Page 21 of Deliah

T he next morning, I woke up with the sorest of sore heads—and don’t even get me started on my feet.

I was half convinced they were broken. My heels were still by the door, abandoned like two glamorous regrets.

We’d had the best night. No drama. No tears.

Just real laughs, stupid dancing, loud music, and for once—no thoughts of Jay.

But something else had crept in. Or rather, someone.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that other Boiler Boy, and the mad part was I didn’t even know his name.

We’d barely exchanged more than a few sharp words, but somehow, he’d left an imprint.

I’d felt him all night, his presence stitched into the air around me.

Like he’d wrapped himself around my mind without laying a finger on me.

And that “little girl” comment? Please. Who the fuck did he think he was?

But it hit. Right in that place under my skin.

The place no man had touched since Jay—the part of me that still wanted to be used, but this time by someone who knew how.

And then in the car. That soft but solid tone, the way he looked at me like he already knew everything I was about to say.

He didn’t flirt. He didn’t even try. He just existed—and somehow, that was enough.

The way he said, “You wouldn’t be doing that if you were mine…

” Like he already believed I would be. Fuck.

Smug prick, and yet I wanted more. I’d spent so long feeling used, ignored, and heartbroken that I’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone leave a mark just by looking at me.

Someone new. Someone dangerous in a way I couldn’t quite read.

I sat up in bed, rubbing my temples, heart still annoyingly fluttery from the night before.

Cherry burst into the room after spending the night at Tommy’s, already laughing, phone glued to her ear like it was an extra limb. She was talking to Tommy—don’t know why, she’d only just fucking left him.

“Put him on speaker, will you?” I croaked, reaching for a water bottle and taking a sip like it was life-saving.

Cherry gave me a look. “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Just wanna ask him something.”

She pressed the button, and Tommy’s voice came through, all cocky charm.

“Sup, Deliah—you good, yeah?”

“Yeah, all good, thanks. Just a quick one. Who was that blue-eyed fuckboy out with you lot last night?”

Cherry nearly choked on her laugh.

Tommy cackled. “Fuckboy? You mean Damion?”

“The one with the stare that could set you on fire and the mouth that needs washing out with soap.”

“Oh, that’s Damion alright. He works with us. Barely ever comes out, to be honest.”

“I’ve never seen him before.”

“Yeah, not surprising. He’s not really into the party scene. Quiet guy. Bit intense, but proper sound. Don’t think I’ve ever seen him with a girl, come to think of it.”

“Really?” I said, pretending to sound disinterested. “Just wondered why he looked like he wanted to undress me with his eyes all night.”

“You want his number?” Tommy teased.

“No! Jesus, that’s the last thing I need.”

Tommy laughed again, and Cherry carried on chatting to him about their plans for the next night.

I just sat there, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

Not that type of guy, huh? Sure. Maybe not.

But he was dangerous in a completely different way.

Not like Jay. Not the sweet-talk, fall-in-love, then fuck-you-over type.

No—this was quieter. Stronger. Like he didn’t need to chase.

When Cherry hung up, she flopped down beside me on the bed. “So… you gonna tell me what’s going on with you and Damion?”

“Nothing’s going on. We had a little back and forth. He dropped me home. That’s it.”

She raised a brow. “Dropped you home? What, in silence?”

“Not exactly,” I muttered, and then I told her. About the comment in the car. About the way he looked at me. The way he said, “You wouldn’t be doing that if you were mine.”

She sucked in a breath. “Okay, that’s hot. Like, makes you cry down your leg a little hot.”

I laughed and rolled my eyes. “It’s not hot, it’s fucking infuriating.”

“Oh, come on, Del. You’ve been stuck on Jay for months. Maybe the universe is sending you a bit of temptation to snap you out of it.”

“Yeah, well, the last ‘temptation’ left weed in my wardrobe and ghosted me.”

“True. But this one’s not texting you ‘love you, miss you’ in between drug drops, is he?”

I cracked a smile. “Twat.”

We both went quiet for a second. Then I sighed. “I don’t need another man ruining my life.”

Cherry nudged me. “Maybe he’s not here to ruin you. Not all of them are dickheads, Deliah. Well, most of them are, but you know what I mean.”

