Chapter One
It has been the sort of week you can’t wait to see the back
of, not that I have anything worth looking forward to at the weekend
other than a social life held hostage by a sad lack of money and a pile
of washing the size of a small mountain range. Well I have a load of
books to read, but daydreaming seems to have become an all-encompassing
pastime, though maybe not one for my CV.
Hobbies and Interests: Living in a
fantasy world where there is never any washing, something exciting is
always just about to happen, and men are hot and desperate for my
attentions.
Oh I have had “boyfriends” since I got here and got
myself a job in the bank. Indeed a couple of them are sitting across
the desk from me right now, but the boredom of work is barely even
dented by their presence. What I want is a man with a huge fucking
hammer, and before you choke, I mean to say that I need a man with a
hammer to smash the reality of my day, but now that you mention it, the
other idea isn’t so bad either. How
‘Playboy’ though huh? Concentrate please. I want a
man with a huge fucking hammer and the knowledge of how to use it.
Here it is half past 2 on a Friday afternoon and the bank is full of
shopkeepers depositing the weekly takings, necessitating charming
smiles and “thank yous” from me, when what I really
want to do is scream, “I AM SO BORED!!” Actually
that is quite a good little fantasy in itself—doing just that
and sending piles of coins and pens and papers flying and seeing Mr.
Woodward, the bank manager, scramble after the pennies that make up the
bank’s profits.
There that took up a very welcome 10 minutes, but I don’t
want to look at the clock again just yet, I’ll wait a while
so I can be pleasantly surprised. Instead I will let my mind wander to
all those little grievances against Mr. Woodward and those other people
who actually want to be here and allow myself a little self-satisfied
grin, “deserve my pity really these people,” until
I stop to consider that at least they aren’t sitting there
thinking they are wasting their lives as I am doing.
I take what must be my fifth bathroom break of the afternoon, just for
something to do—surely my hair needs combing or something,
anything—and I frown a bit as I come back. Either Mr.
Woodward has flipped and taken pity on us by shutting up shop early on
a Friday or there is one of those “minutes of
silence” things going on that I have neglected to read on the
oh-so-interesting staff bulletin. Slightly puzzled, I push open the
door that leads back into the bank with something of a rebellious shove
and then it’s gone, the weight of the door just disappears
and I am almost falling, I don’t know my own strength
obviously, but a metal click in my ears and a gun pointed straight at
me just wipes the smile off my face.
“Holy shit! Don’t shoot me, I just work
here!”
Should put my hands up or something? In the absence of a white flag
maybe I should, but it feels faintly ridiculous, like we are in some
overacted film, but then again maybe he will laugh and lose
concentration, that is a key strategy I have seen in the movies many
times- take his mind off blasting a hole in you. He doesn’t
look the sort of man who would shoot an unarmed woman though, not that
I have huge experience in these matters, just an unhealthy interest in
Westerns, which it appears has finally paid off. He looks more of a
Clint Eastwood than a Lee van Cleef, although there was that one movie
where Clint Eastwood turned bad. But I digress.
“Are you robbing the bank?” Maybe I should at least
try to sound horrified, but I am guessing here, if he was going to
shoot me he probably would have done so already, and frankly anything
is better than carrying on with the Accounts as I so unaffectionately
call them. Ok, so it came out more like, “Come here
often?” Shoot me, oh…
“Well, what if we are?” Ah now there is an accent I
haven’t heard for a while. “Will you come inside
and sit with the others now.” He points with his gun that I
should go to where the white-faced Mr. Woodward sits rather glumly
surrounded by a bevy of assistant managers, all doing their best to
outshine each other in the “outraged expression
competition.”
Walking across the bank hall, I see another man by the door, his pistol
ready to challenge any new customers who might arrive, and the backs of
two more men who are hovering over Mr. Woodward’s desk and
stuffing bank notes into white cash bags. One of them has the sort of
bushy hair that looks like there has been a barber strike in his neck
of the woods for some time, and the other is tall and lean and, well
since I am on the subject of hair, with unruly brown curls, some of
which seem determined to hide in the collar of his jacket. My mind
wanders again, to tell the truth, thinking about how it might feel to
coax some of them curls out with my fingers. I am in no hurry to
squeeze in between the thighs of the bank men who could hardly get a
rise in the most red-blooded woman, so my progress across the hall is
rather slow.
Christ, now that I come to think of it, I haven’t seen a man
looking this good for some time, even if it is only the back of him.
The cloth of his rough jacket is pulled smooth by the flexing of
muscles underneath as he stretches for the money, I just glimpse his
hands and the flash of a ring. Maybe if I alter the trajectory of my
little stroll just a bit, I will be able to see the profile of his face.
“Will you look at all this, Ned, we will be needing some more
bags.” Oh he speaks too!
He is looking right at me. Why do I feel like I was just shot by an
invisible, soundless bullet? Maybe this one IS Lee van Cleef after all.
