Page 14 of Deliah
Jay paused like he was seriously considering it, then grinned. “Nope. But I’d pay to see you come like that again.”
I laughed, shaking my head as I dragged myself up to find my knickers, my soul, my dignity—whatever was still intact. He watched me dress like it was a performance, arms tucked behind his head.
“Take my number,” he said. “Don’t wait too long. I’ll get withdrawal symptoms.”
I pulled on my dress and shot him a look. “We’ll see.”
But we both knew I would. Because for the first time in a long time, I actually wanted to see someone again. Not because I was lonely. Not because I needed a boyfriend. But because something about him got under my skin in a way no one ever had. I didn’t know what this was. Didn’t care. I just knew I wasn’t done with Jay. And he definitely wasn’t done with me.
Chapter 7 –
You’ll Miss Me First
Jay and I hadn’t stopped texting since the first night. Or shagging, for that matter. We were like magnets. Unhinged ones. Every free moment turned into a grab, a grope, a fuck. He’d meet me after work and rail me against the shower tiles. Sometimes, if we were feeling extra bold—or just extra horny—he’d catch me before work, too. Behind the club. Bent over in my fishnets, heels on, still chewing gum like nothing was happening. No romance or flowers. Just chaos, chemistry, and laughter. So much laughter. He was funny—really funny—and not in that forced, ‘trying to impress you’ way. It was effortless. We bounced off each other like firecrackers. Took the piss constantly. Flirted, insulted, teased. It was like having a best mate who also happened to be a walking sex addiction. He’d text me constantly.
Jay:You coming over, or am I gonna have to shag my hand again?
Me:Tell your hand to hold tight. I’m finishing my shift now.
Jay:She doesn’t make the same noises you do.
Me:She doesn’t bite either.
Jay:Maybe I’ll make her wear fake lashes. Get the full Deliah experience.
Me: Spit in her mouth, too. You seemed to enjoy that.
Jay:Think I loved you a bit in that moment ngl x
It was ridiculous and perfect; whatever Jay and I had—it worked. We were wrapped in our own little bubble, pure mayhem and lust, clinging to each other as the season burned to a close. Because it was ending. You could feel it in the air. The nights were cooler, the tourists thinning out, bars slowly closing one by one. The energy on the strip started to fade. Everyone was winding down, drinking harder, dancing messier, making the most of whatever was left.
It was nearly Halloween, and that meant one thing—the end. The club always shut after Halloween. The island went quiet for winter. Everyone either flew home, jumped to another country, or vanished into a detox bubble for six months. And me? I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. I’d made bank. More money than I’d ever touched in my life. Enough to chill through winter, maybe even travel a bit. But my body was fucked. My knees were bruised from the pole. My liver was sobbing. My hair was constantly sticky from stage glitter and vodka, and I needed a rest and some quiet. I needed to stop deep-throating tequila six nights a week. But the truth was, I wasn’t ready to let go of this—of Jay. Of the wildness. Of the part of me that had finally come alive this summer.
Halloween was like New Year’s Eve for us workers. The last blowout. The final show. And you better believe we made it count. The theme was “dead strippers,” and the girls committed like it was life or death. Lace, latex, blood. I wore a thong and suspenders with a ripped fishnet bodysuit, fake bruises on my thighs, and glittery handprints on my arse. My makeup was full smoky eye and smudged red lipstick like I’d just crawled out of the grave—and been fucked back into it. We strutted down the strip like a horror-movie hen do from hell. Giggling, staggering, half-naked. The tourists gawked. Locals watched in stunned silence. The next morning, we were on the front page of the local paper. I don’t know what the headline said—it was in Spanish—but judging by the picture, I’m guessing something like: “British Sluts Terrorise Island.” Honestly? Fair enough.
That night, Jay found me in one of the bars after I’d finished work, blood still smeared across my chest, glitter in my hair, and a €20 note stuck to my thigh.
“Nice look,” he said, grabbing my arse in greeting. “You always this sexy when you’re undead?”
“I was hotter when I was alive,” I said, leaning into his neck.
“You’re always fucking hot,” he muttered, biting my shoulder. “Wanna come die again at mine?”
We didn’t even make it to his flat. We fucked in the alley behind the club—again. Me up against the wall, fake blood dripping from my cleavage, his hands gripping my waist like he was trying to memorise the shape of me. And still, we laughed. We laughed while I adjusted my ripped fishnets. Laughed while he zipped up his jeans. Laughed while we walked back to his place, arm in arm, like we weren’t both completely deranged. We stayed up until sunrise. Had sex, watched crap TV with our legs tangled, takeaway chips on our laps, and my makeup still smudged across his pillow.
That morning, I woke up bruised, tired, and content. He’d given me exactly what I needed. That ache? That gnawing restlessness that had lived in my gut for months? Gone. I looked over at him, still half asleep, arm slung over my waist, mouth slightly open.
“Oi,” he muttered, eyes cracking open. “What time is it?”
“Too early.”
“Gimme five more minutes and I’ll go again.”
I laughed, shoving him. “You’re insatiable.”
He stretched, yawning. “So what now? You flying home?”
I paused. “Yeah, I think so.”
