where sticks of TNT were strapped.
“This is your first time,” she said, and he blushed.
“I didn’t know whether to use a gun or dynamite.”
“Well, next time you paint your paper towel rolls, try to make sure ‘Bounty’ isn’t showing through.”
When he looked down to see if she was right, she grabbed for her tiara bag, and what she’d assumed was a fake gun went off—shooting the ceiling—all while Harold the guard slept soundly.
Plaster fell and smacked Bobbie Faye in the head, coating her hair with white dust. She gaped at the bank robber.
“That’s not my fault,” he said, pointing at the ceiling dust.
“Fine. Give me back my ti . . . uh.
Lunch
. Now.”
“Hey, Professor Fred,” one of the two geeky boys said from the front door. “I think I hear sirens. We need to go!”
Fred turned to run just as Bobbie Faye lunged again forthe tiara, and it seemed like the next moment took a billion years.
The welder guy edged closer as—
Professor Fred slipped in the puddle from Bobbie Faye’s purse—
And as the Professor fell, he threw the bag-o’-tiara-and-cash to the two geeky boys freaking out at the bank door, next to a still-sleeping Harold. The tiara arced high, way beyond Bobbie Faye’s reach, and she leapt up—
Tripping over the Professor just as the welder guy pounced on him, knocking the gun from the robber’s hand.
The gun slid one direction on the concrete floor and Bobbie Faye rolled in the other.
She scrambled across the welder and Fred, grabbed the gun, and ran out just in time to see the geeky boys climbing into a white Saab. They sped out so fast, she didn’t have time to even get a plate number, and she spun around in the parking lot, desperate, her brain chanting
no no no no no no no
.
Sirens screamed a few blocks away, heading toward the bank, and there was her car, dead to the world and no hope of reviving it, much less managing a high-speed chase. There were several other cars in the parking lot—an old station wagon with a harried dad and four kids; a Volkswagen Beetle piloted by the librarian; a silver Ford Taurus helmed by a nattily dressed blond guy; a couple of work trucks, one obviously belonging to the welder inside; a red tricked-out Ford step-side that gleamed in the morning sun, whose driver hunched down at the wheel; and, beside it, a blue Porsche, whose owner was nowhere in sight.
Bobbie Faye picked the logical and obvious choice. For Bobbie Faye. She ran to the passenger side of the tricked-out step-side, knowing that it was going to be occupied by some sort of testosterone-fueled gangly, pimply teenage boy who measured manhood in just how many inches the truck could be jacked up on supersized tires. This kid apparently had a deeply insecure ego because the Monster Mudders were at least three times any normal tire size. A kid like that was usually persuaded easily enough by breasts, but on the offchance that hers might not do the trick, she held Fred’s gun on him.
Except he was so not a teenage boy. Instead, the guy was about mid-thirties, weathered hard, tall, muscled. His hottie factor jump-started her hormones with a vengeance, especially the really nice biceps, which unfortunately led to a hand holding a gun on
her
. One glance at his expression soured every single surging hormone, because Bobbie Faye knew instantly he was the type of guy with the mean pit-bull attitude of someone who was ex-military, ex-cop, ex-husband, and seriously lacking in the patience department.
Shit. Why couldn’t he have been a wimp?
“I need your truck,” she said, keeping her gun on him. “I need to follow that Saab.”
“You need a psych exam.” Then he saw the Jolt Cola he’d knocked over fizzing all over his jeans. “Sonofabitch! Look what you made me do.”
“You drink that? That stuff will kill you.”
He nodded pointedly at both guns, facing off.
“I don’t have time to argue.” She moved the barrel of her own gun slightly and shot the truck
“This is your first time,” she said, and he blushed.
“I didn’t know whether to use a gun or dynamite.”
“Well, next time you paint your paper towel rolls, try to make sure ‘Bounty’ isn’t showing through.”
When he looked down to see if she was right, she grabbed for her tiara bag, and what she’d assumed was a fake gun went off—shooting the ceiling—all while Harold the guard slept soundly.
Plaster fell and smacked Bobbie Faye in the head, coating her hair with white dust. She gaped at the bank robber.
“That’s not my fault,” he said, pointing at the ceiling dust.
“Fine. Give me back my ti . . . uh.
Lunch
. Now.”
“Hey, Professor Fred,” one of the two geeky boys said from the front door. “I think I hear sirens. We need to go!”
Fred turned to run just as Bobbie Faye lunged again forthe tiara, and it seemed like the next moment took a billion years.
The welder guy edged closer as—
Professor Fred slipped in the puddle from Bobbie Faye’s purse—
And as the Professor fell, he threw the bag-o’-tiara-and-cash to the two geeky boys freaking out at the bank door, next to a still-sleeping Harold. The tiara arced high, way beyond Bobbie Faye’s reach, and she leapt up—
Tripping over the Professor just as the welder guy pounced on him, knocking the gun from the robber’s hand.
The gun slid one direction on the concrete floor and Bobbie Faye rolled in the other.
She scrambled across the welder and Fred, grabbed the gun, and ran out just in time to see the geeky boys climbing into a white Saab. They sped out so fast, she didn’t have time to even get a plate number, and she spun around in the parking lot, desperate, her brain chanting
no no no no no no no
.
Sirens screamed a few blocks away, heading toward the bank, and there was her car, dead to the world and no hope of reviving it, much less managing a high-speed chase. There were several other cars in the parking lot—an old station wagon with a harried dad and four kids; a Volkswagen Beetle piloted by the librarian; a silver Ford Taurus helmed by a nattily dressed blond guy; a couple of work trucks, one obviously belonging to the welder inside; a red tricked-out Ford step-side that gleamed in the morning sun, whose driver hunched down at the wheel; and, beside it, a blue Porsche, whose owner was nowhere in sight.
Bobbie Faye picked the logical and obvious choice. For Bobbie Faye. She ran to the passenger side of the tricked-out step-side, knowing that it was going to be occupied by some sort of testosterone-fueled gangly, pimply teenage boy who measured manhood in just how many inches the truck could be jacked up on supersized tires. This kid apparently had a deeply insecure ego because the Monster Mudders were at least three times any normal tire size. A kid like that was usually persuaded easily enough by breasts, but on the offchance that hers might not do the trick, she held Fred’s gun on him.
Except he was so not a teenage boy. Instead, the guy was about mid-thirties, weathered hard, tall, muscled. His hottie factor jump-started her hormones with a vengeance, especially the really nice biceps, which unfortunately led to a hand holding a gun on
her
. One glance at his expression soured every single surging hormone, because Bobbie Faye knew instantly he was the type of guy with the mean pit-bull attitude of someone who was ex-military, ex-cop, ex-husband, and seriously lacking in the patience department.
Shit. Why couldn’t he have been a wimp?
“I need your truck,” she said, keeping her gun on him. “I need to follow that Saab.”
“You need a psych exam.” Then he saw the Jolt Cola he’d knocked over fizzing all over his jeans. “Sonofabitch! Look what you made me do.”
“You drink that? That stuff will kill you.”
He nodded pointedly at both guns, facing off.
“I don’t have time to argue.” She moved the barrel of her own gun slightly and shot the truck
Similar Books
