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“Is that a male or female?”
She shrugs. “I have no idea, Meli. I’m just assuming there’s a Jordan here.”
“You mean there’s no Jordan at all? We haven’t been invited?” I hiss.
“Take a goddamn breath and chill the fuck out. Stick with me and it’s going to be fine.”
We get stopped at the door by a large man with his face half-covered behind a scarf. “Who are you?” he grunts.
“JC and Amy,” says Rosey. “Jordan told us to come.”
“Which Jordan? The male or female one?”
I snigger, earning a jab in the ribs from her elbow. “The male,” she says. He nods and moves to the side so we can go in. The flat is crammed with hot, sweaty bodies. The music is too loud, and I wonder if it bothers the other tenants or if they all do this sort of thing.
We go to the kitchen, where the sink is full of beers, and Rosey grabs us each one. We lean against the worktop, and she scans the place. “Okay, the guy I need to get to is with someone,” she tells me, and I follow her line of sight to a man chatting to a woman.
“I need to get him by himself. Can you distract her?”
“No,” I say firmly, shaking my head. “She looks feral, like she could definitely kick my arse.”
Rosey sighs, thinking of a plan. “Okay, just follow me,” she mutters, heading their way. When we’re right behind the girl, Rosey tips her beer down the girl’s back, and the second she turns around, Rosey glares at me. “Fuck’s sake, Amy, watch it.” I stare wide-eyed back at her, and she smirks and turns to the girl who is screaming. “I am so sorry. She’s drunk. It was an accident. Amy, go and help her sort her top out,” Rosey adds, staring at me.
I’m shaking with a mixture of anger and terror as I follow the girl to a bathroom. We get inside, and she immediately takes the top off. “Sorry,” I mutter feebly.
“It’s fine,” she tells me, and I relax a little. “You did me a favour cos Dylan was chatting me up and he makes my skin crawl.” She shudders for added effect.
“Take mine,” I tell her, shrugging out of my jacket and removing my top.
“You sure?” she asks, eyeing the lace bodice underneath.
“I have a jacket, and this is something I’d wear on a night out, so I don’t mind.” I put my jacket back on.
When we re-join Rosey, she’s kissing the guy. “You should warn your friend. He’s a dick,” the girl tells me.
Rosey pulls back and puts her arm around my shoulder. “Here’s my friend, Amy. Let’s all go back to hers.” He nods eagerly. I have no idea what her plan is, but I find myself following the pair out of the party flat and up two floors to another flat. The door isn’t locked, and we walk right in. I note we can still hear the music from downstairs.
“This your place?” he asks me, frowning, and I nod. “Cos I ain’t seen you round here before.”
“She just moved in,” Rosey says, grabbing his face and pulling him in for another kiss. It does the trick because he’s distracted enough to stop questioning me. “Where’s your phone? I’ll put my number in it.”
I move through to the kitchen, leaving Rosey to do whatever she’s been hired to do. I try to turn on the light, but it doesn’t come on, and then suddenly, a hand covers my mouth and I’m pulled against a hard body. “It’s me,” whispers Arthur. I stop struggling, but he doesn’t release me. Instead, he pushes me against the wall, pressing his body to mine. “Why are you here?” He sounds annoyed, but he uncovers my mouth so I can answer.
“Rosey asked me to come.”
His hand moves to my waist, and when he feels the lace material, he rips my jacket open and stares down at the bodice. “Where are your clothes?” he snaps.
“Long story.”
“Hate to break it up, but it’s showtime,” whispers another voice from across the room. Albert steps into the moonlight.
“Stay here, Angel. Do not come into that room,” Arthur orders, and I nod. He stares at me for a moment longer, and I swear he looks like he’s about to kiss me, but a commotion from the other room gets his attention and he moves fast.
ARTHUR
Rosey sits draped over Dylan. He’s trying not to panic in the way he’s been shown by his gang leaders, but when it comes to having a gun pushed in your face, it’s hard not to lose control. Rosey is casually scrolling through his mobile with one hand, the gun in the other. She holds up the phone and the recording of Jolene Hall confessing to hiring a hitwoman to kill her husband plays out. “No wonder you wanted it so bad,” says Rosey, glaring at me.
“Is that the only copy?” I ask, and he nods.
