symbolic of her new life.