Page 29 of Deliah
I laughed and rolled my eyes. “It’s not hot, it’s fucking infuriating.”
“Oh, come on, Del. You’ve been stuck on Jay for months. Maybe the universe is sending you a bit of temptation to snap you out of it.”
“Yeah, well, the last ‘temptation’ left weed in my wardrobe and ghosted me.”
“True. But this one’s not texting you ‘love you, miss you’ in between drug drops, is he?”
I cracked a smile. “Twat.”
We both went quiet for a second. Then I sighed. “I don’t need another man ruining my life.”
Cherry nudged me. “Maybe he’s not here to ruin you. Not all of them are dickheads, Deliah. Well, most of them are, but you know what I mean.”
We laughed. “Fucking men, ay?”
I didn’t know what I was thinking, but I was thinking about him again. And that… said everything.
A few days passed, and Jay was still being Jay. Distant. Rude. Predictable. The kind of frustrating, low-effort bullshit that made you question if they even liked you—or if they just likedknowing you were still there. I’d had the odd text: “Sorry, babe, I’m really busy. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. Love you.” Tomorrow never came. Of course it didn’t. Not with Jay. Not anymore. I still checked my phone like some desperate teenager every few hours, hoping he’d surprise me. Spoiler alert: He didn’t.
It was the following week. I was halfway through a shift at the club, sweaty and exhausted, and had nipped into the back to check my phone. Expecting nothing, but then—ping. New number.
Unknown:Hey, Deliah. It’s Damion, are you free next week? I’m taking you out for dinner.
Hold. The. Fuck. Up. First of all—how the hell did he get my number? Second—you’re going to take me out? That wasn’t a question. That was a command. I blinked down at the screen, half expecting it to vanish. I thought I was hallucinating from vodka withdrawal or exhaustion. I didn’t even think he liked me. He barely said a word when he dropped me off. Just sat there, brooding, being all… silent and hot. And now this? I stood there frozen, the thump of bass leaking through the dressing room walls, phone clutched in my hand like it had personally offended me. My mouth moved before my brain could get involved.
Me:Oh, you’re going to, are you? Who said that? Also, where the fuck did you get my number?
His reply came within seconds.
Unknown:Not difficult to get what I want. And yes, I am. Friday at 7 p.m. I’ll pick you up from your apartment.
I stared at the message, heart thudding like I’d just done three back-to-back pole sets. Who the fuck is this guy? The audacity. The boldness. The certainty. I didn’t reply. Just locked my phone and shoved it back in my bag like it was on fire. I paced in circles for a minute, replaying the exchange in my head, trying to make sense of it. What was this? A joke? A trap? A power move? And more importantly, why the hell did my stomach flutter at the thought of him? But the last thing I needed was another arrogant prick in my life. I was still recovering from the first heartbreak. But Damion? Was he different? And I hated that I even thought that. I shook it off, tossed my hair, reapplied my lip gloss, and marched back onto the floor like nothing had happened.
Later that night, I cornered Cherry near the bar. She was fixing her lashes in the mirror behind the drink fridges, mid-giggle after flirting with some tourist in a bucket hat.
“I’ve just had a message,” I said, leaning in. “From Damion.”
Her whole face lit up. “Damion?! The blue-eyed one? Shut up! What did he say?!”
“He said he’s taking me out for dinner next week.”
She squealed.
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start. I haven’t said yes.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you thick? Say yes!”
“I don’t know, Cherry. He’s… he’s intense. I don’t even know him. And how the fuck did he get my number?”
“Who cares?” She shrugged. “Maybe he’s got connections. Or maybe he’s just a grown man who knows what he wants.”
“I’ve already got one emotionally unavailable man in my life. I don’t need another.”
“Oh, please, you don’t even have one. You have a ghost in a snapback who texts you ‘love you’ then leaves you for days.”
I laughed despite myself. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s not wrong, though, is it?”
