Goose was the club’s chef, comedian, and weapons expert. Reno may have known everything about explosives, but Goose forgot more about guns than any of us would ever know. He was also the only member of the club with any relationship experience. Tall, lean, and extremely neat, he wore his hair close-cropped. He could pass for being one of the cities many Marines, but his dislike for the government prevented him from following that career path.

He lived in what was once a suburb of San Diego. On paper, La Mesa was a town of 50,000. In reality, the city had grown around it, leaving no indication of borders. It was one of few areas in the city where a man could afford to own a home. The one thousand square foot ranch homes in the area brought between six hundred thousand and a million dollars, depending on condition.

His home stood out as being the best manicured one on the entire block. In a yard suited for one palm tree, he had three. Low lying shrubs and other forms of vegetation filled the yard, giving it a colorful curb appeal unlike anything else for miles.

I parked my bike in his drive and sauntered up the stone walk. As I stepped onto the porch, his front door opened.

“Don’t tell me you were in the neighborhood.”

“Came by to talk,” I said. “Got a minute?”

“Got another fifty years if things go the way I’ve got ‘em planned.” He gestured toward the side of the house. “Take the gate to the back deck.”

I maneuvered through the forest of trees, to the gate leading to the back yard. When I reached for the handle, he pulled it open. He handed me a bottle of beer. “It’s hotter than fuck. Here.”

“Thanks.”

He turned toward the back porch. “What’s on your mind?”

His back yard was somewhat of a SoCal sanctuary. In a region where it never rained, the yards of most homes were decorated with rock and stone. Goose had somehow managed to convert his back yard to a thriving display of plant life suitable for the dry weather.

The smell of honeysuckle tickled my nose as I followed him to the covered deck.

He gestured to one of the four empty chairs that surrounded a small glass table. “Have a seat.”

I glanced around the yard. “Looks nice back here. What’s with the pile of wood?”

“Building an elevated platform.”

I took a drink of beer. “For what?”

“Because I don’t have one.”

I took another drink and then looked him over.

“Girl from the bank got ya troubled, huh?”

I pursed my lips and shook my head in denial. “Not so much, no.”

“What, then?”

I had no relationship experience whatsoever. All I’d ever done was fuck women. No live-ins. No girlfriends. No emotions. My choice of being an outlaw at an early age prevented me from trusting that a woman could ever be a part of my life. I’d succeeded at breaking the law for twenty years by doing two things: being single, and surrounding myself with men I could trust.

I needed advice on how to act like I liked someone.

“I was wondering how to make it look like I want to be around her without letting her know I’m really not serious.”

A confused look covered his face. “What?”

“I don’t want her to know that I’m not interested. So, I want to do shit that makes it seem like I want to be around her. You’re the only one with relationship experience, so here I am.”

He chuckled. “This is a bachelor pad in case you didn’t notice. I failed at my relationship, remember?”

“You married a chick with three kids,” I said. “Anyone would have failed at that.”

“I’m probably not the best to be giving advice.”

I finished my beer and wiped my forehead on my arm. “Give me what you’ve got.”

“You’re wanting her to think you’re in it for all the right reasons, even though you’re not?”

I picked at the label on my beer bottle. “Correct.”

“But you’re not?”

I looked up. “Not what?”

“Not in it for the right reasons.”

I began to pick at the label again. “Correct.”

“Women want to be treated with respect. Making them feel special is always a pretty big hit. You know, telling them you like something about what they’re wearing or how their hair is fixed. They like being told the truth, being able to trust the man they’re with, and feeling like he can protect her from every shit hat that might threaten her. Candy, cards, and flowers might be what Hallmark leads you to believe makes ‘em happy, but it ain’t the answer. Handing a woman a card and a box of chocolate doesn’t aggravate matters, but it doesn’t make ‘em as happy as cooking dinner.”

“Sounds easy enough. Short of the cooking, all I’ve got to do is be me.”

“Don’t lie to her, either. Whatever you tell her, make sure it’s at least close to the truth. If not, and she finds out you’re full of shit, Little Miss Bank Manager is going to turn and run.”

“Andy.”

His eyes went thin. “Huh?”

“Andy. Her name’s Andy.”

He erupted in laughter. After damned near choking to death on the beer he coughed up, he wiped the tears from his eyes and shook his head. “That’s hilarious.”

“What? That she’s got a dude’s name|?”

“Nope.” He took a drink of beer and shook his head. “We were planning the robbery and you said Andy. Ghost said who’s Andy. You said I said Reno. You know what? I thought you said Andy. Now I know. You said Andy. Sounds like this girl’s got you by the balls.”

“Nobody’s got me by the balls.”

He looked me over and then smirked.

I wiped the sweat from my forehead and nodded toward his beer. “Got any more of those?”

He chuckled. “Be right back.”

He returned with four beers in a bowl of ice. After handing me one of them, he sat down. “You prepared to go the distance with this girl?”

I twisted the lid off the bottle of beer and bent it between my thumb and forefinger. “What do you mean?”

“What if something develops between both of you? You going to be able to lie to her about the job for the rest of your life?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Goose,” I snapped back. “We’re not getting married.”

He tilted his beer bottle toward me. “She’s on your mind, no arguing that.”

“She’s got a pussy like a vise,” I said. “She’s fun to fuck.”

“They’re all fun to fuck.”

“She’s different.”

He rocked his chair onto the back legs. “Here we go. Now comes the truth.”

“No, Goddammit. Her pussy’s different. It’s tight as fuck. Feels like…” I took a drink of my beer. Explaining it would be impossible. “It just feels different.”

He balanced his chair on the legs and lifted his chin slightly. “How many chicks you think you’ve dicked in your day?”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess.”

I shrugged. “Fifty.”

“She better’n all of ‘em?”

“Oh, hell yes.”

He leaned forward until the chair’s front legs came down onto the deck. “So much so that you can’t compare any of them to her?”

“No comparison.”

He looked me in the eyes for a long moment, and then nodded. “Your secret’s safe with me. Brother Cash finds out, and he’s liable to kill you both, though.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your eyes are like an open book. All they take is a little studying. This girl’s more than a piece of pussy.”

I looked away and shook my head. “Afraid not.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” he said. “And you might start believing it. But you didn’t come here to get advice.”

“Oh yeah?” I turned to face him. “Why’d I come here?”

He tilted the neck of his bottle toward me. “To get permission.”