Page 11 of Coach
“I, uh, thanks.”
“I’m Raff.”
“Raff. Is that short for Rafferty?” I asked. I had a thing for names. Maybe because mine was on the unusual side.
“It’s short for riff-raff.”
“As in… who let the riff-raff in?”
“Exactly.”
“So, is there a riff?”
“My brother.”
“That makes sense. Are they your real names?”
“Road names.”
“I… have no idea what that means.”
“We’re a club,” Raff said, gesturing between himself and Coach. “Motorcycle,” he added when I clearly still didn’t understand.
“Oh, okay.”
Now that he mentioned it, Raff was wearing one of those vests I always saw bikers wearing. Though Coach didn’t have one on. Maybe he was new or something.
“Do you have a name, sweetness?”
Only stupidly handsome guys blessed with more than their fair share of charm and ego could get away with calling women they didn’t even know cutesy nicknames without coming off as creepy.
“Este.”
“Este. I like that,” Raff declared. “So, do you bring a ladder to all your social functions, or do you work here?”
Charmed a little despite myself, my lips curved up.
“I work here.”
“Girl repairman. I like it. Please tell me you sometimes wear a tool belt.”
“If the job requires it.”
Raff pressed a hand to his heart.
“You’re new in town, right? I’m pretty sure we would have noticed you before.”
“Just a couple of weeks. I was just supposed to be passing through, but something made me want to stop.”
“It has a sort of desolate, sad, small-town charm.”
He said that in a way that suggested he’d traveled enough to see many such towns.
“Well, we are having a party later tonight if you want to come. Good food, fruity drinks, a Jello shot or two. You should come by. We’re up at that big warehouse at the edge of town.”
I knew the exact one they were talking about. In a very small town full of modestly sized buildings, it and the prison stood out like sore thumbs.
“You’re having a party at a warehouse?”
