Page 21 of Deliah
That’s what made it worse. It wasn’t just love. It was obsession, addiction, and I craved him like a fix. I started going mad, doing stupid things. Some nights I’d get dressed up with the girls, pretending I was just in the mood to dance. But deep down, I was hunting. I’d do my makeup perfect, pick out my tightest outfits, and pray I’d bump into him. Sometimes I did. Sometimes he was with another girl, leaning close, whispering shit in her ear I’d heard a hundred times before. It made me sick. So, I’d flirt with other guys, flip my hair, laugh too loud, and let someone buy me a drink just to try and trigger a reaction. Sometimes, I’d catch Jay glancing over. Sometimes I didn’t. And when I didn’t—I unravelled. I’d excuse myself to the toilets, close the stall door, and cry quietly with my heels pressing against the cold floor and my head against the wall. I felt pathetic and empty. I was slowly dissolving.
Cherry saw it all. She didn’t say much at first—just clocked it, watched me. But when she realised how deep I was sinking, she stepped in like an absolute fucking angel. One night, I came home after a shift and broke down in the hallway. Just hit the floor, sobbing in my heels and fishnets. She didn’t say a word—just dropped to the floor beside me and pulled me into her arms. Rocked me like a child while I cried snotty, gasping sobs into her chest. The next morning, she got in the shower with me because I was too numb to move. She washed my hair like I was too fragile to touch. Told me shit jokes the entire time.
“How does a stripper clean her house?”
I blinked at her.
“She pole-ishes it.”
I stared blankly. “Cherry, that’s fucking awful.”
She grinned. “But you smiled. You fucking smiled.”
And she was right—I did. She helped me get ready on the nights I could barely move. Did my hair and picked out my outfits. Dragged me to the mirror and said things like, “Look at you. He’s a fucking idiot.”
I’d nod. Try to believe it. We started having wine nights on the balcony after our shifts, wrapped in blankets and mascara-stained hoodies, sharing secrets. She told me about her last heartbreak—a lad back home who’d said he wanted to marry her, then ghosted her after a night out. I told her about Jay. Every little detail. She never judged. Just listened.
If ever I saw him out, it was like a punch to the chest. And yet, every time, I wanted to claw his clothes off and fuck him until we forgot. The pain was sickening. One night, I spotted him across the bar, his arm around some blonde in a bodycon dress. She giggled like she’d just discovered sex. I stood frozen, drink in hand, stomach churning.
I grabbed the first decent-looking guy I saw, leaned in close, and kissed his neck while pretending to laugh at something he hadn’t said. It didn’t work. Jay didn’t even look my way. I felt invisible. When I got home, I collapsed on the bed and screamed into the pillow until my throat burned. Cherry crawled into bed beside me and just held me.
“I know it hurts,” she whispered. “But you won’t always feel like this. I promise.”
I wanted to believe her. I did. I wanted to believe I’d wake up one day and not want him anymore. That he’d just become another lesson. Another scar. But right then? He was still under my skin. He was in every song, every street, every thought I had. And I didn’t know how to let him go.
The hardest part of all of this was that work was making me sick. Not just the long hours or the stale club air—but the men. The way they looked at me. The way they spoke to me turned my stomach. Every wandering hand, every leering comment—it all reminded me of him. Of Jay. Of how easily he’d reduced me to just another girl in a bar. I used to be able to switch it off. Put on a smile, fake the seduction, take the money and run. But now? Now, every pair of eyes on me felt like a spotlight on my pain. Every sleazy compliment felt like a slap. I’d force a laugh, grind on some idiot’s lap, and feel my soul shrink an inch smaller every time. I’d leave my shift and practically scrub my skin raw in the shower, trying to wash off the feeling of being watched. I confided in my club manager, Trevor. He hated all of us girls; we drove him fucking mad with all the shit we constantly had going on, but deep down, he was like a dad to us all.
“Deliah, these men will come and go,” he said, grabbing my arm and bringing me in for a cuddle. “I know you’re a fucking nightmare, but look at you, you can do better than him.”
He wasn’t wrong. I was a fucking nightmare; I knew that to be true. The only thing that kept me going at work was the girls and, of course, the Boiler Boys. They were the lad mates I never knew I needed—loud, rich, reckless. They were like lad culture in human form. They didn’t pretend to be anything else. They were there to get drunk, splash cash, and rinse the strip for all it was worth. They were predictable. Familiar. No illusions. And Cherry? Cherry thrived when they were in.
Especially one of them—Tommy. Tommy was fit. No, dangerously fit. Tall with that clean fade and those deep brown eyes. A cocky grin that made it very clear he’d never been rejected in his life. The first time he came in, he couldn’t take his eyes off Cherry. Literally couldn’t look anywhere else. She was on stage, drenched in shimmer and sass, and he was just… transfixed. I saw it straight away.
“Oi.” I nudged her after the show. “Boiler Boy’s staring at you like he’s seen Jesus with tits.”
Cherry rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk. “He’s alright. Bit smug.”
“Bit smug?” I laughed. “You were ready to mount him on the bar.”
She flicked her hair dramatically. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t.”
She was right. I probably would’ve, if I weren’t already ruined by a man with cheap charm and an even cheaper heart. Tommy kept coming back. And every time, he found her. Watched her. Stayed until the end of her shifts. Never pushy. Just present. One night, he came up to me at the bar.
“Deliah?”
“Trouble, what do you want?”
He smirked. “Listen, I know this is out of bounds and all that, but… can I get Cherry’s number?”
I froze. He was hot. Charming. And very much a client. We weren’t supposed to cross that line. We’d been warned. He knew the rules, talking outside the club, and it was job gone. No discussion. “I can’t,” I said. “You know the rules.”
He nodded. “Figured. Worth a shot.”
Didn’t matter, though. A few nights later, I caught them outside the club on a smoke break, standing too close, laughing too hard. He’d bypassed me completely—and she’d let him. Of course she had. And honestly? I was happy for her. She deserved someone to look at her like that. To laugh at her crap Northern jokes and still want to take her out to dinner. Because she glowed when she talked about him.
“He wants to take me to that sushi place,” she whispered one night while curling her hair.
“You fucking hate sushi.”