We laughed. “Fucking men, ay?”

I didn’t know what I was thinking, but I was thinking about him again. And that… said everything.

A few days passed, and Jay was still being Jay.

Distant. Rude. Predictable. The kind of frustrating, low-effort bullshit that made you question if they even liked you—or if they just liked knowing you were still there.

I’d had the odd text: “ Sorry, babe, I’m really busy.

I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. Love you .

” Tomorrow never came. Of course it didn’t.

Not with Jay. Not anymore. I still checked my phone like some desperate teenager every few hours, hoping he’d surprise me. Spoiler alert: He didn’t.

It was the following week. I was halfway through a shift at the club, sweaty and exhausted, and had nipped into the back to check my phone. Expecting nothing, but then—ping. New number.

Unknown: Hey, Deliah. It’s Damion, are you free next week? I’m taking you out for dinner.

Hold. The. Fuck. Up. First of all—how the hell did he get my number?

Second—you’re going to take me out? That wasn’t a question.

That was a command. I blinked down at the screen, half expecting it to vanish.

I thought I was hallucinating from vodka withdrawal or exhaustion.

I didn’t even think he liked me. He barely said a word when he dropped me off.

Just sat there, brooding, being all… silent and hot.

And now this? I stood there frozen, the thump of bass leaking through the dressing room walls, phone clutched in my hand like it had personally offended me.

My mouth moved before my brain could get involved.

Me: Oh, you’re going to, are you? Who said that? Also, where the fuck did you get my number?

His reply came within seconds.

Unknown: Not difficult to get what I want. And yes, I am. Friday at 7 p.m. I’ll pick you up from your apartment.

I stared at the message, heart thudding like I’d just done three back-to-back pole sets.

Who the fuck is this guy? The audacity. The boldness.

The certainty. I didn’t reply. Just locked my phone and shoved it back in my bag like it was on fire.

I paced in circles for a minute, replaying the exchange in my head, trying to make sense of it.

What was this? A joke? A trap? A power move?

And more importantly, why the hell did my stomach flutter at the thought of him?

But the last thing I needed was another arrogant prick in my life.

I was still recovering from the first heartbreak.

But Damion? Was he different? And I hated that I even thought that.

I shook it off, tossed my hair, reapplied my lip gloss, and marched back onto the floor like nothing had happened.

Later that night, I cornered Cherry near the bar. She was fixing her lashes in the mirror behind the drink fridges, mid-giggle after flirting with some tourist in a bucket hat.

“I’ve just had a message,” I said, leaning in. “From Damion.”

Her whole face lit up. “Damion?! The blue-eyed one? Shut up! What did he say?!”

“He said he’s taking me out for dinner next week.”

She squealed.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start. I haven’t said yes.”

Her jaw dropped. “Are you thick? Say yes!”

“I don’t know, Cherry. He’s… he’s intense. I don’t even know him. And how the fuck did he get my number?”

“Who cares?” She shrugged. “Maybe he’s got connections. Or maybe he’s just a grown man who knows what he wants.”

“I’ve already got one emotionally unavailable man in my life. I don’t need another.”

“Oh, please, you don’t even have one. You have a ghost in a snapback who texts you ‘love you’ then leaves you for days.”

I laughed despite myself. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not wrong, though, is it?”

I didn’t reply. Because she was right.

She softened a little and looped her arm through mine. “Babe, it’s just a date. You’re acting like he proposed.”

I sighed. “Yeah. But dinner turns into drinks, drinks turn into kissing, kissing turns into a fuck—and then what? I spiral all over again.”

“Or maybe,” she said gently, “you have a nice meal, get dressed up, feel sexy, and remember there’s more to life than Jay.”

I looked down at the bar floor, scuffed with glitter and spilled tequila.

She bumped my hip. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

I met her eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Famous last words.”

“I mean it,” she said. “Just go. If he’s a dick, you never have to see him again.”

I gave her a nod, my heart still thumping. Because maybe, just maybe, this dinner wasn’t the start of another heartbreak. Maybe it was the start of getting my fucking power back.

I decided not to text him back. I was testing him, seeing if he would still come without a reply.

