Free Confessions of a Bombshell Bandit by Gemma Halliday Page A

Wal-Mart the day before. We tore open the mini van doors, streaking across the parking lot of the Los Angeles Mutual Bank on Fairfax and Pico, guns drawn.
    Quinn was the first to hit the front doors. She plowed in, her gun stuck out in front of her like an Al Pacino movie.
    “ Everybody on the ground, hands behind you heads! Nobody moves, and nobody gets hurt. I’m fucking serious!” She waved her gun in the direction of a guy in a Jerry Garcia tie and Dockers who was making a move for his cell phone. He froze, dropping to the floor along with the other people in line on their lunch break.
    Lynette came in a close second behind Quinn, aiming her gun at the security guard by the door who looked like he’d just started shaving yesterday. His wide eyed gaze bounced between Lynette's boobs, barely contained by the triangles of polka dotted fabric, and her gun, leveled at his chest, not sure if he should be scared or turned on.
    I came in behind Lynette, making my way across the floor of stunned people to the third teller window on the left. I set my plastic, flowered beach tote on the counter and pulled it open.
    The man behind the counter stared at me, his jaw stuck in the open position, eyes looking from the tote to my generous size C chest, the one thing I’d been happy to inherit from my mother.
    “ Hi, there” I said. “Empty the drawer into my bag, don’t even think of pushing your panic button, and keep your hands where I can see them. And,” I added as an afterthought, “stop staring at my tits.”
    Score one for the Bombshell Bandits.

    * * *

    We were making good time, the warm desert sun beating down on my face as the wind flipped my loose hair back over my shoulders. Not that we had a schedule. Not that we were really going anywhere in particular. The man in the seat beside me held the tiniest hint of half smile on his face as he looked at me across the console.
    "So," he said, his eyes laughing, "you're telling me that you just woke up one day and decided to start robbing banks?"
    I bit my lower lip and looked out the front windshield, watching the barren landscape fly by us. "Well, no. That's not exactly how it happened."
    I could feel him watching me, his eyes intent as his hands gripped the steering wheel of his black jeep. The top was down, warm, dry air swirling around us as the speedometer registered ninety. "So?" he asked.
    "So what?"
    "So, spill it. What made you turn to a life of crime?" I could hear the hint of humor in his voice again.
    "It's a long story," I answered truthfully.
    He grinned at me, gesturing to the wide open stretch of road ahead of us. "We've got all the time in the world, baby."
    I couldn't help it. I felt the corners of my mouth curve up. We did, didn't we? "You really want to know?"
    His eyes crinkled. "I want to know everything."
    I took a deep breath. "Okay. You asked for it."

    * * *

    Banks have always been some of my favorite places. I love the hushed tones, the calm in the air, the smell of crisp dollar bills being counted out in neat little piles. In a world where everything is debit cards, travelers checks, and automatic transfers, real money is hard to come by. Unless you're in a bank.
    Between a father in prison and a mother in a doublewide, cash was scarce growing up. And what we did have didn't take more than an empty Folgers can to hold. I was seven the first time I went into a bank. My great aunt Harriet had choked on a Dorito while watching Judge Judy and died at the ripe old age of 94, leaving my mother her collection of glass rodeo clown figurines and four hundred dollars in the form of a check from her estate attorney. I remember standing in line with my mother waiting to cash her check and staring at the wall of brochures that touted the bank's services. Retirement plans. College loans. Home loans. 'Finance your next vacation with a second mortgage' the brochure advised, showing a picture of two happy people, hand in hand on a white, sandy beach that