"What's your natural hair color?
"Blonde." She sighs, blowing the hair from her eyes. "I'm probably due for another dye job."
"Yeah," I agree. "I like redheads better."
"Do you?" she asks mockingly. "I haven't heard you specify how much you like one in particular yet."
"Give me twenty-four hours," I reply. "And if I still haven't dumped you off somewhere by then, I'll say it."
"Fine," Ana concedes as she strides ahead of me quickly. "Hurry up. I can hear sirens in the distance. You want to be out of here before the firetrucks and police arrive, don't you?"
"Where are we headed?" I ask, amused as I follow after. I feel a similar urgency to get back out onto the road, to discover just how much things are liable to change moving forward. "And don't even pretend that you're driving."
I plant a hand between her breasts and push her back by her chest plate as I resume my seat behind the handlebars of my soot-stained bike. Going to have to hose her down later, I think as I tug the handle, and the headlight flashes on.
"East," Ana says as she wraps her arms around my waist.
I turn my head back to take her in over my shoulder. "You just want to skip ahead a time zone so that I'll tell you that much sooner that I love you."
"You said it, not me," she replies before the roar of the engine drowns out our exchange and we start off. We aren't even a mile before I feel her lay her head against my shoulder, burying her cheek against the patch that adorns my back. I reach down and squeeze the knee beside my own.
"I love you, Flint Carter."
I don't just hear the words as they are spoken; I feel them reverberate in my ribcage, my heart. Ana might be riding behind me, but I know exactly where I'll be keeping her from now on.
###
LESHER
CHAPTER 1
NANCY
When I first see the man enter through the revolving front doors of the bank, I immediately drop my pen. Thankfully, it's attached to a silver chain moored to my desk, so nothing comes of my clumsy maneuver save for the chain snaking out across a pile of papers and tightening as it arrests the pen's fall. I deposit the pen back in its holder to avoid any further mishaps and quickly smooth my hands across the front of my pencil skirt for good measure.
My reaction doesn't come because I've seen the man before. Oh, no. I think I would remember that leather ensemble, creased and black as midnight and creaking with every echoing bootfall. My reaction comes because from the moment he enters, his eyes meet mine—as if he's locked on and zeroed in. I don't have to lift my gaze again from searching for nonexistent wrinkles to understand that he's headed my way.
Is this man really a customer? I wonder. Don't be ridiculous…of course he has to be.
But then, why have I never seen him before? Maybe he's just a stranger to this branch. We're a small operation, but it's not as if I work for the only Grand National Credit Union around.
He arrives at my station. I clear my throat and glance up from pretending to straighten an already neat stack of papers. The man bypassed the sign that instructed him to wait until called. Somehow, I don't think he is used to playing by the rules.
"Good afternoon. How may I help you?" I inquire. I keep my greeting formal, maybe even a little sterile, just to be safe. I try to make myself as automated as the various machines that sit on my desk.
His mouth flexes a little and when he speaks, I'm treated to a flash of straight, pearlescent white teeth. "That remains to be seen, Nancy."
I blush as my name slides easily past his lips, but save myself from making my bashfulness come across any worse by not asking how he knows who I am. As a bank teller, my name is broadcast on my reflective gold nametag for all to see. There is no hiding who I am from him even if I wanted to.
It's a strange thought to have in that moment, but it occurs to me nonetheless. I have extensive experience dealing with rude customers, sure, but never any that I felt like hiding from. That's part of why I'm so successful at my job despite being an introvert: I'm good at putting on my best winning smile and not shying away when it counts. I know how to be accommodating without being completely yielding; I know how to deal with personalities more aggressive than my own.
But this man doesn't put himself forward as being aggressive. None of the body language that I have grown accustomed to is present: he carries himself straight in his shoulders, but stands a little more loosely around his torso and hips. Maybe that's why I feel my eyes drawn to his body below the belt, but I keep them resolutely trained on his face, leaving my character study incomplete.
The man gazes back at me and maintains eye contact; though, from the corner of my eye, I see that his pale lips twist in a slight, amused smile. There's no way my reaction to him is any sort of secret…at least, not to him. The way he stares at me, I suspect he is conveying that it will be kept between us.
This makes it much worse for me in the long run. This isn't the first time, nor, I’m sure, will it be the last, that I curse the youthful expressiveness of my own face. It makes my job that much harder for me nine times out of ten.
"Whatever you need from me today, sir, I am happy to help," I respond automatically.
"I would like to open an account," he says. "Is that something you can do for me?"
"I…" My eyes move away from his momentarily to attempt to track down one of the representatives qualified to screen him, but all of them appear to be busy. My neighbor and senior teller, Christian, is also engaged with a customer, so I can't just claim rookie status and pawn this handsome stranger off on him—even if flamboyant Christian might thank me for the generous pass at the end of the day.
This recent guest is incredibly handsome. He looks like he just rolled out of a 1950s Hollywood lot, fresh off the set of Rebel Without a Cause. While he has the good looks to rival James Dean, I somehow sort of suspect he would wind up playing the villain of the piece. His hair is too blond, almost platinum, and it’s shaved close up the sides in an undercut. I notice a nick in one ear, and wonder if this is the result of an unsteady, careless hand, or if it's an old injury. His pale blue eyes bore into me as he awaits the completion of my sentence.
