Page 2 of Deliah
We were buzzing. Selling shots to pissed-up tourists?
Piece of piss. We could do that in our sleep.
That night, we celebrated like we’d landed a six-figure salary.
We made our way up the strip, drank everything in sight, danced like we were on stage, and eventually collapsed back at the hotel in a heap of tangled hair, fake lashes, and glittery regret.
The next night, we started work. We wore little red crop tops with Baywatch stitched across our tits and skirts that barely qualified as such.
Aneeka held the tray of J?gerbombs, and I collected the cash.
We flirted, teased, danced, and occasionally challenged lads to drinking competitions—which, weirdly, they always lost.
“You think you can outdrink us?” I’d smirk, downing a shot and winking at the lad’s best mate. “Watch me win and take your money.” And it worked. Every time.
By the end of the night, we were steaming, exhausted, but euphoric.
We made over €100 each—cash in hand, no questions asked.
We did the same every night. Seven nights a week.
The pay wasn’t amazing, but the free drinks and adrenaline made up for it.
We lived on shots and cheesy chips and the pure thrill of being young and untouchable.
We went out to celebrate that night, and it was pure carnage.
It started off tame—just us lot and a few workers from another bar, drinking at work before heading down the strip.
I’d just got paid and felt invincible, so I was doing rounds like I was bloody Jeff Bezos.
Then Aneeka decided to snog some tourist who turned out to have a girlfriend—and the girlfriend saw.
Pandemonium. Full-blown screaming match in the middle of the road.
Hair pulling, insults flying, glasses thrown.
I had to practically drag Aneeka away before fists started swinging.
She was swearing blind that the guy said he was single.
Classic Aneeka. I half carried her back to the hotel, one heel missing, her eyeliner halfway down her face, laughing and crying all at once.
“Why is it always me?” she slurred.
“Because you’re a fucking nightmare,” I said, trying not to laugh.
We got back to the hotel, I dumped her on the bed, had a fag, kicked off my heels, and crashed.
After a couple of weeks (and several “extra nights” added to our hotel stay), we knew we needed somewhere more permanent to stay.
That was when we moved in with Sted Head and Jamie—our new flatmates.
Calling it an apartment was generous—it was more like student digs meets lad pad with dodgy plumbing and even dodgier walls.
But it was cheap, full of madness, and only two minutes from the strip.
Sted Head was massive. Ripped to shreds.
One of those gym lads who somehow had more protein powder than personality.
Worked at Baywatch. Shirt off 24/7. The girls loved it.
Not really my type, too… ‘I know I’m fit,’ but solid eye candy first thing in the morning.
Jamie was a legend. Hilarious, cheeky, and always in demand.
He had a queue of girls wanting a go, and to be fair, I got it.
He was charismatic but too small for me.
I liked a man who could pick me up and not dislocate a shoulder doing it.
The apartment was madness. There were girls sneaking out every morning in last night’s heels, thongs on the balcony, and shagging noises at 3 a.m. like it was background music.
Aneeka was just as bad, but she usually went back to tourist hotels with her conquests.
One night, I came back alone—God knows where Aneeka was—and I sat on the balcony just looking over the bars and drunken tourists.
The air was warm, the street still buzzing from the night.
I lit up, leaning over the edge just in time to hear a key in the door.
Sted Head walked in with a blonde Swedish girl trailing behind him.
They didn’t see me—too busy wrapped around each other.
I stayed quiet, partly out of politeness, partly out of curiosity…
and maybe a bit of something darker. They didn’t even make it to his room.
Right there on the sofa, like no one else existed.
Clothes off, hands everywhere, her soft moans echoing out into the heat of the night.
I watched. I don’t know why. I didn’t feel jealous, just weirdly…
fascinated. Maybe it was the rawness. The lack of shame.
Maybe I was just sick in the head. But I watched until it was done, stubbed out my cigarette, and slipped off to bed without saying a word.
The next morning, Sted Head had no idea I’d seen.
Neither did she. Just another night in the island of misfit toys.
When it came to me and sex? I dabbled. I had a thing for DJs—maybe it was the confidence, the headphones, the way they owned a room.
Flings happened. Booth corners. Staff stairwells.
But for me, it was never about the body count.
It was about power. Knowing I could have someone if I wanted to.
Sleeping with someone every night? No, thanks.
Everyone was shagging everyone. None of it meant anything.