Chapter 10: The JournalistLater that evening, Zac Cramer waved me to the three-person table near the stage at The Rift. He looked hot, not dapper, in a pair of ass-hugging jeans and a too-tight black tee. Unfortunately, he didn’t look younger. Thirty-six didn’t pass for twenty-three. Not by a long shot.
I couldn’t remember being in The Rift last. Maybe ten years ago. Maybe fifteen. Who knew? The place hadn’t changed much, though. Same stage and tables with chairs. Same black curtains to the left and right of the stage. Same sticky floor. Same type of patrons: youthful, slutty, mostly all men who liked to take drugs up their noses. A hectic place. Wild. Sissies, as Buck liked to call them.
Zac hugged me. Chest to chest. Not a bad hug at all. “You made it.” He kissed my right cheek that I