He is just freaking gorgeous! Angles in his face that you could spend
hours measuring and a thin line of a beard that just begs for some
fingers to trace along his jaw and keep going back into those curls or
down to that mouth depending on which direction you head, either of
which looks just as appealing. Choices choices.
Oh, I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself, a
little look isn’t going to do any harm, is it? Flickering my
eyes down over his body, I frown slightly. Curious clothes really, but
they look shit-hot all the same, layers of them—shirt,
waistcoat, jacket—and all buttoned up, like in those fuzzy
edged black-and-white photos with men standing all respectable next to
the fireplace, only he looks about as respectable as my thoughts.
“Get a grip will you? This man is robbing the
bank.” Right, you know what? I think I will reject the advice
of my more wholesome, upstanding nature and let the disreputable side
try its luck instead. “Wonder if he looks as good
naked?” Yeah, that about covers the main points.
I really can’t move and the worst thing is that he knows it
too. He leans back against the table to watch me with a grin on the
side of his mouth and hungry, smoky eyes that I swear are under my
clothes already.
“Well now, you look like the sort of girl who knows her way
around.”
Hmmm, shall I grin like the idiot I feel or take him to task? Girl!
Jeez, what century does he think it is? But since he is the one with
the pistol and by far the most dangerous eyes in the whole place, maybe
I should leave the linguistic debate for another time. Listen to me,
already planning our second date! “Trip to the movies and a
bite to eat? Nah, how about we go rob another bank instead? And in the
getaway car we will discuss patriarchal forms in language, that suit
you?”
“Only I could do with some help here. If you are willing,
naturally.”
His eyes are looking at me direct and catching every last drop of
teasing implication he can. I wince inwardly, wishing he’d at
least make some pretence of me being coerced—Mr. Woodward
watching my every move and no doubt right at this very moment giving
careful consideration to my future employment. As if he just read my
thoughts, he gives a flash of recognition and puts his hand on his
holster, one long finger slowly circling the trigger, just enough to
satisfy Mr. Woodward and more than enough to finish me off for good. Oh
this man is sharp as a razor alright!
“What do you need?” escapes from my lips in a
surprisingly satisfactory drawl.
“Joe,” the other man with all the hair is sort of
smiling, “if I could interrupt for just one minute. Unless
you want to be sharing a meal on a tin plate with the lass, you better
go with her and get some more bags, and then we will leave these good
people to enjoy the rest of their Friday.”
I quickly calculate how many bank notes fit in a bag times the number
of bags they each can carry and realize they will be making off with
quite a tidy sum. Even with only one of them guarding the door, there
is little chance of stopping them. This is just one of those quiet
places where nothing ever happens, plenty of fights and all on a
Saturday night and some neighbourly disputes over whose sheep is whose,
but if you were to tell the constable the bank is being robbed, he
would most likely lock you up for wasting what counts as his valuable
time. Anyhow these men have guns and the constable has little more than
his sour looks for a weapon.
It’s hard to keep a grin from taking over my face as I lead
him straight across the hall and down the corridor. I can feel every
bit of the air tingling, and I could lead him anyplace. How would he
know? He isn’t watching anything but my ass.
We stop at the cupboard where Mr. Woodward keeps the paper and pens and
all that and on the bottom shelf are those white bags he’s
wanting. I wonder if he can feel it, Fuck I must be giving off enough
sparks to light up the whole of Sydney bending down in front of him.
Ahh, he just tensed, he knows we could do it right here, Jesus I am
breathing too heavy. There is no way I can get back through the gap he
has left me
in the door frame, not without touching him, not without letting my
body brush against his. Well now that is some question he is asking, he
is so close to me I can taste him, he tastes like the bush, wild fresh
air, dirt and heat, and I lick my lips. Who said I was a city girl? The
cloth of his jacket is about as far from Saville Row as you can travel,
the brush of it catching in the goosebumps on my arms as I squeeze
myself past. He looks down at me. I swear he lost focus there the same
time I did.
"Aye me too Lass." Jesus.
* * *
Mr. Woodward finally pushes the bolts closed at the front doors, though
quite what the point is since there is shit-all money left here, I
don’t know. The coppers have all gone now and the outlaws
before them with bags stuffed full, some packed by my own hands.
It’s already dark but anyhow I am on my way out the back to
get my bike with a bigger grin on my face than usual, which is saying
something on a Friday night, I don’t mind telling you.
Damn, I can’t find the keys to my padlock again! I really
need a proper system, well at least put the keys in the same place on
two subsequent days. Fuck…what was that? My feet
can’t decide whether to stand still or run like hell while my
mind works like the clappers to find the slot to file that noise in.
Ah, a match sizzling and not a dangerous rattlesnake, that’s
good then, things can only get better. I take a glance just as the
match is raised to the end of a cigarette and briefly lights up a face.
And there he is. He leans against the wall and pulls on the smoke, his
other hand in his pocket, and looks at me with eyes that must be able
to pin a woman down at 20 paces, not that I need pinning, a simple
request will work.
