rafe cameron had rules about dating pogues. strict ones. and technically, you weren’t a pogue. but sarah’s best friend? that felt worse.

rafe had grown used to the routine, girls tripping over themselves for even a second of his attention, acting like he was something divine. a greek god carved straight out of saltwater and money. He’d never denied how good it felt. it was unsurprising to those who knew the extent of rafes ego. it slowly drove him insane that you weren’t like all those girls.

you never tried to fit in with other snobs on the figure 8. and that was exactly the problem. every time his eyes found you in a crowd, he had to remind himself of the label you’d given yourself, a pogue. and nonetheless, his sisters best friend.

you came from an average family, parents making decent money, a house on figure 8 but without the taste for the finer things. yet you found yourself working at the country club. he found that ridiculous. no golfing on weekends. no thousand-dollar whiskey bottles collecting dust. your family just didn’t know how to waste money in the same way he so recklessly did.

it’s the fourth of july and late morning when rafe strolled into the country club, accompanied by topper. dropping their ridiculously expensive golf bag on the floor carelessly. as topper immediately started mingling with some nearby kook-girls drinking fancy cocktails. rafe, however, made a stalk for the bar. where you so diligently tended to ungrateful members of the club.

“hey” he says, tapping a hand idly on the oak worktop by the beer taps. signaling over your attention. he saw you here often enough. but didn’t expect a teenager to be working on the fourth of july, it’s kind of a big deal on figure 8. extravagant parties that usually end in a nightmare hangover.