Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Just say as little as possible,” Henn coached me this morning as we stood across the street from the first bank on our agenda. “Be pleasant and polite but completely unmemorable,” he added—but then he looked me up and down and rolled his eyes. “Which is like telling LeBron James or an Oompah-Loompah not to be memorable.”
“Henn, come on,” I whined, trembling. “I’m freaking out. Just tell me exactly what to do.”
“Don’t freak out, Kat,” Josh said, putting his muscled arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze. “You’ve got this.”
“Indubitably,” Henn agreed.
I rubbed my face. “Just tell me exactly what to do,” I said, my voice wobbling. “Because I’d rather not go to prison for robbing a bank today.”
“Well, you wouldn’t go to prison for ‘robbing a bank,’” Henn corrected. “You’d go to prison for multiple counts of bank fraud, grand theft larceny, identity theft, and conspiracy, probably.” He snorted with laughter, but neither Josh nor I joined him.
“Dude,” Josh said.
“Not at all funny,” I added, gritting my teeth.
“Sorry,” Henn said, stifling his grin. “Hacker humor. Gotta keep things light and bright or else you go a little cuckoo. But, okay, listen up. When you go in there, just think, ‘I’m filthy rich and this is my money and I’ll do whatever the fuck I want with it.’ It’s all in the attitude. You gotta have swagger.”
“Just like baggin’ a babe,” Josh added, winking.
“Exactly—except, for God’s sake, don’t ‘dick it up.’” Henn cast a snarky look at Josh. “That might work in a bar, dude, but we’re in my house now.”
Even through my anxiety, I couldn’t help but grin.
Henn grinned. “And never flirt. You’ll be too nervous and it’ll come off as weird. Just open with a simple pleasantry to get your nerves out—maybe like, ‘how’s your morning going?’—and then, boom, launch into instructing the teller about the transfer in a clear, calm voice. Don’t explain why you want the transfer or act apologetic—they’re not doing you a favor here—it’s your money.”
“Jesus,” I mumbled, putting my hands over my face. “You guys really think I can pull this off?”
“Of course,” Henn said. “The trick is to be Oksana Belenko—not pretend to be Oksana Belenko.”
“Wax on, wax off, Kat,” Josh added reverently.
I laughed. “I know, right? Henn’s totally Mr. Miyagi-ing me right now.”
Henn rolled his eyes and forged ahead. “You already look the part—thanks to Josh’s impeccable sense of style—now all you have to do is be the part.”
I looked down at my ridiculously priced designer outfit—Prada dress, Louboutin heels, and Gucci bag—all supplied by Josh the day before during a whirlwind shopping spree. “Oksana Belenko wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than Prada,” he’d insisted.
“I have to admit, being dressed like a mill-i-on-aire definitely makes me feel more Oksana-Belenko-ish,” I said, staring at the bank across the street. I tried to smile breezily, but I couldn’t do it.
Josh assessed my ashen face for a long beat. “Henn, give us a minute,” he said, and without waiting for Henn’s reply, he cupped my entire head in his palms like a bowling ball and kissed me full on the mouth. When he pulled away from kissing me, still holding my head firmly, he leveled me with his sapphire-blue eyes. “You’ve got this, Katherine Ulla Morgan,” he said quietly, gazing with intensity into my eyes—and then he did the thing that’s rapidly becoming my Achilles’ heel: he gently touched the slight indentation in my chin.
And, just like that, my stomach stopped turning over and my jaw set.
I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Freak-out officially over.”
Josh kissed my forehead. “There’s my girl. Okay, Henn,” he called over his shoulder. “Oksana’s ready to rob a bank now.”
“Yeehaw,” Henn replied. “Oksanta Claus is coming to town, bitches. Let’s do this.”
And now here we are, an hour and a half later, all transfers completed, drinking beers and Patron shots in a seedy bar, waiting to hear from Jonas.
Just like Henn promised, the whole thing went off without a hitch (or so it seems thus far). Each and every bank believed, without a doubt, that I was the one and only mill-i-on-aire (many times over) Oksana Belenko—and therefore entitled to do whatever I pleased with my millions of dollars. Of course, I crapped my Stella McCartney panties (another gift from Josh) every single time I waltzed into yet another new bank and informed the teller of my desire to close my account—especially when a teller went to get his or her manager for “standard approvals.” But, each and every time, my panty-crapping turned out to be completely wasted energy because no matter the approvals or security clearances or identification required at any particular bank, thanks to Henn, I always checked out as Oksana Belenko.
Indubitably.
Josh throws his head back, laughing at something Henn just said.
I sip my beer, still trying to get the shakes out.