Page 11 of Deliah

J ay and I hadn’t stopped texting since the first night.

Or shagging, for that matter. We were like magnets.

Unhinged ones. Every free moment turned into a grab, a grope, a fuck.

He’d meet me after work and rail me against the shower tiles.

Sometimes, if we were feeling extra bold—or just extra horny—he’d catch me before work, too.

Behind the club. Bent over in my fishnets, heels on, still chewing gum like nothing was happening.

No romance or flowers. Just chaos, chemistry, and laughter.

So much laughter. He was funny—really funny—and not in that forced, ‘trying to impress you’ way.

It was effortless. We bounced off each other like firecrackers.

Took the piss constantly. Flirted, insulted, teased.

It was like having a best mate who also happened to be a walking sex addiction. He’d text me constantly.

Jay: You coming over, or am I gonna have to shag my hand again?

Me: Tell your hand to hold tight. I’m finishing my shift now.

Jay: She doesn’t make the same noises you do.

Me: She doesn’t bite either.

Jay: Maybe I’ll make her wear fake lashes. Get the full Deliah experience.

Me : Spit in her mouth, too. You seemed to enjoy that.

Jay: Think I loved you a bit in that moment ngl x

It was ridiculous and perfect; whatever Jay and I had—it worked.

We were wrapped in our own little bubble, pure mayhem and lust, clinging to each other as the season burned to a close.

Because it was ending. You could feel it in the air.

The nights were cooler, the tourists thinning out, bars slowly closing one by one.

The energy on the strip started to fade.

Everyone was winding down, drinking harder, dancing messier, making the most of whatever was left.

It was nearly Halloween, and that meant one thing—the end.

The club always shut after Halloween. The island went quiet for winter.

Everyone either flew home, jumped to another country, or vanished into a detox bubble for six months.

And me? I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing.

I’d made bank. More money than I’d ever touched in my life.

Enough to chill through winter, maybe even travel a bit.

But my body was fucked. My knees were bruised from the pole.

My liver was sobbing. My hair was constantly sticky from stage glitter and vodka, and I needed a rest and some quiet.

I needed to stop deep-throating tequila six nights a week.

But the truth was, I wasn’t ready to let go of this —of Jay.

Of the wildness. Of the part of me that had finally come alive this summer.

Halloween was like New Year’s Eve for us workers.

The last blowout. The final show. And you better believe we made it count.

The theme was “dead strippers,” and the girls committed like it was life or death.

Lace, latex, blood. I wore a thong and suspenders with a ripped fishnet bodysuit, fake bruises on my thighs, and glittery handprints on my arse.

My makeup was full smoky eye and smudged red lipstick like I’d just crawled out of the grave—and been fucked back into it.

We strutted down the strip like a horror-movie hen do from hell.

Giggling, staggering, half-naked. The tourists gawked.

Locals watched in stunned silence. The next morning, we were on the front page of the local paper.

I don’t know what the headline said—it was in Spanish—but judging by the picture, I’m guessing something like: “ British Sluts Terrorise Island .” Honestly? Fair enough.

That night, Jay found me in one of the bars after I’d finished work, blood still smeared across my chest, glitter in my hair, and a €20 note stuck to my thigh.

“Nice look,” he said, grabbing my arse in greeting. “You always this sexy when you’re undead?”

“I was hotter when I was alive,” I said, leaning into his neck.

“You’re always fucking hot,” he muttered, biting my shoulder. “Wanna come die again at mine?”

We didn’t even make it to his flat. We fucked in the alley behind the club—again.

Me up against the wall, fake blood dripping from my cleavage, his hands gripping my waist like he was trying to memorise the shape of me.

And still, we laughed. We laughed while I adjusted my ripped fishnets.

Laughed while he zipped up his jeans. Laughed while we walked back to his place, arm in arm, like we weren’t both completely deranged.

We stayed up until sunrise. Had sex, watched crap TV with our legs tangled, takeaway chips on our laps, and my makeup still smudged across his pillow.

That morning, I woke up bruised, tired, and content. He’d given me exactly what I needed. That ache? That gnawing restlessness that had lived in my gut for months? Gone. I looked over at him, still half asleep, arm slung over my waist, mouth slightly open.

“Oi,” he muttered, eyes cracking open. “What time is it?”

“Too early.”