“Jesus. What are you doing here? There are coppers all over
the place.”
“I know there are lass, that’s why I am standing in
the dark.”
Ok smart ass, “No, why are you here in town?
Shouldn’t you be… I don’t know, at your
hideout, galloping over the hills in a cloud of dust, throwing back
rough whiskey in a sawdust themed bar, burying the loot? Something, but
decidedly not here in this alley behind the bank that you just
robbed.”
He has my hand all wrapped in his fingers and pulls me into the shadows
with him. “I think you know why. What will I call
you?”
“What will you call me when?” just a little venture
into the obvious question of what exactly he has planned here.
He chuckles a little, his eyes look good all crinkled at the corners,
“Whenever you would like me to…when I am
serenading you at the window...writing you letters from
jail…or right now before I…” he leaves
me hanging a moment to wonder what he is going say while he looks at
me, weighing things up, “just before I kiss you.”
“Eva.” Ok that came out a bit quick, and he is
grinning at me again, must be quite the comedy turn, maybe I should
change my vocation—One night only! Eva with her incredible
ability to turn to mush in a second, Roll Up! Roll Up! Here in front of
me is a man used to women being in a fluster wherever he is and it is
making the hairs on the back of my neck rankle- the problem is the rest
of my body is screaming “Yes!”
“Joe…Joe Byrne.” Now I know I am not
exactly Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story but he seems to
think that that will do for the preliminaries, although frankly I am
struggling to argue against his logic. Fine we know each
other’s names, now where were we? Well what else is there to
say really, setting up a joint bank account and arranging mutual
pensions doesn’t seem to be on offer. Hahaah- and I thought I
was the one with the bad credit rating. I can feel myself burning up,
and from the look I just stole down at his pants—what the
hell, it’s dark—he is about there too. A few steps
forward and he has his hands around my waist and I try not to shake too
much with the first touch.
“Think I left some of the treasure behind...Eva.”
His mouth hovers over mine and I am feeling a little dizzy, ok scratch
the little, if he doesn’t kiss me soon I am sure I will keel
over, sh!t I can hardly think it for panting. There are gentle sucks on
my lips at first, sharing a breath or two between us, but everything is
on the edge, he knows it as well as me. My lips part to let him inside,
fuck he can kiss! I am really losing it now, moaning into his mouth.
His hand, he is moving his hand from my waist to the bare skin of my
thigh, I knew there was a point to short skirts and apparently he does
too.
I can sort of hear him saying something about clothes and easy, but
since I can hardly hear anything over my own heavy breathing I
don’t really care, instead I set myself to pulling at his
shirt, dragging it out of his pants so I can touch his skin. Oh my god!
Perfect, hard and smooth, and just what you would dream of, and he
isn’t taking any prisoners himself, swinging me round so my
back is against the wall. The palms of his hands are heavy on my skin
and pushing up higher and higher on my now shaking thighs.
My head is back against the wall, his mouth is dragging over my skin,
and Christ if my skirt was any higher it would do for a flag. There is
only the small issue of his trousers and my quite frankly
given-up-the-ghost knickers between us, and they don’t appear
to be making much of an argument. I can feel the buttons of his fly and
his cock behind them, right up against me, and if I could speak I would
be begging him to do it now. As it is I can hardly breathe. But I think
he might have guessed anyhow, me whimpering loud enough that I am sure
he thinks the coppers in the next town will hear me, so maybe
that’s why he is kissing me again, but I swear I damn near
bit his tongue just then when he pulled away from me and slid his
fingers into my knickers.
I don’t think I have ever been so wet, I truly
don’t, and he is breathing hard now too, the sound of him,
Jesus it makes me push down against him, I want him to know he can have
me. Right, like it’s not obvious he can have whatever he
wants. His fingers slip all over me and move so fast that I
can’t concentrate on anything except holding on. Well that
and praying to God for the one second that it flashes in my mind that
Trevor or Gareth or freaking Marcus or whatever their stupid names are
don’t come round the corner from the bank just now, although
mind you they might learn something, because I sure as hell I never
felt like this when I was with any of them.
What is he doing? No don’t take those fingers away! Oh
Christ, he is unbuttoning his trousers and I can’t stop
looking at him. He is gorgeous, hard and gorgeous, and I have never
wanted anything quite this bad before. Reaching down to touch him,
Jesus, I can hear him rumbling deep in that chest and we are smiling at
each other, warm I-know-you smiles. His hands are back on my thighs
lifting me up against the wall, a question in those beautiful brown
eyes, eyes that are burning into mine with intent. I can’t
say no—why on earth would I?
“You sure lass?”
“Jesus…yes right now!”
“We are of a like mind then.” What a smile, and he
is slides right inside me, all I can feel is his cock and the brick
against my back. Beautiful, deep hard fucking, and all I want is for it
never to stop.
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