Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) (19 page)

“Creek,” I replied, my muscles tense now to the point of strain, “It’s not fair for you to push me for forgiveness when—”

“It’s not the same thing,” he cut in, sensing where I was heading.

He waited for a second to let that filter in.

“The difference is that your dad really loves you. He’s just had to do some pretty awful things to prove that to himself. But he did them for you.”

“Then why doesn’t he ever show it to my face!” I spit out, sitting up in the sleeping bag now. “You saw him—he acts more fatherly to Dooley than he ever has to me!”

I felt Creek’s hand gently stroke my head, then run his fingers along strands of my hair to slowly untangle them. Although I was furious and didn’t want to admit it, he had succeeded in calming me a little.

“Doyle doesn’t think he can ever be enough for you, Robin. Can’t you see that? You’re Alessia to him—the woman he can’t ever have. Maybe none of us can.”

Creek was sitting beside me now. But the moon had shifted behind some thick trees. And without its light, he seemed to be made of total darkness all of a sudden, in a way that spooked me—like he’d somehow taken on my father’s soul and managed to talk out loud. I thought about the Wheel of Fortune card, how Granny had told me that history was repeating itself with The Lovers, and shivers slipped down my skin. But just because Creek had kissed me, did that give him the right to trespass over all my family’s pain? Why was it his business, anyway?

“Because I want to love you, too, Robin.”

I sucked air.

Creek had said that in the barest whisper. But he might as well have shouted it with a megaphone to my soul.

And I sat frozen in the dark, breathless.

Feeling split wide open.

There was no hiding with this guy! No Geisha tricks that could work on Creek to defend myself.

He was pure and raw. And he demanded nothing less from me.

“You asked me earlier today about being real,” he said, honoring my physical space by not touching me now. “Well all I know is that you gotta be the one to love your dad first. ’Cause he’s all broken inside, Robin. And your anger is keeping him from healing.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“I saw him grab a big, long stick during the hoedown tonight, while everyone else was busy dancing. He used it to pull himself up and try and limp around in the dark behind Granny’s wagon, where he thought nobody could see him. But I did. And when he caught me watching, he started swearing. His speech was perfect, Robin.”

Oh my God, how I wanted to slug my dad. Of course! He’d been playing up his disability all along, because deception is his superpower.

“And he struggled to walk over to me,” Creek added. “It was hard for him, but he did it. He was trying to man up and face me—to be a real dad. And with every bit of strength he had in him, he shook that big stick at me and said, ‘Don’t turn her into a crook.’”

“Wha—?”

“It’s true—that’s what he said. He was slow, but his words came out clear as a bell.”

I started to laugh. “M-My dad, advising anyone not to be a criminal? How on earth did you respond?”

Creek was quiet for a long time.

He gently tugged me back down to the platform, his hand easing my head onto the sleeping bag. Then he laid down beside me. We could see the stars peeking through the branches above us, and the moon had inched from behind the trees, glimmering pure white once again. It was so beautiful I wanted to hold the sight in my heart forever. But I was hanging onto Creek’s every word.

Creek kissed my cheek before tilting my head onto his chest to use for a pillow. He caressed my hair for a moment. I felt his lungs rise and fall with a long breath.

“I told your dad it was too late for that,” he finally answered me. “We already are crooks. And that’s probably not gonna change any time soon. Then I told him something else, but that’s just between two men.”

I held my breath, wondering if there’s anything else Creek wanted say to me.

He twirled a strand of my long hair around his finger for a few seconds before letting it fall back to my shoulder.

“Robin,” Creek confessed, “I think I broke his heart.”

I climbed onto the Indian’s cold metal seat in the dark, after Creek had silently rowed us in the boat across Bender Lake in the moonlight.

No candles this time.

Nothing that could give us away to Bob or anyone else who might want to track us down. Like Creek said, we’re vampires now—nocturnal creatures who only strike at night. And after taking a quick catnap on the tree stand, and then stuffing in more of my birthday cake to tide us over, we were ready to set out for our next hit.

But as I wrapped my arms around Creek on the motorcycle, I felt him reach into his pocket before he started up the motor. He pulled out something and tucked it into my hand. From its softness, I knew immediately what it was.

A feather.

My throat clenched and I said a silent prayer for our safety.

Before the roar of the engine split my ears.

Then I blew the feather into the wind and hugged Creek’s waist for all I was worth. The Indian lurched forward, and in no time we were bulleting through darkness.

No headlights.

Our journey lit solely by the moon.