“Gimme five more minutes and I’ll go again.”

I laughed, shoving him. “You’re insatiable.”

He stretched, yawning. “So what now? You flying home?”

I paused. “Yeah, I think so.”

He rubbed his face. “You gonna text me?”

I grinned. “I’ll think about it.”

He smirked, eyes still closed. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll think about it. You’re already missing me.”

“Missing you.” I scoffed. “Try the other way around.”

He cracked one eye open. “Shut up. You’re obsessed.”

Maybe I was. I knew I was enjoying whatever it was we were doing.

Anyway, I dragged myself up and down to the café for one last fry-up and to collect my final envelope of wages. My flight was the next day, and the rest of the girls were trickling off the island over the next week—one emotional hangover at a time.

Archie, my boss and the owner of the café, was out front when I arrived. “Good night last night, Deliah?” he said with a knowing smirk.

I clocked Ash sitting in the corner with her sunglasses on indoors, sipping an orange juice like she was being punished.

“Fucking grass,” I muttered under my breath.

She didn’t even flinch. “Jay’s a fucking idiot, Deliah.”

I raised a brow, pretending not to care. “You sound jealous.”

She scoffed. “I sound experienced. I’ve seen him do this a hundred times. He gets himself a girl for the winter, plays boyfriend for a few weeks, and then ditches her the second the new girls arrive for the season.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Well, lucky for me, I only wanted him for a fuck anyway.”

Archie chimed in, wiping down a table beside us. “That’s what they all say.”

I whipped my head round. “Alright, calm down, Dad.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Just sayin’. He’s got a type. You’re it. And you’re also… not the first.”

The words hit harder than I wanted to admit.

It shouldn’t have hurt. But it did. Not because I wanted hearts and flowers but because I didn’t want to be forgettable.

I stared down at my coffee, heat rising in my chest like I’d swallowed fire.

I wanted to shrug and laugh it off. But instead, I sat in silence, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the steam rising from my mug.

After a few moments of thought, I was already building my comeback.

Not because I was heartbroken or because I thought I was in love.

But because I refused to be typical. I refused to be another name in his shag-and-ghost catalogue.

There was a fire lit under my skin, and it wasn’t Jay—it was Archie.

It was Ash. It was every smug little voice that thought they’d figured me out.

No, babe. I’m not like the other girls. I’m not staying up all winter checking if you’re online.

I’m not going to send long texts asking what went wrong.

But you? You’re going to miss me. He’d be begging to wife me up by spring. Mark my words.

We were different. I was different. We felt different.

Later that day, I met up with Jay. He was waiting outside his flat, wearing that stupid backwards cap and a cocky grin like nothing in the world could touch him. “Told you I’d see you before you went,” he said, pulling me in by the waist.

I kissed him, quick and cheeky. “Didn’t think I’d leave without saying goodbye, did you?”

“Would’ve tracked you down.”

I laughed, though something in my chest pinched. He opened the door, and we slipped inside. It was quiet, unusually still for his place. The usual mess—half-eaten pizza, unwashed clothes, random club lanyards—was all still there. But there was something final about it now. The end of a chapter.

He closed the door and leaned back against it, arms folded. “Gonna miss me?” he asked, cocking his head.

“Nope,” I said, deadpan. “Booked a replacement shag for Tuesday.”

He raised a brow. “Better looking than me?”

I shrugged. “Different vibe. Less annoying.”

“Less annoying, but does he fuck you like I do?”

“Not yet. But I’ll let you know.”

Jay pushed off the door and crossed the room, grabbing me by the jaw with one hand and tilting my chin up. “You’re such a bitch,” he whispered.

“Shut up, you fucking love me.”

He smiled, kissed me, and started tearing my clothes off.

We didn’t even make it to the bed this time.

Just dropped right there on the couch. Clothes off.

Legs apart. Fingers digging in. A last desperate fuck like we were trying to brand the memory into each other’s skin.

It was rushed. Rough. Intense. No sweet goodbyes.

Just filth. He came with a grunt, fingers tangled in my hair.

I came moments after, clawing at his shoulders and biting his neck like I could leave something behind to remind him I’d been there.

When we finally slowed down, collapsed and sweaty, he reached over and tucked my hair behind my ear.

“You gonna text me when you land?”

I snorted. “We’ll see.”