Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) (8 page)

I rolled out of bed, rubbing my eyes to make sure it was true.

There, on the floor, was a folded pair of jeans and a shirt with a stack of bills on top.

I grabbed the money and began thumbing through it. Each bill featured my all-time favorite Founding Father—Benjamin Franklin!—and his ever-so-lovely denominations at a 100 bucks a pop. Swiftly, I counted one hundred, two hundred . . . could there really be seven-hundred freakin’ dollars here?

I gasped, nearly giddy, and I wanted to run and tell my dad the good news, until I looked down at my Pinnacle-issue bra and panties that reached nearly to my armpits. Heavens, I didn’t want to scare him.

But my old uniform was nowhere in sight.

So where’s the bingo money that was in my pocket? I wondered.

Maybe Granny Tinker dropped off the dry clothes last night, I thought, and hung my uniform out on a line? But why would she have doubled my money? With a shrug, I slipped on the skimpy, white tank top with lacy straps, noticing that it barely reached my belly button. My old French teacher would’ve called it a “camisole,” but I was thinking more like “boob bandage.” Then I threw on the ripped jeans that fell super low on my hips and had holes in the knees. As I zipped them up, I realized that they fit liked they’d been sprayed on.

And unless I rolled down my underwear, I’d look like freak of the century.

So I tucked in the waistband and slipped on my shoes, then bravely stepped over to a cracked mirror on the wall.

My mouth slung open.

Holy Cow—

I looked like a total slut!

More brazen than CeeCee Stone ever dreamed.

But I had curves—

Honest-to-goodness, flaunt-’em-if-you-got-’em
c
u
r
v
e
s
!

I busted into giggles, staring at my bare midriff and cellophane-tight top.

Wow, welcome to Trailer Trash! With a few bold tattoos and navel piercings, I might actually win a six-pack at a local Karaoke bar.

Swiveling to the left and right, I tried on my best rebel scowl, full of bad-ass attitude, and let the new look sink in. Never in my entire life had I been allowed to wear a single shred of clothing that wasn’t strategically designed to shout the McArthur’s lofty status.

Or, I should say, what
u
s
e
d
to be our lofty status.

And that’s when a shiver sped down my spine.

Who was my father, really?

Royle?

Doyle?

Had
a
n
y
t
h
i
n
g
about our lives been real?

I took a deep breath and glanced over at the couch, where my dad was sleeping like a child, all wrapped up in Granny’s quilt. Though he snored as loud as a hacksaw and drool dribbled from his chin, his face appeared amazingly carefree, with his secrets still tucked far, far away from me.

Yet strangely, a pair of men’s dress shoes now sat on the floor beside him. I saw a note next to the shoes, and I tiptoed closer to pick it up. In handwritten scrawl, it read:

S
i
l
v
e
r
S
p
o
o
n
,

H
o
p
e
y
o
u
l
i
k
e
t
h
e
s
t
r
e
e
t
c
l
o
t
h
e
s
a
n
d
s
h
o
e
s
f
o
r
y
o
u
r
o
l
d
m
a
n
.

G
o
t
t
a
b
l
e
n
d
i
n
,
y
o
u
k
n
o
w
.
O
h
y
e
a
h
,
a
n
d
t
h
e
M
a
z
d
a
f
e
t
c
h
e
d
$
7
0
0
.

—
C
r
e
e
k

“WHAT?!!!” I cried way too loud. “Creek sold my convertible??”

My dad merely yawned and tugged the quilt over his head, falling back into a heavy snore.

Spitting mad, I clenched my fists and dashed out of the trailer into the bright, noonday sun. All I found was an empty mud patch on the grass where my dream-came-true car used to be, along with another note on the ground.

Furious, I snatched it up.

B
y
t
h
e
w
a
y
,
t
h
a
t
$
3
5
0
t
h
a
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w
a
s
i
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y
o
u
r
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f
o
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m
p
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t
w
e
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t
t
o
p
i
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c
h
i
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f
o
r
B
r
a
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d
i
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s
t
r
e
a
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m
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m
o
r
n
i
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g
.
S
h
e
d
o
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s
n
’
t
k
n
o
w
,
s
o
p
l
e
a
s
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k
e
e
p
i
t
q
u
i
e
t
.

—
C
r
e
e
k

I have no idea how long I stood there, speechless.

At first I wanted to scream and bang my fists on something—or someone—and then I wanted to cry.

But how could I argue with the way he’d spent the money?

After all, bingo lady would’ve thanked Jesus with a heaven-busting shout if she knew it had gone to medical care. And then she would’ve called Creek an angel.

But since
w
h
e
n
do angels sport dagger-like scars on their cheeks and stalk teenage girls like me?

Unless . . .

This crazy, backwoods trailer park has got one hell of a Robin Hood on its hands.

Heaving a big sigh, I sat down on a log on the ground, thoroughly frustrated. For all I knew, Creek might be watching me this very second—and he probably had designs already on the $700 in my fist.

Just then, I spotted Brandi walking across the meadow out of the corner of my eye. She was expertly dodging the TNT Twins’ holes with her red, high-heeled go-go boots. They matched the vinyl mini-dress she had on, as well as a cascading red wig that completed her look. I couldn’t decide whether she resembled the red-head in that retro
V
i
v
a
L
a
s
V
e
g
a
s
poster that hangs at our local theater, or if she wanted to look like a firebomb waiting to happen. All I could say was, for a lady who had cancer, she sure knew how to dress out loud.

