Page 22 of Deliah
“I know, but he’s fit, and I want to lick his face.”
Fair enough. They started sneaking off together—late-night drinks, quiet walks down the beach. She told me everything. How he listened. How they laughed. How he didn’t push her, just waited.
“They just don’t make ’em like that anymore.” She grinned, falling back on the bed like she was in a romcom.
And me? I was still dry. Emotionally. Sexually. Everything. It had been weeks since I’d fucked anyone, since I’d even been kissed. And I was starting to feel it everywhere. In my chest, in my thighs, in the constant buzz under my skin. I needed release. I needed Jay. But I knew that wasn’t happening. I just needed someone to fuck the ache out of me. Someone to scratch the itch Jay had left behind.
“I’m starting to lose it,” I told Cherry one night after work, pulling off my lashes like they were the problem. “I swear I’m gonna explode.”
She smirked. “You know what they say… The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”
I groaned. “I’ve tried. They’re all so boring. I don’t want some nice guy who asks if I’m okay every five minutes. I want to be wrecked.”
She sipped her wine, legs crossed on the sofa. “Then go find someone with a stupid jawline and no emotional depth. That’s your type, clearly.”
“Shut up.”
But she was right. I didn’t want romance—I wanted revenge. I wanted to fuck someone so hard I forgot Jay’s name. Or at least… make him remember mine. So I started looking. Not desperate. Just… open. Flirty. Seeing who was out there. There was a DJ from one of the bars down the strip—built, tatted, that bad-boy energy that made your thighs twitch. He’d been flirting for weeks, and I started flirting back. Just to see where it could go.
But it never got far. Because every time his hand slid down my waist, I’d flash back to Jay. Every time his lips got close, I’d hear Jay’s voice. Every time I closed my eyes, I’d see him. And it made me sick, so I’d push him away and make an excuse. Pretend I had to get up early. Then I’d go home, lie in bed, and ache.
Then one night, I set my eyes on Woody. We called him that because he looked like the Spanish version of theToy Storydoll—if Woody had done a stint in the military, bulked up at the gym, and started modelling for a designer cologne brand. His face was fucking perfect. But unlike the cartoon sheriff, there was nothing soft about him. He was one of the Guardia. Real deal. Uniformed, armed, calm as hell. That quiet authority that made people pay attention when he walked into a room. He came into the club most nights after his shift, never caused a scene, never got drunk, just sipped his drink and kept his eyes sharp. Sometimes on me. And I noticed him. God, I noticed him.He was everything Jay wasn’t—mature, controlled, dangerous in a way that didn’t need noise. But still, when I looked at him, I didn’t think about dinner dates or whispered pillow talk. I thought about his gun. His uniform. About him bending me over and making me beg with it pointed to my head.
I’d been spiralling for weeks—emotionally dry, sexually feral. And Woody? Woody became a fixation. A fantasy I started playing in my head during slow dances and lonely nights. Then I snapped. I needed something—anything—to break the numbness. So I asked one of the girls who spoke Spanish to pass him a message. I didn’t trust my broken Spanish, and I knew she’d say it better than I could. “Ask him if he wants to meet me after work.” She raised an eyebrow but nodded. Crossed the bar and whispered in his ear. He looked at me. Smiled. And said yes. Turns out he’d had his eyes on me, too.
That night, we met just outside after closing, a little further down the strip so no one saw us. It was risky, but I was past caring. He was in full uniform. Gun at his hip. Hands behind his back like he was still on duty. I swear to God, my legs nearly gave out just looking at him. We didn’t speak. Couldn’t—he barely spoke English, and I couldn’t say more than “Chupame el coño por favor.” Don’t ask what that meant, but it’s something we used to say to the Spanish in the club to wind them up. Anyway, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t looking for conversation. I was looking to be obliterated. I led him back to my apartment, the silence between us heavy with everything I wasn’t saying. Inside,I turned to him and kissed him—hard. He kissed me back, but slowly. Careful. Too careful. His hands hovered like he wasn’t sure where to touch. I didn’t want gentle. I wanted control. I wanted him to fuck me like Jay did. No, not like Jay. I wanted him to ruin me worse. I wanted him to pin me down, grab his gun, hold it to my throat, and say, “Beg.”
I needed that kind of power. That kind of danger. Something to distract me from the ache that Jay left behind. I ripped his shirt open and shoved him back onto the bed. His eyes widened, startled—but not afraid. I liked that. I straddled him in my heels, nothing else, and he let me.
“Deliah,” he breathed, the name like velvet in his accent. But even in that moment, I knew something was wrong. He was too soft. Too romantic. He stroked my hips like I was breakable. Like I was some kind of porcelain thing. Not a girl with her guts ripped out. He slowly undid his belt, fingers trembling a little. He whispered things I didn’t understand, Spanish words floating between us like lullabies. I hated it.
