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

  “Guuud gurrlll,” he smiled as the doors sealed shut. He pointed at the elevator controls.

  “Floor two?” I offered. But then I saw the words Maternity printed next to it. Floor three was Neurosurgery, floor four was Dialysis—and every other floor had another specialty in bold letters. Impulsively, I hit the “B” button for the basement, and gave my dad a shrug. Surely there’d be a convenient exit there, right? The elevator dropped to the bottom of the hospital like a stone, and when the doors opened, I spun my dad around. All we could see was black.

  Maybe an underground tunnel?

  Okay by me, as long as we could get the hell out. But all of a sudden, the air felt cold and clammy, and there was that terrible smell . . .

  Hesitantly, I wheeled my dad into the darkness, taking a couple of strides, when I heard a metal crash.

  “Fwuuuck!” my dad yelped.

  Wrong move. Guess the tunnel wasn’t empty after all.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, patting my dad’s head. I reached out and ran my fingers against a wall, fumbling until I found a light switch, and flicked it on.

  Ow . . .

  The fluorescent lights were so bright, I felt like they’d seared my eyeballs. I blinked at the shiny metal drawers that lined the room, resting my gaze on a steel table in front of us. It held a body.

  Um, a particularly gray body.

  Sweet Mother of God—

  A corpse.

  “Blood-curdling” doesn’t even begin to describe the scream that left my lungs.

  My dad started hollering something in gibberish, while I instinctively made a sign of the cross. It really didn’t help matters that my cell phone went off at the exact same time, nearly making me jump out of my skin.

  Wow, there’s nothing like getting a text for fifty-percent-off at Macy’s in Fountain Square when you really should be running for your life—

  “Dumpf itt!” my dad barked.

  “Yeah, dammit!” I agreed. “I could be getting spring sandals right now for a song—”

  Before I could finish, my dad grabbed my cell with his only good hand and dumped it into a beaker of fluid. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I watched my pink, diamond-studded cell phone give off sparks and bubble slowly into what must’ve been formaldehyde.

  “Daaad, that’s Sparkle!” I hyperventilated—the pet name I’d given my only friend in high school who didn’t get all clicky and turn nasty on me, even if she did bill me for the service.

  “No won kan trathse uths,” my dad said defiantly.

  No one can trace us—

  Oh my gosh, he was right. Swallowing hard, I nodded at his logic and blew my sweet Sparkle a kiss goodbye, still sniffling. My dad pointed to a bag on the floor.

  “Thstreet kloaths.”

  “Street clothes? You gotta be kidding me. You want to put on stuff from a dead guy?”

  Just then, the hospital P.A. system crackled and began bleating like a goat.

  “All security personnel. Check building extremities. Now.”

  “Good God—okay, Dad, let me help you up.” I hurried to lift him from his wheelchair and onto his feet. Since he hadn’t consumed much more than cigarettes and stimulants lately, he was remarkably light. Nevertheless, my heart drummed as I bent down to open the plastic bag he’d pointed out, only to find a truly unfortunate wad of polyester.

  “Oh Daddy, I’m sooo sorry.” I shook my head, pulling out a bright orange suit and a purple paisley shirt. “There’s no two ways about it. You’re gonna look like a pimp.”

  Stifling a giggle, I swung the shirt over his hospital gown and stuffed his arms inside, doing the same thing with the jacket and buttoning him up. Then I picked up his feet one by one and guided them into the obnoxious pants. For the life of me, he looked like a neon tangerine nightmare—by a junky on acid. And he was still barefoot, the way the Beatles appeared on that freaky Abbey Road album.

  “Royle . . . is . . . dead,” I moaned like that Satanic 1960s recording I’d heard played backwards on a dare on YouTube, watching my dad smirk at the joke. Creepy, yes, but this twisted outfit was the best we could do.

  A lucky thing, it turned out, since I could hear people scuffling beyond the door.

  “Hold on, Dad.” I dashed to lock the door of the morgue. “You ready?”

  My dad took a deep breath and nodded. Wrapping my arm around his waist, I helped him limp slowly to the exit at the opposite end of the room, and swung the door open wide.

