Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Book Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Robin in the Hood

  by

  Diane J. Reed

  Bandits Ranch Books, LLC

  www.banditsranch.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Diane J. Reed

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Bandits Ranch Books, LLC.

  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated to all those who have the courage to dream big dreams and to be themselves, no matter what anyone else thinks.

  Book Description

  “Is it any wonder I became a bank robber?”

  But she never dreamed she’d fall in love…

  Rich high school student Robin McArthur thinks she has it all figured out when it comes to bilking her work-a-holic dad for guilt money as a substitute for his genuine affection. Until one day he suffers a stroke at his law office, and she learns the brutal truth—

  They’re broke.

  Her stepmom has skipped the country.

  And everyone from bankers to bookies has lined up in her dad’s hospital room to collect on the millions he’s racked up in debt.

  Panicked and desperate, Robin figures she has two choices: either surrender to the pestering caseworker and live in a skanky foster home, or take a chance and sneak her dad out of the hospital to make a run for it. Little does she know that stealing a car and hitting the road means that before the day is through, she will rob her first bank.

  Now an outlaw, Robin finds a backwoods trailer park to hide her dad from authorities where she encounters Creek, a bad-boy in crime who first steals her money and then steals her heart. The two of them embark on a round of increasingly dangerous heists to provide for their motley trailer park neighbors. But what Robin hadn’t counted on is the way these hardscrabble people begin to embrace her and become the first real family she’s ever known. And along the way, worldly-wise Creek teaches her how to develop a genuine relationship with her dad based on the hard truths of their lives instead of his past lies. As Robin and Creek’s criminal journey forces them to make gut-wrenching choices, they soon begin to discover that people are more precious than pocketbooks, and true love means opening your heart to the kinds of treasures money can’t buy.

  To read the sequel to Robin in the Hood and other books in the Robbin’ Hearts Series by Diane J. Reed, go to: http://www.amazon.com/Diane-J-Reed/e/B0071FXGOE/

  Chapter 1

  Bank robbery wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I filled out my career development profile in class this year. Sophomore girls at my school are expected to check off lofty goals, like “doctor,” “lawyer,” or my personal favorite, “entrepreneur.” According to our mission statement, we’re the movers and shakers of our generation, destined for Ivy League colleges like Harvard or Yale. But one thing you learn quickly at The Pinnacle Boarding School for Girls—everyone is lying through their teeth.

  The truth is, we’re modern Geishas. Oh sure, we know all about their clever ways from the Asian culture classes we’ve been force fed to give us a global edge. And we can be whatever you want us to be and say whatever you’d like to hear—for a hefty price. Silk kimonos and bound feet have given way to designer labels and perky nose jobs, of course. But nowadays, we also require the latest handbags, unlimited spray tanning, and V.I.P. seats to see the hottest pop stars to smash the charts. Nothing is off limits for us Pinnacle girls, because we view soaking our parents as pennies on the dollar for staying out of their hair. Oh, you don’t want my stepmom to know you’re cheating on her again? That’ll be free passes to King’s Island and Disney World for, let’s say, life. And that little email you accidentally forwarded to me about dumping stocks on an insider tip? I’m thinking a sporty Miata convertible for my 16th birthday, preferably in sunshine yellow. After all, fair is fair—I don’t rat on my dad as long as the money keeps flowing. Because let’s face it, everyone in Cincinnati knows, despite the slick brochures and recruitment DVDs, that Pinnacle is nowhere near the best-rated high school in the Midwest. It’s simply the priciest. Quick translation: it’s the swankiest prison for teenage girls that money can buy.

  So my entire high school career so far was spent trying to survive in that gilded cage, funded by people like my screwed-up dad and stepmom who have no intention of ever being part of my life. I guess it might seem like I was abandoned in a way, but don’t think that means I have no values! On the contrary, girls at Pinnacle are famous for being religious fanatics. And the God we learn to worship, in all its glorious forms—from the American Express platinum card to a line of credit at Tiffany’s in Fountain Square—is the almighty dollar. For me, it’s the only higher power that’s ever come close to balancing out my folks’ messes—their hopeless addictions and sloppy affairs, and especially that train wreck they call a marriage. Yes, nearer to my heart than Jesus is my most loyal BFF: cold, hard cash.

  Is it any wonder that I became a bank robber?

  It all started back in March when my dad, Royle McArthur—a partner at the prestigious law firm of Tweedle, Beckman & McArthur—suffered a stroke in his office with half a line of coke on his desk, an unfinished high ball on the filing cabinet, and a burning cigarette still glowing in his ashtray. Yep, Dad pretty much hit the trifecta for crummy health habits, so even though his stroke wasn’t entirely unpredictable, his timing couldn’t have been worse! There I was, suddenly yanked from decorating the dance hall for our spring mixer with the boys at Breton—the only time we ever got near anyone of the opposite sex—when I was thrust into the hyper-sanitized world of Our Lady of Redemption Hospital’s rehabilitation ward.

