7. Vogue

After five hoursof trying to sleep, I've come to the conclusion there is only one recourse. To dial the number to find out who the fuck this is that is, I assume, trying to blackmail me. But for what? I don't have anything.

Staring at the breaking dawn from my bedroom window, I dial the number, holding my breath as it rings, not caring what hour it is. If you're going to threaten me, you'll get what you get.

It rings.

Once, twice, then a click.

"Who the fuck is this?" The voice is rough, like gravel in a blender.

I'm guessing this asshole was flat-out asleep if he didn't register my number flashing up.

"It's Vogue Jameson." I keep my tone steady, fighting the twitch in my fingers to hang up.

A pause and then a chuckle.

"Vogue. Figured you ring before now. Been a while."

Frowning, I try to place his voice, but I'm coming up blank.

"Listen, we need to talk. In person."

"Sure thing, sweetie. You know where to find me."

"Actually, I don't."

"Same place as always."

"I don't even know who you are," I spit out.

"Oh, ouch, baby. That stings. But I guess I wasn't your only client, so there's that. Tell you what. Meet me behind Al's at eight. For old time's sake."

I grimace. That was where I picked up the guys I sold myself to.

"Fine." I hang up, my hands shaking.

I get dressed quietly in joggers, trainers and a long-sleeved tee, pulling my jacket on and pocketing my phone and purse. Picking up the still-bloodied knife, I rinse it off under the bathroom tap and then shove it on the back of my joggers. Then I stop and wonder how in the fuck I'm going to make my great escape. I can't have the guys tagging along for this meeting, and I sure as fuck know that as soon as I set foot outside this door, Quen will be on me. He's been keeping his distance for the last couple of days, but he isn't about to stick to the sidelines for a second longer. I could see it on his face last night when I went off with Thayer.

Opening the window, I peer down to the ground. We are three floors up. I can't jump, but I can climb down something. A sheet? Fucking hell. This is ridiculous. But necessary.

I strip the sheet off the bed, twist it up like I've seen in the movies, and then tie one end to the handle on the window. Shoving the other end through, I climb out, perched on the windowsill as I hold the sheet in a death grip.

"Here goes nothing," I murmur as I leap off the sill, clinging on for dear life as I slide down the sheet with my eyes closed until I feel my feet hit the ground.

Then, I run.

As fast as I can through the quiet town to the train station on the far side, which takes me about twenty minutes. By the time I reach the station, the first train is leaving, and luckily for me, it's passing through Westfield, a hundred fucking miles from here.

I settle back as we set off and try to slow my rampant thoughts about what this sleezebag wants and, more importantly, how I'm going to give it to him. I can't have this video getting out. Even though, on the surface, it's just a sex tape, if he recorded us fucking, who knows what else he recorded. Exchange of cash? Choice words that will tell the whole story?

Time flies by, or maybe it's just me being preoccupied, but Westfield rolls into view. I figure once this shit is sorted, I'll stop by Mum's and see if she's okay.

The old neighbourhood hasn't changed much. Same rundown buildings, same heavy air that feels like it's pressing down on you. I used to walk these streets with a hunger in my belly and fear gnawing at my heart, selling myself for a few crumpled bills just to get by so I could stay at university to try to escape this godforsaken place.

Now, I'm back here in this shithole with nothing more than when I left.

Except my dad. And the guys.

If they even want me if they find out about this.

I snake down the alley around the back of Al's and see a guy standing there waiting. He turns and I recognise him instantly by that oily smile that always made my skin crawl.

"Vogue," Leonard greets me, looking me up and down. "Looking good, as always."

"What do you want?"

Down to business, Leonard wastes no time. "Money," he hisses, cornering me against the cold brick wall.

"I don't have any."

"Please. My mate saw you with that rich kid last night, fucking around like no one was watching. Same old, Vogue."

My stomach drops, but I don't let it show. "How much?"

"A lot of it, for keeping my mouth shut and my videos to myself."

"I don't have that kind of cash."

"Then you better find it," he says, grabbing my arm. His grip is like iron, and I know I won't shake him off easily.

"Please, there has to be another way," I plead, trying to reason with him. The thought of losing the guys over my filthy past sends a wave of panic through me.

"I'm willing to take a down payment," he says with a disgusting wink. "Until you get the money."

I feel sick, trapped. Every part of me wants to run, but I can't risk it. I have to play along for now and find some way out of this nightmare.

"Fine," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. But inside, I'm already plotting how to end this, once and for all. I just need to get close enough to use the knife, still hidden at my back. Somewhere private, somewhere no one will see me.