  There she was, like a vision stretched before us. My dream come true . . .

  A shiny Miata convertible with the top down, her bright cherry finish sparkling in the afternoon sun.

  No driver, no passengers—

  Just the gentle purr of her idling engine, like she’d been waiting for me.

  Forget all those religious education classes. Now I know that heaven really does exist!

  “Angel,” I whispered.

  Okay, so she was a screaming red instead of a sunshine yellow. And she had to belong to some doctor who’d sprinted into the hospital for a second to pick up notes. But who were we to be picky? As far as I was concerned, this heavenly beauty was mine.

  “Coming, darling!” I called out. My dad looked at me like I was crazy, but he didn’t argue when I led him to the passenger’s side and settled him into the soft, buttery leather seat, then trotted around and plopped myself behind the steering wheel.

  She was an automatic, thank God. Considering I still hadn’t gotten my learner’s permit yet and only had a few lessons from our chauffeur, it was no small miracle.

  “This is it, Dad,” I said, shifting awkwardly into drive. “All we need now is some cash. Got any tips for knocking over a bank?”

  My dad stared at me as if I’d mutated into a sociopath.

  “Hey, like father, like daughter!” I reminded him.

  Gritting my teeth, I stepped on the gas. My poor dad’s head snapped back as though we’d rocketed to the moon.

  Fortunately, I only turned over one garbage can and plowed through a small sign and two flower beds on our way out. But for all intents and purposes, we were as free as birds.

  And that was how I began my career in crime.

  Chapter 2

  I barely made my way through the tangled bird’s nest of streets in Cincinnati to find Route 125 and headed southeast, hugging the center line of the highway like a drunk driver. I didn’t dare look at my dad anymore, because the last time I’d checked, he had a white-knuckled grip on the dashboard with his good hand, and his face was as pale as a sheet.

  Gee, Dad, if you’d sacrificed a little of your precious time to help me learn how to handle a car before this, I might be a better driver! At least I didn’t hurt anybody.

  But no biggie. As long as I ignored the twigs that were still stuck to the windshield from the shrubs I’d barreled through on Liberty Street, we were set. And I actually began to enjoy myself a little. I mean, here I am, in a siren-red convertible with the top down on a warm, spring day. It doesn’t get any better than this! Too bad there were only mullet-haired truckers and local yokels to flirt with. Just for the hell of it, I gave each one a wink and a toss of my long, chestnut hair. Hey, practice makes perfect. But by the time we’d passed our hundredth farm on this rolling stretch of highway outside the city and I still hadn’t spotted a single hot guy, I decided to use the downtime to focus on my main goal:

  Bender Lake, Ohio.

  Yep, it’s the kind of hick place that people head to when they’re, well, craving a bender. Just a remote, “hush-hush” neck of the woods, ideal for lost weekends of drinking, drugs and rock and roll, with minimal city ordinances against disturbing the peace, lewd behavior, or fraternizing with vampires.

  Whatever you want, Bender Lake’s got it. And best of all, nobody talks.

  Perfect.

  But don’t think Bender Lake has anything like the bright lights of Las Vegas.

  No, what we’re talking about here is a cross between the boondocks in tha
t creepy Deliverance movie you sometimes see on Saturdays and a Bermuda Triangle, of sorts, for losers.

  According to the rumor mill in Cincinnati, especially crazy partiers like CeeCee Stone, who everyone at Pinnacle called a “drug-slut” long before she got kicked out, people have a way of “disappearing” into the miles of thick hardwoods and brush surrounding Bender Lake and never getting caught. Deep caves, camouflaged camp sites, mysteriously concealed trailer parks—hell, I’ve even heard talk of UFO abductions that helped people avoid arrest! If you’re running from the law, or you simply don’t want mommy and daddy to hear about the crap you’ve been jamming up your nose or into your veins, Bender Lake is the place in Ohio to go.

  But there was only one problem.

  We were running out of gas.

  And since all of my dad’s accounts were frozen, making my credit cards utterly worthless, we didn’t have a dime. So before I hit Bender Lake to find us a little “out-of-the-way vacation cottage” to anonymously rent, I was in desperate need of cash.

