(A friend of a friend of a friend told me the story of a goody two shoes girl who gets caught up in a life of crime. She does it to please her man, but afterwards realizes that what she really needs is simply a new man. But will the police catch up to her first? It was a long story but I hung off of every word. So will you)
The glint of silver steel flashed under her red leather jacket.
Part of the gun barrel was touching her black tummy. It felt cold and ominous.
Sarah pulled her jacket tightly closed and looked away from the mounted wall camera. She then sighed as the person in front of her sauntered over to a free teller, leaving her at the head of the line.
Sweat was forming on her black brow, and her heart thumped furiously in her chest. She watched as her giant, firm breasts rose and fell under the jacket due to her sudden panting.
Her eyes were now dancing and wild. Full blown panic began to seize every fiber of her being. She had never been involved in any criminal activity before in her entire life. But yet, after only four months of dating bad boy Trevor Harris, here she was, on the verge of committing armed robbery. From research she'd done, she'd learned that armed robbery usually carried prison terms of seven to twenty years in the state of Pennsylvania, even for first time offenders. A minimum of seven years rotting away in an eight by twelve foot cell? She began to contemplate the wisdom of doing something so utterly foolish.
In the back of her tortured mind, the distant voice of her long dead mother began to accost her proposed criminal intentions. "Dating bad boys may at first seem exciting and a whole lot of fun, but in the end they'll only bring you sorrow and grief, ruining your life for time and eternity!"
"I know, momma, I know!" Sarah now whispered to herself.
A solitary tear fumbled past her fluttering eyelid. She tried to stop it by closing her eyes, but the salty drop trickled down her cheek. She brushed it away and contemplated her options. In a few seconds a teller would be calling her to the counter. She was either going to step forward and pull out her gun, or simply keep the gun hidden in her jacket and hurriedly walk straight out the bank's front door. There was still time to extract herself from the unfolding robbery, but only if she acted now.
She flipped open her eyes and stole a glance at Trevor, the bad boy who also happened to be her current boyfriend. He was fumbling with a bank machine off to the side, pretending to transact some innocent banking. Only Sarah knew better. Underneath his worn khaki jacket was also a gun, whose arsenal of deadly bullets were at the mercy of his trigger happy black fingers.
Trevor suddenly lifted his head away from the screen and glared at Sarah in anger. She was not paying attention, and seemed distant, hesitant, lost in thought. A teller was beckoning to her to please step forward, but Sarah's mind was elsewhere, suddenly desperate to abort the dangerous plan. She began kicking herself. Why was she throwing her life away? She had gotten top marks in high school, and had been offered full scholarships from half a dozen Ivy League colleges. But, as fate would have it, she had met Trevor, whose dreamy eyes, angelic face, and sweetly chiseled rippling abs had stolen her heart and mind.
"Miss?"
"Hello? Miss?"
A tap on her shoulder from the person in line behind her brought her wandering mind crashing back to the here and now.
"Teller's open, hon."
"Oh, sorry," Sarah offered, turning her astonishingly pretty black face towards the waving teller.
Sarah instantly sought to regain her composure, walking slowly but seductively, showcasing a sexy swagger that had taken all her teenage years to perfect.
Her long, gorgeous legs were elevated on five inch pumps. Her rounded, sensational bum pressed sensually into her tight fitting designer jeans. Her curvy hips swayed as her heels clicked along the bank's painted, concrete floor. She was easily the sexiest, most beautiful woman most men had ever seen. She therefore knew in her heart of hearts that she could probably have any man she wanted, and yet, and yet...and yet she was settling for a man that had stuck a gun in her hand and was leading her into a life of crime. She sighed in misery at the thought.
For whether she liked it or not, she had fallen so hopelessly and helplessly in love with the loser, that to back out would no doubt merely end their relationship, and turn him permanently against her. Besides, he had promised her that robbing banks was not to be a habit, but rather a one-time occurrence. He only wanted enough money to get over his bout of unemployment.
"Hello, miss, I hope you're having a nice day. What can I help you with?"
Sarah didn't answer at first, leaning against the cheap wood counter as her fingertips toyed with the leather grips on the silver magnum. It was definitely a larger handgun than most women would feel comfortable using. But Trevor had insisted she use it anyways, rather than the snub nosed thirty-two that was also available. "The larger and scarier the gun," he had told her, "would result in a greater level of fear," thus inducing "any teller to comply with any request."
Still, she was languishing in the valley of indecision. Should she whip the gun out or shouldn't she?
"Excuse me, Miss? Are you okay?"
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. I just wanted to pay some bills, they're here in my pockets somewhere."
Trevor watched from afar, his face covered with seething rage. Why was she hesitating? Why was she rifling through her pockets? And why was she not pulling out her gun and asking for all the money?
"Love your nails, by the way. Where do you get them done?"
"At Sweeny's Nails," Sandra answered, glad for the distraction. "Right in the mall across the street."
