Counterfeit Love

She was average height with wavy blonde hair and big bright blue eyes in a delicate face--all soft cheekbones and gently rounded chin, complimented by a set of pouting, slightly oversize lips.

And there was the body.

See, me? I had a type.

And that type meant I didn't want to see any bones when we were rolling around in bed.

This woman?

She was the perfect combination of abundant and fit, with her thick thighs, her round ass, and her chest that made me want to fucking weep

Beautiful.

Perfect, really.

I hated having to pull a gun on all that pretty, but a man in my position couldn't rule out women who might want to take everything I worked for. It wasn't just men these days who ran massive criminal empires. Feminism, and all that.

Those eyes of her--bright as a summer sky--were smart, all-seeing, moving around the entire place in one fell swoop, and yet I knew she had taken it all in. The stacks of fake money, the printers, the ink, the cobwebs in the back corner, the discarded snack pack of mixed nuts I hadn't thought to toss in the bin.

It was all of ten seconds later when two more figures moved into the room.

Ferryn, the girl next door. And Vance, the guy who technically rented the place, a member of the local MC, someone who had threatened me away from his girl.

"Holy shit," Ferryn gasped, lips parting as her gaze moved around the stacks of cash in the room.

"Ferryn," I greeted. "Ferryn's fuck-buddy." I knew his name. But he was somewhat easy to rile, and I had always been a bit of a shit-starter.

My gaze slid back to Dream Girl, finding her gaze still fixed on mine, eyes alive, almost--I don't know--victorious. About what, I had no idea. But I wanted to find out. I also wouldn't mind finding out her number or what position she liked best. "And this ravishing creature I don't believe I've met," I added, giving her an opening, but mostly laying on the smolder.

"Yeah, no," she said, practically scoffing off the charm that had, thus far, never failed me.

"You're breaking my heart, beautiful," I told her, giving it another try, placing the gun over my chest.

"Something tells me you'll survive," she said with a little eye roll before her gaze shifted back over to Ferryn and Vance. "Anyway," she went on, tone indicating my attempts at flirtation were an annoyance. Interesting. That was very interesting. "Meet the mission's bank," she declared, waving her arms out.

She wanted my time, my attention, my tongue, my cock? Yeah, she could have had any--or all--of those.

My money?

Not so much.

"Alright sweetheart," I started. "You might have the face of a fucking angel, but I'm not giving you money."

"It's not money!" she burst out, face damn near beaming.

"Alright, Chris, um," Ferryn interjected, brows drawn together tight. "You kind of have crazy eyes right now. What do you mean it's not money?" she asked.

"Oh, right," Chris said, reining it in a bit. "I forgot you guys are a couple steps behind me." I was starting to think that was normal for someone like her. There was just something about her eyes that said she was smart, capable, quick, on top of shit.

And damn if I didn't want her on top of me.

But that was a topic for another time.

"I'm pretty sure the whole world is a couple steps behind you," Ferryn said, sounding amused. "But go on."

"Right, so," Chris started. "This is Finch McAwley." Her gaze was on me, but she almost looked through me. No. That wasn't right. She looked into me, but didn't see anything on the outside. If that made sense. "And he is possibly the world's best counterfeiter."

Something about the confident way she said that made me think she was up on that sort of thing. Like she kept track of people like me. It didn't make a lot of sense, but anything was possible.

"Not going to complain about you knowing my name, dollface, but I can't be having you spread my business around like that."

"Anyway," Chris went on to her friends as though my comment was nothing more than an annoyance. "Let's just say that Finch's counterfeit money can pretty much fool anyone."

"Then how do you know who he is?" Ferryn pressed.

"Oh, please," Chris said, shaking her head a bit. "I know who everyone is," she declared, and I couldn't help but appreciate her confidence. "Anyway. Finchy here has absolutely perfected five and ten dollar bills," she went on. "He sells them for two and five dollars, respectively, leaving him with a nice little profit."

"The paper is linen. And imported from Poland. It's not that cheap." Not to mention the work that went into it. I didn't usually get defensive about my work. But that was likely because most people didn't know what I actually did for a living. It also might have had something to do with the fact that I found myself in the position of wanting to impress her because I was a bit awestruck by her. Yes, awestruck. I wasn't sure I even understood that word until right that moment.