I wanted him to yank my hair. Spit in my mouth and make me scream. But he just kissed me again, slower this time. And when he finally slid inside me—it was tender. I bit my lip and closed my eyes. Tried to imagine Jay. Tried to pretend it was him behind me, grabbing my throat, fucking me until I cried out. Woody moved with care. He looked into my eyes. He held me. Like it meant something. And I felt nothing. I faked it because I wanted it to be over. Afterwards, he lay beside me, stroking my hair, whispering something sweet that I didn’t care enough to translate. And I stared at the ceiling. Hollow.
I got up and pulled on a dressing gown, muttered something about needing air. He stayed in bed while I stepped onto the balcony, heart thudding, stomach turning. I sat there in thecold, wrapped in nothing but my robe and a shame that felt like acid in my throat. I lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. And then I cried. I curled into myself and wept, right there on the balcony while a man lay in my bed thinking he’d done something meaningful. I felt sick. Not because of Woody. Not because the sex was bad. But because I wanted Jay. Still. After everything. What the fuck was wrong with me? How could I crave someone who hurt me? How could I get off thinking about being degraded, choked, ruined? I felt twisted. Dirty. Broken.
Somewhere in the pit of that breakdown, I realised the truth—something I’d never dared admit out loud. I was bonded to the trauma. That’s what it was. That’s what this sickness was. Jay had become my drug. My high. The obsession, the pain, the dopamine hits from every fight and fuck and fucked-up apology. It was toxic, and I knew it. But that didn’t stop me from craving it. Because when the abuse comes with moments of affection—of love—you learn to cling to the highs and justify the lows. You convince yourself it’s passion, not manipulation. You convince yourself he didn’t mean it.
I knew women like me. I’d seen them. Cried with them. Hugged them. Judged them. And now… I was them. Curled up on that balcony, tears streaking down my cheeks. I wasn’t crying over Woody. I was crying because I’d used him, and I was trying to replace a man who broke me with a stranger who never stood a chance. I just stared at the skyline, wishing the ache would leave my chest for five fucking minutes. It didn’t.
I closed my eyes and whispered, “I think I’m sick.” And I meant it. Not just love-sick. Not just heartbroken. Sick in the bones and sick in the soul. Because somewhere along the way, I’d started confusing pain with passion. Violence with validation. And it had rewired my brain so badly, I couldn’t even come unless I was being choked. And the sickest part was that if he turned up rightnow, smirking like nothing happened, I’d let him in. Let him fuck me. Let him ruin me. Let him do it all over again. And I’d call it love.
Chapter 11 –
The Worst Kind of Want
Feeling completely shattered, I just kept going. I don’t know how—I’d wake up, slap some makeup on, and show up for work like nothing was breaking beneath the surface. It was autopilot at this point. Smile, seduce, dance, drink, repeat. A few weeks had passed since the whole Woody ordeal. I’d barely spoken about it. Cherry knew something was up, but she didn’t push. We both had our own drama brewing.
It had been a few months. And somewhere along the line, the ache started to dull. I wasn’t over him—not even close—but the constant nausea had faded into background noise. I thought about him less and laughed more. I could go whole hours without checking my phone. Cherry and I had fallen into a rhythm—days off spent wandering the city, window shopping, sipping iced coffees, laughing at terrible tourist tattoos. She’dtry on outfits she couldn’t afford, and I’d tell her she looked like a trophy wife. She’d flip her hair and wink. “Manifest it, babe.” She’d started telling me more about Tommy, too—how he’d take her to fancy restaurants out in the hills where no one would see them. How he’d pick her up in that sleek black Porsche and make her feel like she was in a music video. He wasn’t pushy. He was patient. Sweet but also full of banter. And somehow, she was falling for him. She still hadn’t been caught. She was living on the edge, and I loved it for her. Loved hearing her stories, her late-night giggles, the way her face softened when she read a new message from him. It gave me hope. Maybe love didn’t always have to be toxic.
And then—of course—he came back. Jay. Like he could sense it. He waited until the moment I started to feel okay. Until my smile reached my eyes again. Until I believed, just for a second, that I might be over him. I was sitting in the staff room before shift, my body aching, my brain fogged, mascara flaking under my eyes. Same padded stool, same tired buzz of music behind the walls, same fake energy coursing through my limbs. I scrolled through my phone, not even registering what I was looking at, until it lit up with his name.
Jay:Deliah, I’m sorry. I’ve been such a dick. I know I should’ve done better. I love you. I miss you. Can we talk?
I froze. It was like someone had reached inside my chest and ripped out every bit of progress I’d made. My stomach dropped. My throat tightened. My heart betrayed me—beat faster, harder, louder. He didn’t know what I’d been through. But somehow, it was like he knew when I was about to let go. And that was when he’d crawl back in—like a virus. My fingers hovered over the screen. He said he loved me. He missed me. Maybe… maybe he meant it this time. And then, like a complete idiot, I replied:
Me:Are you fucking joking, Jay? You haven’t spoken to me for months, you have been out fucking half the island, and now you want to talk to me?
Jay:I know I fucked up, I fucked up bad, but I really miss you, babe. Please can we just talk?
