Own Me

2. Barker-2

Ainsley’s in the same spot when I go to get her the next morning. Her face is plastered up against the windows, looking out at anyone that walks on by. When she spots me, she completely transforms. It’s almost sinister how her face twists from hopeless to determined.

Right then and there, I somehow know that this isn’t going to be the easy workday I have in mind.

I give her a few minutes to freshen up with the borrowed outfit and supplies kit I made Monica put together last night after we finished our meeting. She and the rest of the girls we claim weren’t exactly thrilled to be playing mother hen for some unknown chick, but they managed to come up with what she should need to get her through a day or two with us. I figure it’s enough before Briggs either cuts her loose, or I get instructions to drop her.

“Who is the mark?” Ainsley asks as she chomps down on the browning banana and lukewarm oatmeal.

Biggs and I had spent a good portion of last night discussing this. I had wanted her to go after someone easy. There were a few new clubs trying to get in the Denver scene that would have been easy pickings for her, but Biggs wanted to test her skills out for good.

“What’s there to lose?” he’d said as he chugged down another beer. “The b***h gets caught, and she learns her lesson for good.”

Ainsley’s about as thrilled as I am with his final decision on who she’ll target when I break the news to her.

“Vice? The Devil’s Fighters?” she cries out loud. “I’ve done him already, and each time was planned out meticulously. I can’t just go in and hit the club blind. It’s suicide. I won’t do it.”

“You have to do it. I’ll have to kill you if you don’t.” I place a notebook before her, opening a page of handwritten notes some of my boys have made over the last few months we’ve been in town.

“Look. This is everything we’ve got on the Devil’s Fighters,” I say, pointing to the underlined print. “Right now, we know they do a pass off every four days, by the William Tell Bank and Loan, to a man named Jacob Anderson. He’s a patsy—takes a chunk of whatever he deposits for them. Most days, they don’t even monitor Anderson. They just leave him with the cash. He shouldn’t be that hard to get to.”

Ainsley puts down her spoon and leans back in the leather office chair, rocking herself back and forth. A line above her eyes furrows as she uses a pen to trace over the notes she’s reading.

After a minute, she gives in. “Fine. Let’s go. This says they do the drop at 10:30, and it’s already 10:15.”

She grabs the thin leather jacket the girls have loaned to her and stands by the door, waiting for me to follow. For someone so reluctant moments ago, her calm demeanor is almost unnerving. I try not to let it rattle me as I escort her down to the basement parking garage, past the rows of bikes, and to one of our unmarked vans.

We drive in silence. There isn’t much to say other than the basics. I tell her the spot I’ll be parking—close enough to track her, but far enough to not be noticeable, and I hand her the burner phone with only my number programmed in just in case she needs to get a hold of me. She stuffs the phone inside the pocket of the oversized jacket and stares ahead.

We spot Jacob Anderson almost instantly. The description the boys gave was spot on—white male, dark glasses, dressed in a blue or black suit with a gray tie. He looks like the type that would always be at the bank.

Ainsley has me pull over in the ATM lane of the bank’s drive-thru so she can sneak out without being suspicious. I pretend to fumble with my credit cards before driving off with fake frustration.

I nab a spot behind the bushes, out of line from the bank’s cameras. From here, I watch as she sits down on a bus bench and opens up the discards of a newspaper someone had left behind. She lifts up her skirt a little and adjusts her top. She even tousles her hair with the palm of her hand, giving her that island princess look that must win her over with dumbass guys who can’t see past t**s and ass.

On the dot, a pair of motorcyclists wearing Devil’s patches drive up towards the bank’s parking lot. The men circle a few times before pulling into an empty spot next to Anderson.

Ainsley doesn’t bother looking behind her at the action. She is calm as can be as she carries on reading. The motorcyclists’ drive off minutes later having been so quick at the pass-off that I barely register it’s been done.

When I turn back to Ainsley, she’s gone, completely disappeared. I panic as I turn the van back on and dial up the burner number. But then she reappears, right around the corner of the bank. Almost naturally, she slams her body into his so that she falls backward, stumbling onto the ground. I watch as he moves the small package of money to his back pocket as he offers her his other hand. She rises to her feet only to fall on him again, and she laughs with a full, open mouth and her head back.

Ainsley’s hand rests on his arm, reassuring him that she’s all right. The gentle massage works like a charm. While she’s soothing him, stroking his ego, he doesn’t even notice her hand wrapped around the backside of him, grabbing the yellow package of money. She makes an excuse, pointing towards the incoming bus before darting away with the club’s cash in hand.

I dial her phone as she hops on the bus and it speeds off in the other direction, but there’s no reply. I try again as I start the van up, hoping to catch her at the next bus stop. Still, no answer. She doesn’t get off at the next stop or the one after that. I pull in front of the bus with enough time to board. As the driver screams at me to pay, I run through the length of the bus, calling her name. But every seat is empty.

My pulse quickens as I realize what’s happened. Ainsley hasn’t just conned the Devil’s club worker—she’s managed to pull one over on me as well.