Page 39 of Deliah
I turned and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and twisting the cap with hands that were still shaking. I hated how obvious it was and how exposed I felt even now that the storm had passed. Damion didn’t move. Didn’t fill the space with noise or pity. He just watched. Waited. That quiet presence of his? It was louder than anything Jay had screamed.
I leaned back against the counter, the cool bottle pressed to my cheek. My skin was flushed, my heart still thrumming somewhere near my collarbone. I took a long sip and tried to get a grip. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” I said finally.
He walked over then. Not fast. Not intense. Just… sure. He stood in front of me, close enough to feel the heat between us but not so close that I felt trapped. One of his hands reached out—slow, deliberate—and brushed a piece of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear like I might break if he moved too fast. “You don’t need to apologise for someone else’s bad behaviour.”
I looked up at him. “You handled that like I’m not a walking disaster.”
He gave me the faintest smile. “You’re not. You’re just someone who’s had to be your own armour for too long.”
That almost undid me. The lump in my throat swelled fast and sharp. I pulled myself together and told him, “Let’s get out of here.”
The walk down to the beach club was… quiet. Understandably. Damion stayed calm as ever—shoulders relaxed, expression unreadable—but I knew he’d seen more than I wanted him to. And I knew he was watching me now, reading every tiny shift in my mood as if I were a book he didn’t want to close too soon. I, on the other hand, was trying to act like I hadn’t just thrown weed at my ex and slammed the door hard enough to shake the foundations of my self-esteem. My skin still buzzed from the adrenaline. My jaw ached from clenching. I just needed a drink.
As soon as we arrived, Damion peeled off to the bar with a quiet, “I’ll get us something,” and disappeared through the sun-kissed crowd. I spotted Cherry straight away—already halfway through a cocktail, in a barely-there bikini and Tommy’s sunglasses. I ran over like my life depended on it.
“Fucking hell, babe, guess who turned up at ours while Damion was there?”
She blinked, sensing the frenzy in my voice immediately. “Don’t tell me—Jay?”
“Only fucking Jay. Coming to grab his weed.”
“For fuck’s sake, babe. What did he say?”
“What didn’t he say? He went mental, and Damion nearly killed him in the middle of the kitchen.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re fucking joking?”
“Do I look like I’m in a joking mood?” I said, eyes wide. “It was a fucking nightmare, Cherry.”
She took a long sip of her drink and grinned.
“No shit. Two men fighting over you? Babe, I’d be soaked.”
“Shut up, you dickhead.”
She laughed. “Anyway, fuck Jay. He’s a prick. Let’s get smashed.”
And that’s exactly what we did.
Within an hour, I was so drunk I’d forgotten what happened—loud, laughing, dancing barefoot in the sand, bouncing between the girls, sunglasses crooked on my nose. That kind of reckless sunshine joy you only get from bad decisions and cheap prosecco. Damion sat nearby, sipping his drink and watching me with a calm that grounded me. He didn’t hover or interfere. Just… existed beside the madness. Like he belonged there,even if he clearly didn’t. Eventually, Tommy pulled him into conversation, and before long, the two of them were laughing together, relaxed, like this wasn’t their first rodeo. Tommy, of course, kept the champagne flowing—then the shots started. And then more shots.
Before I knew it, I wasn’t just drunk—I was fucking wrecked. All of us were. Dancing. Screeching. Causing our usual brand of chaos that had tourists filming us and locals pretending not to know us. But Cherry? Cherry was on a different level. She was paralytic. All over Tommy like glitter on a hen party invite. Full PDA. No shame. Tongue down his throat, straddling him on a sunbed, forgetting we were in public, surrounded by every worker and promoter on the strip. Discreet? Absolutely not. Getting sacked tomorrow? Most likely. But did she care? Not a chance. And honestly? I didn’t have a single ounce of energy left to stop her.
Somewhere between smashed and euphoric, I made my way to the bar—sweaty, smiling, skin tingling with booze and bass. I just wanted another drink. Something stupid. Something fizzy and cold that would carry me through the next few hours of sun-drenched drama. But then I saw him. Jay. Leaning against the bar like some washed-up villain from a low-budget crime film. Arms folded, eyes narrow, t-shirt clinging to him like he’d picked it a size too small on purpose. He clocked me instantly.
And of course, he stormed over like he had the right.
“What the fuck was that earlier, Deliah?” he snapped, voice slicing through the music. “You fucking him now?”
I blinked, slow and deliberate. “What, you jealous?”
“I asked you a fucking question.”
“And I answered it,” I said coolly. “I’ll fuck who I want, Jay. You don’t own me. You never did. But I get it. Must sting, watching me glow up without your hand around my throat.”
He stepped closer, breathing heavy now. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”
I let out a laugh—light, loud, mocking. “Oh, come on, that’s your opener?” I clutched my chest theatrically. “What happened to the smooth talker I once made the mistake of fucking?”
