Page 7 of Deliah
“I stole it.” I grinned.
Aneeka jumped in from behind me, “Meet the island’s new top stripper!”
I turned to her, laughing. “Fucking twat.”
Jamie looked between us, stunned. “Are you joking, Deliah?”
“No, I’m not.”
He stared for a second longer, then laughed. “You are fucking nuts, babe. But… thanks for the iPad.”
“You’re welcome. I just had to sell my soul to get you that.”
“Don’t say that,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t make you do it.”
We all laughed, and he pulled me into a hug.
I spent the next hour sitting cross-legged on the floor, telling him every ridiculous detail about my stripper debut—Crystal, the shy lads, the pole, the €20 note in my thong. He was the best audience, laughing at all the right parts and shaking his head at the madness of it all. Jamie was like a gay best friend—only, not gay. Just one of those rare, solid legends. And seeing the smile on his face when he opened that iPad? Totally worth it. He didn’t say much more. Didn’t need to. That hug said everything—he saw me. Not just the stripper. Me.
Chapter 4 –
Make Them Pay
Days at the club turned into weeks. Weeks blurred into months. And somewhere between vodka shots, stilettos, and neon lights—I found myself. What once felt terrifying had become instinct. My body moved like it belonged there, hips swaying to basslines I didn’t even register anymore. Seduction wasn’t something I had to think about—it just was. My confidence wasn’t a costume I put on at the door. It was in my bones now. And I was making a fortune. I’d gone from shy rookie to one of the top earners faster than I could’ve imagined.
Weekends were electric—packed booths, champagne by the bucket, and men throwing money around like it grew on trees. On Sundays, I’d stuff cash into an old makeup bag I kept in my drawer and count it twice just to be sure. Two grand, threegrand. Some weeks, I made more than I had in months back home.
But it wasn’t just about the money. I’d become obsessed, not just with the girls and the drama but with the pole. When the club was quiet, I’d sneak onto the stage and spend hours practising. I’d be in the far corner, bruised legs wrapped around cold metal, trying to nail the same spin for the fiftieth time. I wasn’t graceful. Not yet. But I was determined. Ash, one of the best dancers, started giving me lessons during the day. She was tall, lean, and could hold herself sideways on the pole like she defied gravity.
“You need to own it,” she said, gripping the pole with her inner thigh. “The pole doesn’t move—you do. Let it bruise you. Let it train you.” And fuck, did it bruise me.
My legs were covered in angry purple patches. My inner thighs, shins, even my ribs looked like I’d been in a street fight. I’d limp home some nights and crash into bed, body aching in places I didn’t know existed. But slowly, the bruises faded. My body toughened up. I built strength. My arms grew leaner. I could finally pull myself up without grunting like a feral animal. I even noticed the faint outlines of abs forming across my stomach—real ones. I’d never had those before. My body was becoming something else, something strong, sculpted, sexy. I felt like an athlete. A warrior in glitter and heels.
Ash would meet me at the club mid-morning, keys in one hand and two coffees in the other.
“Ready to sweat?” She’d grin.
Always. I started documenting my progress in a little notebook—moves I wanted to learn, tricks I’d almost nailed, stretches that didn’t kill me as much anymore. It gave me purpose. Structure. I wasn’t just surviving; I was building something.
And outside of the club? Life ticked along in its own strange rhythm. I’d check in with Mum and Dad once or twice a week. Usually a quick video call or a voice note when I was walking to the shop or getting ready for work.
“How’s the posh bar job?” Mum would ask, eyes bright with pride.
“Oh, it’s good,” I’d say, forcing a smile. “Busy. Lots of tourists.”
They thought I was working in a classy beachside cocktail bar—something respectable and easy to brag about at the pub. I hadn’t corrected them. How could I? My dad would’ve had a heart attack. And my mum… well, she just wouldn’t understand. So I lied. Softly. Still, I tried to make up for it in other ways. I sent Mum little gifts in the post, a new scarf, some perfume, a bracelet I knew she’d love. She’d send back boxes of British snacks and handwritten notes with kisses at the bottom.“Hope you’re eating properly x”
I missed them. But I couldn’t let them see this side of me. Not yet. They’d mentioned visiting.
“We’ll book something soon to pop and see you,” Dad had said. “Bring your mum out. See your fancy bar. Maybe hit the beach.”
I nodded along, but my stomach twisted. I wasn’t ready for them to see the truth. Not while I was still figuring it out myself.
Back at the club, everything felt easier now. The girls had embraced me. We were a crew—a chaotic, glittery, foul-mouthedfamily. We shared makeup, secrets, and sometimes customers. Crystal called me “baby stripper,” even though I was raking in more and more each week.
“You’ve got something,” she said one night, handing me a vodka cranberry. “A fire. Keep that. This place will try to take it from you.”
I didn’t know what she meant at the time. But I kept the words tucked away in the back of my mind. There was always something happening at the club. Hen parties. Football lads. Couples who wanted something wild to spice up their honeymoon. The nights blurred together in a kaleidoscope of neon and sweat and laughter and lust.
