Carrie Duffy - VIP

Table of Contents

Title Page Carrie Duffy VIP

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

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?”