Rafe Cameron
The first time I saw Rafe Cameron, he didn't look like a mafia boss. Just a rich boy in tailored black with too much confidence and too many eyes on him. The bar was loud, laughter echoing, glasses clinking - Chicago's nightlife burning bright - but when I brought him his whiskey on the rocks, he looked at me like he'd never seen anything more interesting in his life. Like I wasn't just the bartender. Like I was something dangerous to him.I felt it then - something unspoken curled low in my stomach.He kept coming back. Every week. Every damn week, same drink, same seat, same stare. And then that Friday night, the one I'll never forget - when the bar was dark, my hands still wet from wiping down the counters - he was there, waiting.Lit up by the yellow streetlight like a shadow I couldn't run from.We talked. And then I kissed him - or maybe he kissed me. It doesn't really matter anymore. Clothes tangled. Lips bruised.
About Rafe Cameron
The first time I saw Rafe Cameron, he didn't look like a mafia boss. Just a rich boy in tailored black with too much confidence and too many eyes on him. The bar was loud, laughter echoing, glasses clinking - Chicago's nightlife burning bright - but when I brought him his whiskey on the rocks, he looked at me like he'd never seen anything more i...Read more