"Maybe I oughta go there. Mine keep breaking all the time."
Sandra suddenly imagined herself whipping out the gun and brandishing it in both hands. And then it suddenly dawned on her. Why bother taking the gun out at all? Why draw attention to herself? Why not just give the teller a quick peek at the gun under her jacket and then keep smiling while she asked her politely to hand over all the money? Why make a scene and draw attention to herself? Why give someone a chance to press any silent alarms?
She dropped the canvas bag onto the counter. "Put all the money into that bag and do it quick," she shouted.
"That's not even a real gun, is it?" the teller remarked snidely, having only caught a momentary glimpse of its dark leather grips against a silvery shine.
Sandra sighed and whipped the giant gun out into the open, pointing it inches from the suddenly terrified teller's face. "Fine, we'll do it your way, now hand over the money real quick or you can find out if the bullets are also real or not."
The teller began trembling violently and then froze momentarily, her mind awash with fear and confusion.
Trevor had chosen this particular bank, because it had no security guard, but he had not counted on the ardent ineptness of a terrified teller. Months earlier he had phoned in fake 911 robbery calls from across the street, timing the cops to see how long they would take to get there. Trevor's mind was in a panic. He knew he had to assume another employee at the bank had seen the gun and pressed a silent alarm. He glanced at his watch and noted that it was exactly ten thirty-seven. He now knew that only three minutes would separate him from the arrival of cops bound to come hurtling into the parking lot at ten forty.
He dashed over to where Sarah had the gun pointed, then leaped over the counter, knocking the teller out of the way and rifling through her drawer, tossing about five thousand in small bills onto the counter. Sarah tossed them into the bag.
He then fired a shot into the glass that separated all tellers from the big money.
"You, behind the glass, bring that money out here quick or people are going to start dying."
Tony Miller, the assistant branch manager, had been working in behind the glass and realized that the sooner Trevor got his hands on some real cash, the sooner he would leave the bank, and perhaps not have any reason to fire his weapon. He therefore scooped up bundles of twenty and fifty dollar bills and walked calmly out past the protective glass. He then sat the generous pile of bills down on the counter and watched as Trevor gratefully dumped them into the canvas bag.
Trevor checked his watch. It read ten thirty-nine. In sixty seconds, if he didn't leave now, he would be looking at the inside of a jail cell. He took the bag from Sarah and shouted, "let's go!"
Trevor ran towards the door without waiting for Sarah, allowing her to trail behind.
He reached the door and bolted through it, not holding it open for Sarah or even waiting to see if she was making it out alright. In the back of his mind he just wanted to hop into his car and get it started.
Sarah hurried as best she could, cursing herself for not wearing a flatter shoes. She now sighed bitterly at the fact that vanity was slowing her down.
She could hear Trevor's car engine roar to life and let her gun hand slip to her side as she finally reached the door.
She pushed it open and was about to jump outside when the hand of an overzealous bank customer pulled her back in, snaring her jacket collar with grubby, fat, white fingers that had the invisible word 'hero', written all over them.
Trevor had now backed the car up to the front door, impatiently waiting for his woman.
He caught a glimpse of the heavy set white man trying to pull Sarah back inside, undoubtedly so he could play hero and get on the six o'clock news. The thought filled Trevor with rage. He had not fired his gun even once, and had not physically hurt any employees and customers, and yet, here was some busybody white person, trying to stop him from achieving his goal.
The bitterness from a lifetime of white folk being prejudiced against him now boiled to the surface.
Trevor grabbed his gun and hopped out of the car. He then swung open the bank door and in a fit of rage pumped four shots into the hero's chest, killing him instantly. He then scooped up Sarah from where the man had pushed her down, and dragged her half sitting through the door.
In the glass door reflection he saw the assistant bank manager, Tony Miller, standing only a foot away. Only moments earlier, Tony had been half way across the bank, bringing money out of the glassed in area. It was obvious that Tony had now run over to either see the car licence plate, or to pick up where Mr. Hero had left off. For the dead hero had stood where Tony now stood, and before being shot, had snatched Sarah and actually wrestled her to the ground. Trevor now wondered, if this Tony was planning to do the same?
Trevor was now seething with uncontrollable rage. If it was trouble these folks were looking for, it was trouble they were going to get. He raised the gun and pointed it directly at Tony just as Sarah had made it back up onto her feet.
"Time to die, asshole," Trevor screamed, aiming the gun directly between his eyes.
Sarah watched in horror as Trevor began to squeeze the trigger. She had not planned on anyone getting hurt, and was already sickened to her stomach that Mr. Hero lay dead on the ground.
"No, Trevor, no!" she shouted, raising her arm to knock the gun away to stop any emerging bullet from hitting its intended target.
Her arm caught Trevor off guard, and the gun suddenly went off, with the bullet missing Tony, but hitting Sarah in the shoulder instead.