  “Your father is partially paralyzed on his right side,” a doctor took me aside to explain. “And unfortunately, he’s been left with only a quarter of his former brain power. I doubt he’ll ever recognize you again.” If that weren’t bad enough, after three weeks of being allowed to skip school to watch my dad drool through meals and listlessly pantomime a physical therapist, I learned an even more brutal truth.

  We were broke.

  Um, not just a little broke.

  I mean, really broke-broke. Super-nova broke. As in, time-to-slit-your-wrists broke.

  Broke to the tune of $300,000 in hospital bills, 2 million in back mortgage payments for our posh Indian Hill home, and a law firm that had gone belly up after years of mismanagement and embezzlement.

  I only learned this stuff because everyone from bank managers to bookies had lined up to talk to me in the hospital as my dad’s last remaining “next of kin.”

  What?

  What the
hell happened to my stepmom?

  Apparently, she’d already taken off for a monastery somewhere in the Himalayas to eat, pray, and love her way to international immunity, cashing out what little remained in my dad’s accounts. Oh, and my dad’s fierce gambling habit that I didn’t know about, along with his fondness for raiding the company till, had put us in the red for about the next, say, million years.

  Oh God, it doesn’t get worse than this!

  In one fell swoop, all the money I’d ever known and cherished was gone. I didn’t even have a roof over my head, because there was no way in hell that goddawful Pinnacle would take me back if we couldn’t pay tuition. I stood there in the hospital, utterly stunned and staring at the eager crowd of collectors who were huddled in front of me.

  “Uh, w-would it be all right if I took a walk?” I sputtered to a nurse.

  I had to get out, to breathe some fresh air. And to be totally honest, my mind was on a whole lot more than walking—I had an overwhelming urge to change my name and hitch a ride to the next state.

  But then something happened that I’ll never forget. My dad, from in his wheelchair, reached over and grasped my hand, clenching my fingers so tightly it felt like a death grip. Surprised, I winced and glanced down, when I caught a peculiar look in his eyes.

  He was begging.

  I swear, the expression on his anguished face seemed to be saying, Please Robin, for the love of God, please don’t leave me here.

  Shit. So much for not recognizing anybody.

  Knowing Dad, he was probably faking it all this time to fool his creditors. But just to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, I squinted and stared once more into his eyes.

  There it was—that same desperate look, along with tears welling up in the corners, like he actually expected me to be his salvation or something.

  Well I’ll be damned.

  Could he possibly be serious?

  How freaking dare he!

  All my life I’d wanted to forge a real connection with my dad. To just for once see his face in the audience when I was petrified at a ballet recital, or to get a hug after the only time I’d ever scored a run in cricket, or even to lay on the grass in our yard on a warm, spring day and pick out silly shapes in the clouds. But no—instead, my childhood was filled with cold and moldy nannies and chauffeurs who never ceased to remind me, with their firm lips and sideways glances, that affection wasn’t exactly written into their contracts.

  And now my dad expects me to save his butt?

  I couldn’t help myself—I yanked back my hand like I’d been bitten, vigorously rubbing my fingers to remove any lingering hospital stink. Then I leaned down beside him.

  “Do you have any idea,” I whispered angrily, motioning to the cluster of men and women in suits, “how fun it would be for me to watch you fry?”

  I thought surely my dad’s eyes would widen in horror. Or at the very least, that he might bury his head into his hands and moan at the perfect, cosmic justice of it all.

  But he didn’t.

  My dad simply gazed at the floor. He took a long, deep breath, as if summoning all of his strength, and opened his mouth at an awkward angle. For a while he released a steady stream of drool that pooled into the lap of his hospital gown. Then he struggled to lift his chin to my ear.

  “Ayyyy . . . yuvvv . . . yooo . . . enny wey,” he mumbled with extraordinary effort.

  At once my heart climbed into my throat.

  Did I hear him right? My very own father saying I—love—you—ANYWAY?

  Of all the lowdown, dirty, rotten tricks.

  I shook my head. For a man whose brain was supposed to be reduced to the IQ of a rabbit, he sure as hell knew how to get to me. Instantly, I felt my heart waffle.

  Okay, so the guy’s a known crook.

  And he did exile me to girl-prison and oh-so-happily threw away the key.

  But he’s still my dad.

  So if ever I wanted to check off that whole, goopy “father-daughter-loving-bond” box in life, this was probably my last shot. Besides, I could always dump his body in the Ohio River if he’s flat-out lying to me.

  But what really cinched my decision was the prying case worker who’d just slipped into the room and lip-synched the word “foster home” to a nurse when she thought I wasn’t looking.

  Holy crap. Even I could do the math:

  Dad—

  Or foster home—

  Dad—

  Or foster home—

  Suddenly, a vision flashed into my mind of bunking down with a dozen skanky kids at night in a crackhouse while our so-called foster mom smokes a joint and performs phone sex in the next room. Like a bolt of lightning, the path to my future had become excruciatingly clear.