  And what better place to go than a bank?

  Okay, so maybe my idea of robbing banks was originally a joke. My dad had checked off a startling number of criminal boxes lately, so I thought it would be fun to add a little “glamour” to his list.

  But not anymore. This was serious stuff, and as the Miata’s low fuel signal flashed orange on the dash and rang at a furious pitch, I realized I needed to get down to business—quick.

  Luckily, I’d spotted a blue-gingham sign for Home & Hearth Savings & Loan near the highway, with a convenient exit up ahead.

  Home & Hearth? I’d never heard of it before, but it sounded like the kind of place that handed out free crock pots to folks who opened savings accounts. As long as they filled mine with hundred-dollar bills, I could forgive the country-kitsch logo.

  So I pulled off the exit ramp and onto a humble little road that held a white clapboard church, a seedy coin-op laundry, a boarded-up diner—and a small bank. I couldn’t even tell what the town’s name was as I steered towards the Home & Hearth building and jostled over their curb, cranking my front tires off the sidewalk and back onto the street with a jolt. Glancing around the empty town, I smiled sweetly at my dad.

  “This’ll just take a minute!” I promised.

  My dad clutched my forearm like a vise, squeezing the life out of me.

  “Ouch!” I cried, trying my best to pull away. Jesus, for a man who was partially paralyzed, his left hand could still pack a punch.

  “No, Wobbin,” my dad insisted, glaring at me. All of a sudden, his expression resembled a wounded animal’s. “Day-enj,” he struggled, the words turning into marbles on his tongue. “Day-enj! DAYN-JER-OOS!”

  I nodded, getting his drift. Funny how a guy who’d hardly had anything to do with me until now suddenly thought he could play warden.

  “Listen, Dad,” I sighed, “this isn’t exactly my first choice. But short of becoming a streetwalker, I don’t know how else to take care of us. Not even Graeter’s hires fifteen-year-olds! And in case you forgot, we’re probably wanted by the law, so I might as well give them a run for their money. Oops, pardon the pun—”

  I planted a quick peck on his forehead. “Now I’m off, before I lose my nerve.”

  Wrenching myself free from his grip, I bolted from the Miata and refused to look back, slipping the keys into my pocket. I could hear my dad’s slurred protests as I scurried up the sidewalk, but that wasn’t what really bothered me.

  No, what really got under my skin was this strange, haunting feeling . . .

  Like I was being watched.

  And not just by my dad.

  I froze in place for a second, mere steps from the bank door.

  There it was again . . .

  That odd sensation that someone’s eyes were on my back.

  Could the bank have hired security to watch over the building?

  I swiftly scanned the roof and did a little spin to check the street on either side.

  Give me a break, I thought, this is Podunkville! It’s not like they’re gonna have snipers in the bushes.

  Sucking up my courage, I pointed my finger beneath my school cardigan like a concealed weapon and prepared to head inside. My heart started to do backflips, and I felt like any second it was going to spring from my chest.

  “You can do this,” I barked under my breath, “you’ve got to! Just walk in there like you own the place, head to the nearest teller, and make your demand.”

  Aside from the full-blown terror that popped and sizzled through my brain, another sound began to filter into my ears.

  Laughter.

  I slid my hand to my chest, just to check if it was me. After all, people do weird things in a panic, but I soon discovered that I wasn’t the source of the sound.

  Glancing up, I spotted a shadow.

  Straight ahead, beside a large sycamore tree. And it moved.

  I squinted and inched to the left, peering into a particularly dark patch beside the wide tree trunk.

  And that’s when I saw him.

  Or I guess I should say, he chose to reveal himself.

  A tall guy, maybe a year or two older than me, in a black t-shirt and torn, faded jeans. His tangled, sun-bleached hair looked like it had never seen scissors, yet it framed his tan skin and piercing blue eyes like a rugged surfer’s. To my surprise, he flashed a half-smile, making the jagged scar across his cheek press into a dark, thin line, like a dagger. For a second, I wondered if it was a warning—

  “You gotta be kidding me,” he shook his head, folding his tattooed arms. “You honestly think you can take on this place?”