"Sure!" I announce suddenly perky, if only to interrupt the train my own thoughts are taking and thrust my stammer back into retirement. "At least, I would be happy to get the process started for you. May I see your ID?"
"Sure," he responds. After rifling through his wallet, which is just as leathery as the rest of him, he pushes a plastic card toward me. I notice that he wears black leather gloves. It's something we're supposed to look out for—it helps people avoid leaving traceable fingerprints—but in the context of this man, the gloves make sense. I unfold my readers from where they hang in the collar of my blouse and push them up my nose as I accept his identification.
"Thomas?" I read aloud in surprise.
The man folds his arms and leans them on the counter. This, too, is against regulation, and something we're trained to look out for, but I don't see any harm in it. It's hard to find fault with the amused way he's looking at me.
"Is there a problem?" he asks.
"It's just, uh…you don't seem like a Thomas." Not good, and very likely insulting. I backpedal quickly. "I mean, Thomas doesn't really strike me as a biker's name."
Oh God, that's even worse. Christian is looking over at my window now with an expression of mixed fascination and horror that I could be so insulting to a customer.
Thomas is being an incredibly good sport, however. "What makes you think I'm a biker?" His lips stretch and his eyelids lower, and he looks like a snake basking on a rock just waiting for its next meal to wander within reach. If I didn't think I could dig myself in any deeper, he's just showed up with a spare shovel and a ready-and-willing inclination to help.
"I just assumed by all the leather…and the fact that it's eighty degrees outside…" I say. "I mean, if there wasn't a logical reason for dressing that way, wouldn't you be hot otherwise?"
/> "I could say the same for you," Thomas notes as his eyes travel down my front. "There must be a logical reason for what you're wearing, but the logic sort of escapes me. I can only assume your dress code is different from my own. Is it in the handbook that they make you button all the way to your neck? I don't see a single hole that isn't filled."
A blush sweeps across my face, and I am aware that this observation comes from directly looking at my chest.
"And I can't see over the counter…" Thomas cranes forward in an attempt to look anyway, but his view continues to be thwarted by the desk. "… but I bet you're wearing leggings. Pity. I'm sure they're terrific."
"My stockings?" I ask automatically. I really hope that sound I hear on the right isn't Christian sniggering at my expense.
"Your legs," Thomas replies.
I walked right into that one, terrific legs or not. I notice that Thomas has used the excuse of fact checking his theory to lean further forward on my desk. I remove my glasses and tuck them back into the pocket of my blouse.
"Mr. Smith," I respond carefully as I return his driver's license, "I am afraid I am unable to open an account for you today."
His smile twitches, and I catch a first glimpse of what a frown might look like on his face. It might actually suit his features better, I muse, which is a strange thought to have—especially about someone I've just met. "Why not?" he asks as he takes his card back. "If you don't mind my asking."
"Oh, I don't mind at all," I reply with a ready smile. "It's only because I am in no way authorized to do so. But if you'll have a seat over there, I'll notify the first available representative of your request."
The smile returns almost at once. "Then why did you ask to see my ID?" Thomas inquires. He's getting it now. The cat thought he was toying with the canary. From his station, I can see Christian glancing between us incredulously.
"Seeing as you're not wearing a nametag, I felt at a disadvantage," I respond, still giving him the full array of my teeth.
"So you decided to waste my time because you were curious?" He doesn't sound angry. In fact, seeing the grin that flexes across his face now, I would almost say the evanescent ones leading up to it were inauthentic—but this is just an observation made in hindsight, and I can't be sure of anything. He's leaning on the counter again. I feel so stiff standing before him by comparison, but there is no professional reason to attempt to bring my face closer to his. I pull out a drawer and withdraw several files as I continue to speak to him.
"I decided to help you pass a few minutes in enjoyable conversation," I say. "You may be seated now if you choose."
"Oh, I think I'll be just fine standing here," Thomas responds. "You're not doing anything, are you?" He casts a conspicuous glance at my already conspicuous files.
"The customer always comes first," I reply pleasantly.
"We'll see about that."
I hear Christian give an audible, approving gasp, but I admit whatever has just been implied passes over my head completely. I wonder if Thomas' comments could be considered sexual harassment, but Christian is here, and I've done a good job of deflecting his come-ons so far with a little professional playfulness. I've been bank telling long enough that my naturally shy nature now comes second to my ability to redirect.
All the same, I find it's become increasingly difficult to raise my eyes from Thomas and return to the outside world. We're locked in more than just conversation, and despite my first, intimidated impression of him, I find that I'm starting to enjoy our exchange.
But the outside world seems determined to invade, whether I want to pay attention to it or not. Thomas' eyes break from mine first, and he turns to observe a group of men coming through the revolving glass door.
My stomach plunges at the sight even before my brain fully comprehends what I am seeing. There are five of them, all dressed in black—unlike Thomas, it isn't leather riding apparel that they are wearing. Each individual wears a ski mask pulled over his head to disguise his features, although I can tell from the breadth of their shoulders and the size of their combat boots what gender they are.