Didn’t say yes. Didn’t even acknowledge the message.

But still—there I was, standing in front of the mirror in a tight black dress that clung to me like sin.

My heels were too high, my nude lipstick perfectly lined, and my attitude too dangerous.

I told myself it was just in case I went out. Nothing to do with Damion. Nothing to do with the way he made me feel like I was under a microscope with one look.

6:59 p.m. The exact moment I heard it. The deep rumble of that matte black Range Rover purring outside like it owned the street.

I peeked through the shutters. And there he was.

Leaning against the bonnet like some anti-hero from a film that shouldn’t exist—one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone like he hadn’t just sent the most arrogant invite in the history of texting.

He didn’t look up until I opened the door. Then he smiled—slow, sharp. Dangerous.

“Get in, trouble.”

That was it. Not a hello. Not a compliment. Just a challenge. I rolled my eyes and strutted past him. He shut the door behind me with the quiet finality of a man used to getting his way.

We didn’t go into the city. Instead, we drove towards the hills, the road winding and empty, the silence between us thick with tension. He didn’t say much. Neither did I.

But every now and then, his hand would rest on the gearstick, and my skin would crawl with anticipation. He wasn’t even touching me—but I felt it. Every glance. Every breath.

The restaurant was tucked away like a secret. Amber lights, ivy-covered stone walls, and a valet who greeted him like royalty. Inside, it was all candlelight and whispered money. He didn’t ask what I wanted. He ordered for both of us.

“Red wine. Full-bodied. Heavy,” he said smoothly.

The waiter nodded like this was normal.

I sat back and crossed my arms. “Do you always make decisions for people you barely know?”

His eyes met mine, unwavering. “Only when I’m right.”

Oh, fuck off. I sipped the wine anyway. Of course it was perfect.

We talked. But not small talk. Never with him.

He asked questions that went straight through the surface like a knife.

I pushed back, obviously. Called him full of himself.

Arrogant. A walking red flag. But he didn’t flinch.

He just smirked and leaned in, calm as ever.

“Keep talking, little girl. It’s cute when you pretend you’re not dying for someone to put you in your place.”

My legs crossed tighter. My stomach flipped. What the fuck was this guy doing to me?

After dinner, he didn’t rush. He walked me to the car like a gentleman, palm grazing the small of my back in a way that made my body scream for more.

It wasn’t possessive—but it might as well have been.

In the car, I tried to be quiet. Distant.

Unbothered. He glanced over at me as we drove, the streetlights flickering across his face like they were too scared to touch him.

Then he said it: “You always have an attitude?”

I didn’t look at him. Just smirked out the window. “Only when someone tries to tell me what to do.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” he said smoothly. “I’m just wondering how long you’ll last before you beg someone to take control.”

I turned to him, slow and deliberate. “If I wanted control, I’d hand it over. You think I’d give it to you?”

He let out a low laugh. “You’ll give it when you’re ready. The brat act just makes it more fun.”

I leaned back in my seat, legs crossed like a queen on a throne. “Careful, Damion. I’ve broken bigger men than you.”

His jaw tensed. “Good. I like my girls with bite. They obviously weren’t built to handle you. I am.”

Silence fell again. But it wasn’t calm. It was a loaded gun between us, waiting for someone to pull the trigger.

When he pulled up outside my apartment, he didn’t speak. Didn’t ask to come in. Just looked at me with that maddening calm.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said finally.

“And what exactly did you expect?”

“Someone easier to forget.”

I gripped the door handle, but he was already out of the car, walking around to open it for me. The bastard even held out his hand like I was royalty. I stepped out and turned to go, needing to escape before I crumbled under the weight of him.

“Wear red next time.” The words landed like a punch to the chest.

He didn’t wait for a response. Just got in the car and drove off—like he hadn’t just hijacked my entire nervous system. I stood there for a minute. Maybe longer. Then I walked inside on shaky legs and collapsed face-first onto the bed.

What. The. Fuck.

My mind was racing—Jay, Damion, me. The whole fucking mess of it. I felt like a contradiction. I was desperate for control and aching for surrender all at once. He didn’t even kiss me. He didn’t have to. Damion was the first man in months who made me forget Jay even existed.