  He leaned his tall frame against the tree, appearing amused. Instantly, I could tell from his ripped clothes, sinewy body, and nearly feral gaze that he was pretty much everything Pinnacle had been paid so handsomely to keep out of my reach.

  Beautiful.

  Deadly.

  And well within kissing distance—

  Without warning, his intense eyes locked on mine as if we were the only two people who’d ever mattered on planet earth.

  And all at once, I felt a weight dislodge and explode into a gazillion pieces inside my chest.

  This is my heart—

  This is my heart on CRACK.

  I hyperventilated for a moment, fully acknowledging that I am the most undersexed teen this side of Mississippi. As long as no one counts kissing Laura Ritter, but that was only because she sobbed and got all needy on me and promised to write my “Female Power in Japanese Culture” essay.

  Get a grip, I snapped at myself. Focus!

  Okay, so I know most girls like me are diamond-wise and boy-foolish. Except for CeeCee Stone, of course, whose conquests rival alley cats. So surely the only reason the hottest thing in the known universe is standing in front of me right now is because . . .

  Well, um, because . . .

  He wants to rob the same bank.

  “Dammit!”

  The guy laughed like I’d said that out loud.

  “Shit!”

  Yep, I’m pretty sure he heard that one, too.

  I shuffled my feet, heaving a big sigh.

  All right Mr. Rugged & Beautiful, I thought, folding my arms across my supremely-dorky school sweater. Think you can psyche me out? Well I’ve just completed a year and a half in mean-girl lockdown, where they make you check in your soul at the door in exchange for verbal switchblades, so don’t even think I’m gonna cave any time soon.

  No fear.

  I lifted my chin and gave him my iciest stare.

  “First one inside hits the jackpot!” I said, darting into the bank’s front door before he could blink.

  At least, I’d thought I’d made it before him. But in the time it took me to absorb Home & Hearth’s truly horrendous country-blue lobby with white geese & little red hearts on the perky gingham wallpaper borders, I could feel the guy’s warm breath against my neck.

  “Okay, Silver Spoon,” he whispered from behind me wi
th a laugh, “let’s see what you got.”

  I whipped around, but he was already half-way out the door.

  Holy crap.

  It’s showtime.

  Without wasting another second, I marched up to the only teller—a round woman with a doughy face and gray, curly hair—and shot her my very fiercest look.

  “Give me the money,” I stated, spying the name tag on her blouse, “Darlene.”

  No finger in the cardigan, or note, or even a hint of violence.

  In the heat of moment, I’d forgotten all about that stuff, but there was no retreating now.

  The woman’s face broke into the sweetest smile I’d ever seen.

  “Thank you, Jesus!” She clapped her hands together loudly, her eyes tearing up. “Honey, I been prayin’ for you!”

  She waved her hands in the air to some unseen troop of angels and nodded at me as if I were her walking dream-come-true. Then she turned to grab a basket full of muffins.

  “Here, sweetie. We usually hand these out to customers who open up new checking accounts. But I thought it might be a nice touch to give it to you, too.”

  Before I could speak, she’d plopped the basket into my arms. Then she pulled out a quilted fabric purse and opened it wide, removing a thick wad of bills held together by a rubber band. Eyes sparkling, she dropped the bills into the basket like it was Easter candy.

  “There you go—three-hundred and fifty whole dollars! I won it at bingo last Wednesday, and I been askin’ the Lord all week to show me a sign for who to give it to. And here you came in like sunshine and made it clear as day!”

  Her gaze narrowed for a moment as she carefully looked me up and down. “What’s your trouble, honey? You pregnant?”

  “Huh? N-No!” I replied, utterly confused. “I mean, what? This isn’t the bank’s money—it’s your money?”

  I couldn’t help it. I started to cry. I’d never seen anyone do anything so . . . selfless . . . in my whole life.

  “Th-thank you,” I sputtered, hugging the basket to my chest. The blueberry muffins smelled like pure heaven. “I-I hardly know what to say—I—”

  “Go on!” she smiled. “An’ spread your blessings out there like seeds, child. The way the good Lord showed us. Now hurry up, before the day gets away!”