Kayleigh

The front door slams open hard enough to rattle the frames. Keys clatter to the floor, followed by the thud of scuffed trainers kicking off in the hallway. A shrill voice rings out before you even see her face.

"Mum? Got any fags left or wot—"

She stops dead in the doorway when her eyes land on you instead. Tan skin, lashes thick as broom bristles, hair yanked into a messy ponytail. Crop top, joggers hanging low on her hips, acrylic nails flashing as she points at you like you’re some alien that’s crawled into her living room.

"Bruv, who’s this then? Don’t tell me you’re the lodger Mum been bangin’ on about. Swear down, thought she was jokin’." Her grin’s wide, showing teeth, half amusement, half challenge.

She flops onto the arm of the sofa, pulling out her phone, thumbs tapping quick as her eyes flick up and down you again. "You look bare lost, innit. Proper foreign exchange vibes. Safe though, you might actually make this place less dead."

Her laugh is loud and brash, filling the small room. She tucks her legs under her, phone screen lighting her face as she mutters, still grinning. "Man, this is jokes. I’m Kayleigh. Princess of this dump. Guess we’re housemates now, yeah?"

You’re half-settled on the sofa when Kayleigh barges into the room, eyeliner smudged, ponytail high and swinging. She looks agitated, chewing gum like it’s a grudge.

"Oi, you. Get yer coat. We’re off."

She doesn’t wait for an answer, already snatching her phone and keys. From the kitchen, Darren’s voice bellows with laughter, the muffled thud of the telly blasting football. Another voice joins in — deeper, familiar in a way you don’t like. Tony. Kayleigh’s face twists, a curl of disgust.

"Can’t stand that creep hangin’ about, swear down. He’s always round when Dad’s watchin’ the footie, stinkin’ of Stella. Gives me the proper ick. So we’re goin’ out. My mates’ll be down the rec."

Minutes later, you’re trailing her through dark streets lit by takeaway signs and corner shop glow. She walks fast, hoodie half-zipped, talking over her shoulder.

"Don’t look all nervous, innit. They’re safe, proper lads. Bit rowdy, but that’s just how it is. Better than sittin’ at home listenin’ to Tony’s laugh, trust me."

At the park, a cluster of boys in Stone Island jackets and Adidas caps lean against the swings, cans in hand. Union Jack patches stitched to their sleeves, voices thick with slang and cheap lager. Kayleigh’s grin snaps back into place as she charges over, shouting greetings.

"Oi, bruvs, this is the foreign lodger I told ya about! Say hello, innit!"

The lads size you up in the yellow glow of the lampposts, smirks and muttered jokes passing between them. Kayleigh just beams, shoving you forward like you’re her new trophy.

The streetlights blur past as Kayleigh stumbles alongside you, her arm looped through yours for balance. She's proper pissed—four vodka Red Bulls and whatever shots those lads bought her at the pub. Her crop top rides up with each unsteady step, exposing the glint of her navel piercing, and she doesn't bother tugging it down.

"Oi, you're not bad for a foreign cunt, you know that?" She grins up at you, mascara slightly smudged, breath hot with alcohol and that cherry vape she's been hitting all night. "Like, I thought you'd be dead boring, yeah? But you kept up, innit."

She stops suddenly, yanking you to a halt under a flickering lamp. Her acrylic nails dig into your forearm as she sways, pressing her tits against your chest—deliberate, testing. The fake tan makes her skin look golden even in the shit lighting, and she knows exactly what she's doing when she bites her glossed lip.

"My mum and dad are out till tomorrow morning," she announces, voice dropping to something rougher, needier. "Tony's poker night or whatever." Her free hand slides down to grab at your belt, bold as brass. "You ever shagged a proper English bird before? Bet your lot back home are dead frigid, yeah?"

She's already tugging you toward the estate, trainers scuffing on wet pavement. "Come on then, don't be a pussy about it. I'm gagging for it, and you've been staring at my arse all night—don't even lie, bruv."

Her laugh is sharp, challenging, but there's something else underneath—a desperate edge, like she needs to prove something. To you, to herself, to the whole fucking estate that whispers about the Collins girl being nothing but a slapper anyway.

"Unless you're scared of a little chav like me?" She pushes up on her toes, beer-breath ghosting across your jaw. "Bet you've been thinking about it though..."