41. Cassidy #2
We make our way to where I left the blue sedan.
It’s still there, no sign anyone noticed it missing yet.
I pop the trunk and we stash our backpack inside for now, keeping the disguises handy in the backseat.
We decide to walk to the thrift store on Main Street rather than drive; it’s only a few blocks and we don’t want to park a stolen car conspicuously.
The town is waking up. A few people are out walking dogs or getting morning coffee at the diner down the road.
We try to blend in—just another young couple out for a stroll—but I feel hyperaware of myself, like everyone must see the guilt on our faces.
Bindi sticks close to me, her eyes darting around behind her sunglasses.
She put them on to ease her anxiety, I think, even though the sun’s barely up.
The thrift store opens at eight, according to a paper sign taped on the door.
We’re a bit early, so we linger across the street, pretending to window shop at a closed bakery.
Those few minutes feel like an eternity.
Bindi is silent, arms folded tightly. I slip my arm around her and pretend like I’m just a boyfriend being affectionate.
At last, an older woman with a puff of gray hair shows up and unlocks the thrift store. We give her a minute to get inside and flip the sign to OPEN, then follow.
The bell jingles as we enter. The woman behind the counter gives us a polite nod, perhaps a curious glance at our rough appearance, but she’s not alarmed. We must look like travelers or hikers.
We quickly peruse the racks. We don’t need much, but I spot a dark brown windbreaker jacket that might fit over my leather—could change my outline a bit.
Bindi grabs an oversized plaid shirt, something to throw on over her tee and maybe ditch later to confuse descriptions.
We also find a pair of cheap trucker caps in a bin (one says “I 3 Jesus” of all things, which is ironically hilarious given what we’re about to do).
We take them too as backups, or to double-layer our disguises.
“Find everything all right?” the old lady calls cheerfully as we come to the register. Her friendliness makes my skin prick with guilt. She has no idea.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, mustering a smile.
“That’ll be fifteen fifty,” the lady says after ringing up our items.
I fish out one of the twenties Bindi brought. My hands are steady as I hand it over .
“Y’all just passing through?” The lady makes small talk as she bags the clothes. She’s chatty and kind, which only twists the knife in my gut more.
“We’re staying with some family a few towns over. Just needed to pick up some things.”
“Well, enjoy your visit, and you folks have a blessed day now,” she says, handing us the bag.
Bindi manages a quiet, “Thank you, you too,” and then we’re out the door.
We duck into an alley out of sight to quickly don our thrift store finds.
I slip the brown windbreaker over my jacket, and Bindi throws on the baggy plaid shirt.
It hides her feminine figure somewhat, making her look more androgynous.
We stow our original outerwear in the thrift store bag and toss it in the car.
We won’t put on the bandanas or sunglasses or hats until right before going in—the last thing we need is to drive through town masked and draw attention.
I start the sedan and we drive toward the bank, which opens in about fifteen minutes.
We park a block away, not in the alley yet.
First, as planned, we need one more look at the bank in operation to confirm how many people are inside.
We pretend to be just another car on the street, cruising slowly.
I notice Bindi’s knee bouncing restlessly.
She’s trying to hide it by holding her hands tightly over her legs.
“You ready?”
“Ask me after it’s done.”
Fair enough. I’m nervous too, though in a different way—I feel wired, on edge, eager to get it over with.
We round the block. From the passenger side, Bindi peers at the bank as we go by.
I see an OPEN sign in one window. Through the front window, we catch a glimpse of the interior in daylight.
There’s indeed one teller behind the counter—a young woman with her hair in a bun.
She seems to be chatting with an older man in a suit.
Maybe the manager? There’s no one else visible in the lobby; no customers yet. Perfect.
“Just the two employees up front, looks like. Manager might disappear to the back office.”
“Right,” I say, turning the corner. My heart hammers. “So the same plan. I go in, stick ‘em up, you cover me and watch the door. You say ‘everyone be cool’ or something badass.” I grin briefly, trying to lighten it up.
“Just get the teller to fill the bag. Don’t forget the dye packs—sometimes they slip them in with cash.”
Shit. I should’ve thought of that last night. I was so caught up in the high of planning, I missed something basic. I frown. “How do we avoid that?”