I follow Leonard to his nearby flat, each step heavy, like I'm marching toward the gallows. It's a dingy place, the kind of apartment where hope comes to die. He unlocks the door, and I step inside, the stench of old cigarettes assaulting my senses.

"Come here," Leonard orders. "Remind Lenny what that pussy can do."

Ergh!

I move closer, every cell in my body screaming to fight, to run. But I can't—not yet. I have to wait for the right moment. As his hands grab my breasts, revulsion rises in my throat. I swallow it down. I can't afford to show fear, not now.

He pushes my coat off my shoulders and grabs the hem of my tee, yanking it up and over my head.

He's going to see the knife. Move, Vogue, move.

My fingers wrap around the handle, and a surge of adrenaline floods my veins as Leonard dips his hands into my joggers.

"Got something for me?" Leonard asks, a vile smirk playing on his lips as he looks up.

"More than you bargained for," I reply through gritted teeth.

In one swift motion, I yank the knife free and drive it into his upper arm to get him to move back. Leonard howls in pain, recoiling from the unexpected attack. He tries to grab me, but I'm already moving, fuelled by desperation and the will to survive as I pull it out of his flesh.

"Fuck!" he screams, blood seeping between his fingers. "You fucking bitch! You're going to pay for that."

"Not the same Vogue you used to know," I snarl, watching him stagger back. I don't wait to see if he'll recover. I lunge, aiming for his guts. The sharp blade eases into his flesh like a hot knife through butter.

He squeals and staggers back. I twist it and let go as he falls, his hand clutching the handle. He's dead before his head hits the floor. I can see it in his glassy eyes as he bleeds out all over. I must've hit an artery or something.

Bending down to grab his phone from his jeans, I shove it into my pocket.

I muffle my scream as the door crashes open. Cal, Quen, Thayer, and Harry burst in, their faces twisted with worry and anger. They take in the scene – the dead, bloodied man crumpled on the floor, the knife still twisted in his guts, my top off, my bra slightly askew.

"Jesus Christ," Quen breathes out, his eyes darting between me and the body. "Vogue, what the fuck?"

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out except a strangled sob. My legs give way, and I collapse onto the cold floor as I see the devastation in their eyes.

"Get her out of here," Thayer growls, stepping over Leonard's motionless form. He reaches down, yanks the knife out and hauls me to my feet.

"Vogue," Cal says, his voice hard, trying to cut through the chaos. But I can't lift my eyes, can't bear to see the judgement, the disgust I'm sure is there.

"This isn't what it looks like?—"

"Shut up," Cal growls, taking my arm.

Harry swears under his breath, pacing the room like a caged animal. "We need to clean this up now."

"Get Vogue out of here," Thayer snaps back at him.

They're talking around me, over me, but I'm lost in the sea of my guilt and shame.

Quen shoves my tee back over my head, and it takes everything I have to move my arms. "Move," he barks, guiding us towards the door, away from the nightmare that's unfolded in this dingy flat.

"Please, listen?—"

"Get in the van," Harry snaps, throwing one last glance at the man on the floor before following us out.

Quen's painful grip as he ushers me into the van is nothing compared to the pain in my chest. Their voices are a distant echo, the words indiscernible. All I can think about is how everything has changed in a single, violent moment. How the truth I fought so hard to bury has come back to haunt me in the most horrific way possible.

I fall into the back of the van. Thayer slides in next to me, his presence like a wall of heat, though he doesn't touch me. The engine roars to life, and we pull away from the curb, leaving the dead man behind.

"Wait—"

The silence in the van is suffocating. Every glance they throw at me is a knife turning in my gut. They don't understand and can't possibly grasp the depth of what's happened. I want to explain, to spill every sordid detail of my past, but the words are like shards of glass in my mouth. I swallow them down with a bitter taste. I have nothing but the raw, ugly truth that I was a prostitute, that I've sold myself to survive, and that it's a stain I can never wash clean.

"Vogue," Harry's voice cuts through the thick atmosphere, laced with anger and something else, maybe concern. But I can't meet his gaze; I'm too choked up with guilt.

"Shit," Cal mutters from the front seat, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. We speed down the highway, Crestmont a refuge in the distance, promising safety but also judgement.

I lean my head against the side of the van. A tear escapes, tracing a hot path down my cheek. I've got to come clean, lay it all out for them. It's the only way to keep some semblance of trust, even if it means they might turn their backs on me. Even if it means losing them.

But worse than their potential disgust is the gnawing fear that once I confess, I won't just lose them—I'll lose myself, too.

"Stop the car," I choke out, desperate for air, for space. Cal ignores me, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road ahead. We barrel toward Crestmont, toward reckoning.

"Guys, please." My voice breaks. "You need to know—who I am, what I've done."