Excerpts:
Bad Girl | Haunted
Bad Girl (SF with Romantic Elements)
Chapter
One
By Cathy Pegau
One of the three masked men raised his rifle and shot a short burst of energy pulses into the ceiling of the First Colonial Bank of Nevarro. Fft-fft-fft-fft-fft.
Plaster hit the wood floor in a staccato patter louder than the shots themselves. Ozone, dust, and cries of alarm filled the air.
The shooter swung the muzzle toward me. "I said, heads down, lady."
Gut tight, I complied, imitating the others caught inside the bank when the black-clad men had entered just before closing time. It wasn't often that I stared into the deadly, dark hole of a weapon. I don't recommend it as a regular activity.
"Everyone stay down and stay quiet," he ordered. "We'll be outta here in two minutes and y'all can go home alive."
One of the men in black escorted the teller and the manager to the back of the bank where the vault was kept. The guard, an elderly couple, and me and my partner, Calvin, lay on our bellies, hands on the backs of our heads and cheeks to the rough wood. The elderly couple had come in to check on their savings.
Cal and I had come in to rob the place ourselves.
Despite the pulse pistol nestled under my clothes, against the small of my back, and Cal's gun tucked in a holster covered by his right pant leg, neither of us was inclined to play hero.
Cal turned his head away from the shooter to glare at me. "Only you, Liv," he whispered fiercely, "would pick the exact same day to rob a bank as real criminals."
Real criminals? I opened my mouth to loudly voice my indignation, but snapped it shut. I'd already drawn enough attention to myself. Instead, I returned his harsh whisper. "We are real criminals. This is just poor timing."
Cal and I had been planning this job for a while. The Exeter Mining Company deposited its employees' pay during an undisclosed period each month to avoid such actions as, say, robbery. Cal had finagled the schedule and amounts from a friend. Seventy-five thousand in cold, hard cash had been delivered to this bank in Milchner the day before. Many small-op, contract miners preferred hard money to electronic transfer-fewer slipped digits and short changings to worry about.
We chose this branch because it was the most remote, the least secure, and had the fewest personnel. Despite its lower take than a branch in one of the larger cities, like Pembroke, it was the perfect hit.
Apparently the competition thought so too.
"We should have done this sooner," Cal grumbled.
"It's not my fault my car died," I said.
This had not been one of my luckier days, or months, or years, for that matter. The job was supposed to go down last month, but fast transportation was a must. Cal only had access to a slower model Airvan. A week before the original hit date, the lifters on my somewhat newer, sleeker, but more sensitive LAC-light air car-went off line. Part of this take was earmarked to pay that bill. Damn the void.
And while PubTrans was an efficient mode for us working class folks of Pembroke City, it was not the ideal get away system. Besides, PubTrans didn't run to way-the-hell-out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere towns like Milchner.
Before Cal could remind me we'd had ample opportunity in prior months, the black barrel of the second gunman's rifle tapped down on his temple. Cal's eyes widened. The breath caught in my chest.
CHAPTER ONE
By: Cathy Pegau
The summer green of the Willamette Valley blurred as I passed other cars and numerous big rigs. It was a glorious May day in western Oregon that should have been more glorious because it was my wedding day. But when I caught Vincent fondling the florist's assistant in the church vestibule it pretty much ruined the whole happy, surreal effect.
Geez! Couldn't the guy wait to be a shit until after the honeymoon?
I smiled grimly, recalling that the tickets to Barbados were in Vincent's carry-on bag in the trunk. Maybe I'd go without him. Maybe I'd cash in his ticket and buy myself a lot of useless things just to remind me how stupid I was. Or a lot of rum to forget how stupid I was.
Except the tickets were non-refundable.
Damn! I couldn't even screw him over this once.
Pressure built and exploded from my chest in a heaving sob, and suddenly my vision was too blurred to see the road. Clearing the tears with the heel of my hand and smearing carefully applied mascara and eye shadow down my cheeks, I managed to pull off onto the emergency lane without killing myself or some innocent traveler.
I depressed the clutch and put the Mustang into first before cutting the throaty V8 engine. I didn't want to roll into traffic, no matter how distraught I was. Vincent wasn't worth it, even if I'd convinced myself he was once upon a time.
My head fell forward onto the faux wood grain steering wheel. The hard plastic felt warm against my forehead as I huddled there and cried. God! How stupid! How cliché that my boyfriend was a total jerk and I had believed his lies. Again.
Did I really think I'd changed him? He'd seemed so sincere the last time I questioned his faithfulness. His promise that he'd never do anything to hurt me, or us, was followed by two months of unflagging devotion. Then a marriage proposal. How could I refuse?
Now I asked myself, how could I have accepted? Idiot.
I cried harder, angry at myself for being so gullible, so willing to take him back. This was one big, horrible soap opera, and I wanted to be written off the show.
"You know, the emergency lane is for emergencies only."
I didn't bother looking at the passenger side where the familiar voice came from. I sniffed and cleared my throat. "I would consider this an emergency, wouldn't you?"
"Nah," she scoffed. "I told you months ago to drop the Vincemeister. But would you listen? Nooooo."
I turned my head without raising it off the steering wheel. Sitting in the passenger seat, arms crossed over a snug brown sweater that contained a bosom more ample than any woman who didn't earn a living dancing around a pole truly needed, was my best friend Min-li Goldfelder. Her jet-black hair was cut close to her head in a pixie, her slightly almondine hazel eyes bright under thin, arched brows.
"Well, you didn't, did you?" she asked again.
Min had never been one for pulling punches, especially when it involved my bad habit of choosing men who would only cause me grief.
"No," I agreed, "but it's a little hard to take advice from you just now."
Her brows shot up in surprise. "Why?"
I closed my eyes as fresh tears fell. "Because you're dead, Min."
"I'm dead, not stupid," she reminded me. "I know when someone's being screwed, and not in a good way."
I had to give her that one.
