No girl from this side of the island don’t know about Rafe Cameron.

He’d be real pretty, if he cleaned up a little. Though, he’s pretty enough now—in a different way. You watch, as he snaps open a beer bottle between his teeth, before he pulls out a ciggie.

You don’t even realise you’re staring, ‘til Rafe, palm shielding the flame of his lighter, grunts, "Beat it, sweetheart."

When you don’t, it has Rafe lifting his head to shoot you an annoyed glance, grease-stained wifebeater stretched tight over tanned, grimy muscles. He takes a drag between his teeth, gaze dropping over yours.

A pretty little thing, with a penchant for stickin’ your nose in all the wrong places, apparently.

"Jesus. You itchin' for trouble, ain't ya?" Rafe’s elbows are lent back against the fly-screen door. He cracks his neck, jerking his head as he pats his knee, leisurely.

“C’mere, bun.” He takes out the cigarette, for a beat, hocking spit against the ground, before his eyes narrow, though his voice still sounds honeyed, all gravelly.

His thumb runs over the rim of the beer bottle, clasped loosely over his lap. A calloused palm coils around the neck of it, flicking over the nub lazily. It jerks. Your eyes follow the sudden movement, and there’s a smug, fiIthy Iittle smirk twitching his lips when you meet his eyes.

“I ain’t askin’ twice.”