"Everyone get down on the fucking floor!" the man in the lead shouts as he raises his semi-automatic rifle. Screams fill the entryway of the bank as bullets fire from the mouth of the weapon, shattering lights in their fixtures and the lenses on our mounted security cameras. Bodies drop, all uninjured, in obedience to his demand.
I stand stock-still, petrified, too afraid to comply with even this simple request. The masked man's eyes meet mine as he lowers his weapon and he trains its smoking muzzle directly on me.
"This is a robbery," he informs me.
CHAPTER 2
LESHER
I crouch down immediately and raise my hands, but from my new vantage, I continue to gaze coolly at the men in ski masks. There are five of them; I watch as they array themselves about the enormous foyer of the bank, seeking out employees and patrons alike to continue their intimidation tactics. There is a very small window in which they can assert their dominance over their hostages and ensure that no heroes rose up to take them on.
One of the men begins to walk swiftly in my direction, and I realize he is headed for Nancy. I glance up to see the woman's terrified face still hovering over the station above me.
"Get down," I hiss the order. She blinks, as if broken free from a spell, and quickly drops down to comply. I shift toward the side of the desk as she edges out on her hands and knees to meet me; when the masked man points the muzzle of his gun directly at her head, she quickly lifts her hands to demonstrate her compliance.
"Easy, tiger," I mutter to the trigger-happy robber. "She's coming out."
"Do I look like I fucking have time to wait?" the man growls his response, although his words and steely gaze are still directed at Nancy. I raise my hands a little higher to further express their emptiness, before reaching to help the terrified woman down onto the floor. She takes my hand without a second thought and allows herself to be reeled in beside me. I can clearly see that she's in shock.
"What's wrong, Nancy?" I ask as the masked man steps away to see to another couple hunkered down by the entrance. "Never been involved in a bank robbery before?"
"I appreciate your attempt to inject some levity into our situation, Mr. Smith," Nancy returns. Her voice shakes, and I can tell she is more frightened than she is letting on. "I just ask that you please not feel too offended when you realize it isn't working."
"Call me Thomas," comes his automatic reply. "And thank you for putting on a brave face anyway. As a patron of your establishment, I appreciate it."
"I hope this doesn't change your mind about opening an account with us," she replies. I feel a smile stretch across my lips before I can suppress it. Inappropriate, given the circumstances.
"All work and no bank raid, huh?" I ask. "Rest assured, if I survive this, I will still have money for you to look after."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Nancy mutters as one of the men, the ringleader, crosses back to the center of the floor. "But what could they possibly want from our branch? We're small-time! It's not as if we keep all that much physical money available to our clients…"
I can see that she is thinking aloud, and doesn't really expect an answer from me. I shoot her a look all the same to assess her expression. The thin, elfish face that I was drawn to upon first entering looks even more pinched with anxiety, and the cute auburn bob that had previously looked so pristinely styled is completely disheveled. She looks like the adrenaline dump has just woken her up from a long nap.
I really can't imagine how boring her life must have been up until this point. Maybe there is a bright side to the robbery for her after all, one that she can benefit from in the future moving forward. Maybe life in her little town will never be the same for her again.
I almost wish I could stick around to watch, but there's no way in hell a town like this and all its boring little dramas could ever keep me. I have a strong desire to reach out and
smooth her hair back, which with every nervous sweep of her hand is beginning to resemble a bird's nest more and more, but I don't act on that impulse, either. I keep every move calculated.
"Where's your branch manager?" I mutter. In the next instant, the masked man at the center of the room demands the same:
"Get me the branch manager! You!" he bellows as he singles out the male teller who had previously occupied the station beside Nancy. The teller swallows audibly and shoots a wild look about the room, as if hoping the robber could have possibly been indicating someone else.
"Christian," Nancy moans mournfully as the male teller grips his podium and rises to his feet. He doesn't so much as shoot a look her way to acknowledge he's heard her as he moves toward an alley of back offices with the masked man marching behind him.
I decide to make my move now. There's no use waiting. Before Nancy can raise a cry to object, I yank her against my side and clap my hand over her mouth. I feel her lips open against the material of my riding glove in protest as I drag her back behind her own podium and out of view of the room. Everyone else is too preoccupied with Christian's forced exit to notice that his neighboring teller has also vanished.
Nancy stops struggling immediately when she realizes what I'm doing. We take shelter behind her desk, wedged between the chair and the table. I pull my hand back as she turns to face me, dark eyes wide and expectant. The front of her blouse rises and falls with each laborious breath, but I appreciate her efforts to keep quiet as she awaits the formation of a plan.
"What? No secret button to call the cops?" I ask as I scan the underside of the desk without real surprise. I'm not interested in sticking around while we wait for the boys in blue to arrive. Nancy shakes her head in quick affirmation, and looks like she might want to be sick. I grasp her shoulders to keep her anchored in the present, and keep steady eye contact. It's easy when the eyes gazing back into my own are so pretty, thickly lashed and fluttering. "It's fine," I say. "Don't worry about it."
BILLIONAIRE BIKERS: 3 MC Romance Books Page 15