“Howdy-doodle!” she called out, wiggling her bright red fingernails at me. “I got ham and beans with your name on it. You don’t even know it’s lunch time, do ya? Not that I’m calling you a sleepy head or nothin’!”

Her voice was so grating I wanted to plug my ears, but who could argue with her smile as big as Texas? The woman glowed like good cheer on steroids.

“Look what you got!” she gasped, staring at my hand. Before I could stuff the money in my pocket, she’d snatched my wad of bills. “Oh Lordy, it’s seven hundred dollars.” I saw tears instantly well in her eyes. “You know, Creek mentioned that you might want to donate a little somethin’ for my follow-up appointment tomorrow, but I just didn’t believe him, seein’ how we’re brand new friends and all. My gosh, honey, you got yourself a heart of gold!”

“W-what?” I stammered.

Brandi hugged me so tight I couldn’t breathe. How she managed it with a plate of ham and beans in her hand defied logic, but something told me her shifts at the Moo & Brew Drive-Thru had fine-tuned her finesse. When she released me, I gasped for air like a beached fish.

But I couldn’t help catching the deeply shaken look in her eyes. Like she’d witnessed a train wreck.

I blinked for a second, but it was still there. Despite her day-glo green eyeshadow and stoplight-red lipstick, her eyes seemed filled with downright . . . fear.

And in the harsh daylight, not even her spackled-on foundation and sparkly cheek bronzer could completely camouflage the ashy tone to her skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she looked almost like a . . .

Dead woman.

All at once, it hit me why Brandi wore such candy-coated outfits.

They were her armor.

The same way I used to hide behind my perfectly-crisp, pleated uniform, with my secret tool belt of Geisha skills tucked cleverly out of sight—so the mean girls couldn’t get to me.

But Brandi was bracing herself against far more than snarky, trust-fund chicks. This was a woman who was fighting for her life.

Swiftly, I saw her wipe away the tears that had slipped down her cheeks, forcing a big smile.

“Aw, don’t mind me!” Brandi chirped in a bright tone that didn’t fool me one bit. “I just get weepy over the littlest old things.”

She fluttered her hand as if she’d merely been over-excited, but I could see the raw courage in her eyes.

“Tell you what, darlin,’” she quickly changed the subject, “I’ll go in yer trailer and serve these vittles to yer Pa right now. After all, one good turn deserves another! And maybe with my help, he’ll polish off the whole plate.”

Brandi looked over my skin-tight clothes and gave me a sly wink. “See, we take care of our own here at Turtle Shores. And if you ask me, you look like you’re fixin’ to go out on a date.” She gave me a sassy click of the tongue. “So you just git along now, and I'll make sure yer Pa’s all taken care of. Might even persuade him to play a round of poker. Catch ya later!”

Before I could get a word in edgewise, Brandi had breezed past me and into our trailer, shutting the door so hard she made it rattle.

And I was left standing alone in my tracks, reeling.

In what felt like a nano-second, I was back to square one. No, worse than square one—not only were we broke again, but now we were missing
m
y
Miata!

“Ahhhh!!!” I fumed helplessly, kicking the dirt.

Across the meadow, a boulder popped up. A head peeked out and stared at me, wide-eyed, like I’d managed to figure out the secret pass code.

“You guys are nutso, do you know that??” I shouted with a hard stomp of my foot.

He simply laughed till his rock costume jiggled, and when his boulder buddy popped up beside him, they did a fist bump.

“That’s it! I am soooo outta here!”

I stormed off into the thick forest, a good distance from the meadow, before I was tempted to throw something at the TNT Twins. Knowing them, it might start a firestorm.

Besides, I just wanted a few minutes to cool down, regroup a little, and plan my next move. The last thing I needed was to allow the TNT Twins to see me get flustered—or worse—see me break down and cry.

But as my legs marched like pistons through the dense woods and underbrush of honeysuckle, it occurred to me that I was being followed.

Because every time I took a step, I thought I saw the forest shadows beside me darken a little, and it wasn’t like the sky had gotten overcast or anything. Then my skin began to tingle, and I even felt the small hairs stiffen on the back of my neck, as if something—or someone—was hovering way too close.

Just like that time at the bank.

Okay, I thought, it never did a girl any good to panic and try to hide from the alpha chicks at Pinnacle. They just saw it as a sign of weakness, and they’d hunt the poor girl down with their dirty tricks until they managed to crush her soul. So even though I did cave last night for that scary-crazy Granny Tinker, it was only because I was dead tired. Now that I’ve had some sleep and gotten my mojo back, it’s time to meet this Creek guy head on.

I stopped and took in a deep breath to jack up my fortitude, then folded my arms.

“LISTEN MISTER,” I said really loud, “I know you’re out here.”

I turned a little, just to see if I might catch a glimpse.

But there was nothing.

Frustrated, I let out a huff.

“And you should’ve asked me before you sold
m
y
car!”

Silence.

Not even the leaves dared to rustle.

“That was my frickin’ car!!”