Page 17 of Deliah

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 the Toy Story doll—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 cono 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 the cold, 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 right now, 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.