“Ask for smaller bills, maybe. Dye packs are usually in stacks of large bills,” she says.
I’m impressed.
“All right. Twenties and tens then. That’s fine.”
We pull into the alley behind the bank. There are no other cars parked here—the bank staff probably parked out front or on the side. We stop near the back door of the bank, but not too close to attract attention, sort of aligned with a dumpster.
I reach into the back seat and hand her the red bandana, while I take the blue one for myself.
She ties the red cloth around her neck, ready to pull it up over her nose and mouth.
I do the same with mine, fingers trembling slightly as I knot it.
Next, I put on my baseball cap and sunglasses.
Bindi tugs the wool beanie over her damp hair and then her own pair of sunglasses.
With the disguises in place, I retrieve the canvas bag and hand Bindi one pair of latex gloves. We each snap them on. They’re thin, a little tight on my large hands, but they’ll keep prints off anything we touch inside.
Finally, I pull the gun from my inner pocket.
She closes her eyes briefly, a furrow of pain on her brow, then opens them. “I love you. ”
I nod. “I know. I love you too.”
“I hate you.”
“I know that too.”
She loves me.
She hates me.
And I know both—I need both.
Because it means she’s still all in.
And fuck, so am I.
I don’t need her to be soft. I don’t want her to tame. I want her like this—shaking, swearing, bleeding, and still choosing me.
Hate me, baby. As long as you’re mine when my time is up.
I tuck the gun into the back of my waistband for now, under the jacket, and zip the windbreaker halfway to conceal it.
We both exit the car, then walk around to the front of the bank, taking an indirect path through a side alley and then out onto Main Street.
A few pedestrians are out now, and a couple of cars drive by, but nobody gives us more than a passing glance.
We probably look like two locals or tourists headed to a store.
The disguises aren’t in full effect yet (bandanas still down around our necks), so we’re not too suspicious.
We stop just at the corner of the block, about twenty yards from the bank’s entrance.
I peer around. Through the bank’s front window I see the teller, now behind the counter, flipping through some papers.
There’s one customer, an elderly woman, at the teller counter with her purse open.
Damn. I was hoping for zero customers. But one is manageable, I think. She’s unlikely to play the hero.
Bindi notices too. “There’s an old lady in there,” she says under her breath, concerned.
I grit my teeth. “It’s fine. We stick to the plan.”
We wait until the elderly woman finishes her transaction and totters toward the exit.
As she pushes open the door and steps out onto the sidewalk, Bindi and I turn our faces away slightly, pretending to be engrossed in conversation so she doesn’t really look at us.
The woman walks off down the street, oblivious.
I push the bank door open and walk in, Bindi just a step behind me. Immediately, the teller looks up with a standard greeting smile that freezes into wide-eyed shock.
“Don’t,” I bark. “Don’t even think about it.”
She raises her hands instinctively, a stack of deposit slips fluttering out of her grasp to the floor.
Bindi moves and locks the front door behind us. She stands with her back to the door now, facing the room.
“Everyone be cool and nobody gets hurt,” Bindi says.
I scan for the manager. There’s a doorway behind the counter, leading to what looks like a small office area. At that moment, the older man in a suit appears there, a coffee mug in hand, likely drawn by the commotion. He takes one look at us and pales.
“You,” I snap at him, swinging the gun in his direction briefly. “Come out here, nice and slow. Hands where I can see them.”
His eyes dart to the teller, then back to me.
He’s probably around fifty, hair graying at the temples, wearing a cheap brown suit.
Manager, or maybe the owner, of this little branch.
He quickly raises his hands, the mug slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor.
Hot coffee splashes his pants, but he doesn’t even flinch.
He steps forward out of the doorway as instructed.
“That’s it, nice and easy,” I say. “Empty your pockets, both of you . . . phones, keys, anything that could set off an alarm or call for help, put them on the counter,”
The teller fumbles in her cardigan pocket and pulls out a smartphone. Her trembling fingers nearly drop it as she places it atop the counter. The manager slowly reaches into his coat and sets what looks like a phone and a key ring beside it.
“ You, ” I gesture at the manager, “out from behind the counter. You, stay,” I tell the teller. “She’s gonna handle the money.”