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

• 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
  

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.

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.

“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/

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
d
o
n
’
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,
l
i
f
e
. 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
c
a
s
h
.

Is it any wonder that I became a bank robber?

It all started back in March when my dad, Royle McArthur—a partner at
t
h
e
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
n
e
a
r
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,
P
l
e
a
s
e
R
o
b
i
n
,
f
o
r
t
h
e
l
o
v
e
o
f
G
o
d
,
p
l
e
a
s
e
d
o
n
’
t
l
e
a
v
e
m
e
h
e
r
e
.

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
m
e
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.