  Make a run for it. Now—

  With that, I seized the handles of my dad’s wheelchair and gave him a bold shove toward the door.

  “Excuse us for a second,” I said abruptly to the nurse, “we’re just going to mosey down the hall for a minute.”

  Immediately, I made a hard right and picked up speed down the hallway. “Hang on, Dad, we’re gonna play by my rules now!” I declared as his wheels squeaked against the linoleum floor, my legs stretching into long strides beneath me. Gaining momentum, and feeling a little cocky, I made another hard right and swerved past an orderly, barely missing a patient on a gurney, when all of a sudden I was confronted by a large figure in black whose shoulders nearly filled the entire hallway.

  Heaven help me!

  It was none other than Darth Vader.

  The Lady in Black.

  The most feared entity ever to set foot on the grounds at Pinnacle. Our dreaded Mother Superior—all six feet of her—in a heavy black habit with only her crooked nose and beady eyes peeking out to silently condemn me.

  I’d only seen her a couple of times since I’d started high school, on those rare occasions when she descended from her stone office tower beside the chapel to make an appearance on campus. But I knew her reputation for being “The Enforcer”, the one who squeezed every last dime from our parents when tuition came due, or the school needed new computers, or she wanted to fund a new wing to show off her Medieval artifacts collection, which was rumored to contain instruments of torture. With a few whacks of her gnarled mahogany cane, Mother Superior could put the fear of God into any Pinnacle girl who dared to even think about boys, or tattoos, or drugs, or—heaven forbid—altering our hideous blue and white uniforms in the slightest way. Many a Pinnacle girl had been sent to her office for a seemingly minor infraction, never to be heard from on campus—or Cincinnati, for that matter—again. And now, here she was, towering over me with a creepy smile on her face like the Grim Reaper, more than thrilled to have cornered a new victim.

  “Miss McArthur,” she trilled in a strange tone, as melodic as a lute despite the deep grooves in her ashy, sagging face, “it has come to my attention that your tuition payments are looong overdue. That means you are perilously close to expulsion, my dear. I must have a word with your father—”

  “Oh my gosh, really?” I interrupted, pretending surprise. My Geisha skills always came in handy at moments like this. “Um, you want to speak to my dad? Well you’re in luck. Because, uh, here he is!”

  Wham—

  Just like that.

  A well-aimed kick to the back of my dad’s wheelchair, and he rolled into her like a battering ram, toppling the witch over in seconds flat.

  Sometimes, it’s that easy.

  And I’ll probably spend a millennium in Purgatory for that little maneuver!

  Of course, she was left sputtering and flailing her arms like an overturned turtle. And if I wasn’t mistaken, I thought for sure I heard my dad giggling. You know, in that cotton-mouthed, stroke-victim kind of way. He turned to look back at me with a mischievous half-grin.

  “Attah gurrrl,” he slurred.

  He even clutched his belly and let out a full-blown chortle. Followed by a snort.

  And by this time, I’d start
ed giggling, too.

  In fact, I doubled over and laughed so hard, I thought the hospital had begun to shake.

  Oh my God.

  Near as I could tell, this was the first “happy family moment” I’d ever experienced in my whole life.

  All right, so maybe my dad and I didn’t bond over normal father-daughter things. Like eating hot dogs while watching the Cincinnati Reds, or polishing off black-raspberry chip ice cream at Graeter’s. We’re McArthurs, after all, so there’s got to be some bad behavior to keep us going. But I have to say, in that instant, nothing could’ve stopped me from running over to my dad and giving him the biggest squeeze ever.

  Don’t get me wrong.

  It didn’t last long—

  “CODE BLACK,” the hospital P.A. system broadcast so loudly it hurt my ears. “All security personnel to the exits immediately. CODE BLACK. Prepare for extreme measures—”

  What the hell?

  My dad looked up, wide-eyed, like he’d heard a trumpet from on high.

  Even Darth Vader stopped thrashing for a second and sat up on her elbows, her mouth hung open.

  I shot a glance at my dad, dumbfounded, when I saw two burly men appear at the end of the hallway in gray uniforms. Attached to their belts were holsters—Holy Moses—as in, real guns.

  “Daddy!” I gasped.

  “Wuun Wobbbbinnnn,” he lisped.

  “What?” I panicked.

  “Wun!”

  Oh, run! Yep, that would be the smart thing to do. I grabbed my dad’s wheelchair handles and whipped him around, heading for the green glow of the elevator this time. Thank God I could see the doors sliding open in front of us. So I put my dad on coast, riding the back of his wheelchair until we were inside, where I slammed on the brake. My dad jostled a bit—but miracle-beyond-miracles—the poor guy didn’t fall out. And I could hear him laughing! When I turned him around and looked into his face, his eyes and cheeks were crinkled with pride. I felt so happy I wanted to cry.