Creek navigated the bike along dirt edges of farm fields and down abandoned gravel country lanes, where not another soul was traveling. For over an hour the wind whipped my hair as we wove past silhouettes of black forests and rolling hills, my nose filled with the scent of moist earth and the early burst of spring crops. Occasionally, I saw unlit farmhouses and barns that looked like big boxes in the night, until we finally saw the twinkling lights of Cincinnati. The closer we got to the city, the more the tall buildings rose high before us, sparkling like jewels.

My heart skipped at the sight.

Because all of a sudden, it came rushing back—

Only a short time ago, I was a bonafide city girl.

The kind of chick who had 3 designer handbags in spring colors and a diamond-rimmed cell phone.

And not a single real friend in the whole world.

But now I did.

I actually had a motley, makeshift family. They were the craziest group of people I’d ever met. But they were also nearer to my heart than all the paid staff I’d known for ages.

And I was about to commit a crime for them.

Flutters skittered in my belly until my stomach began to twist.

I felt Creek reach down to pat my leg, as though he’d sensed my nerves through the white-knuckled grip I had around his waist.

He headed the motorcycle beneath a big cement bridge at the outskirts of the city, and in the moonlight I could see we were entering a rough neighborhood full of junk cars and run-down houses with cracked windows that had iron bars over them. It was the kind of area my chauffeur would never have dreamed of going through, and I can honestly say I’d never seen this side of the city before. Then a dog charged at a chain link fence alongside us, barking viciously and rattling the metal gate so hard it made me jump.

Junk yard dog, I thought, spotting the high coils of razor wire.

A couple of dark figures lingered on the unlit street corner ahead, not even bothering to look up as we sped by with no headlight. What on earth were they doing on a sketchy street in Cincinnati at this hour?

Exactly the same thing we’re doing, I realized—

Getting ready to commit a crime.

And that’s when it hit me.

This is what poverty really looks like.

No wonder Creek keeps Dooley near Bender Lake.

The folks at Turtle Shores might be loony tunes, and well below even food stamp status, but at least they had the beauty of the lake around them—something that could nourish their souls.

And I never thought I’d say this in a million years, but around all the hard pavement, brick, and steel of the city, I actually found myself missing the soft, green surroundings of the lake.

Just then, Creek made a hard right at an intersection that funneled us onto a street leading downtown, and I prayed no cops would stop us for a broken headlight. But by now, I’d noticed that all of the roads Creek took were particularly dark—narrow alleys or back streets tucked behind buildings that had no street lamps. Clearly, he knew these shadowy night routes like the back of his hand. Then he made another turn onto a tight street sandwiched between two tall buildings. All at once, I saw a glow ahead of us.

Fountain Square.

Its central statue lit up with golden streams of water.

As we approached, the giant bronze woman at the top of the statue loomed before us. She held her arms outstretched like an angel, her hands spilling water. The needy bronze figures below her looked up with eyes of hope, as though her gift might save lives.

A lot like the way people viewed Creek.

I hugged him even tighter, as if that were even possible, wondering how many times I’d played beside this fountain as a little girl with nannies who didn’t give a shit. I’d defy city rules and splash in the fountain pool on warm afternoons, getting my school uniform all wet, until I eventually got bored and would demand to be taken to Tiffany’s.

Tiffany’s!

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied the pretty teal overhangs opposite the square, lit up by soft floodlights.

“Stop!” I cried into Creek’s ear, jiggling him.

He slowed the Indian to a pause and turned to me, but by then I’d already leaped off the motorcycle and started running—

Right into the arms of the loveliest place on earth.

I stopped in front of the windows, pressing my hands against the glass, just like I always did as a little girl.

But the displays were empty.

Of course! It was two-thirty am. Who shops for diamonds at this hour?

Creek was beside me in a shot.

“What are you doing?” he whispered hoarsely, clenching my arm. “We can’t be seen here—”

“But the spring collection!” I gasped. Never in my life had I missed the new lineup of charms and bracelets and pendants. When I used to think I was born in May, I always had plenty of time to peruse the new spring catalog before demanding one as my birthday gift.

Creek grasped my shoulders and swiveled me to face him.

“You’re not that girl any more!” he hissed, glaring into my eyes. “Just one—
o
n
e
—of those tiny gold rings in there would be enough to save Brandi’s life.” He shook me a little. “Do you hear me?”

Hear him? Was he kidding? His words hit me like a blow between the eyes.

If I still had my cell phone Sparkle, we wouldn’t have to be trying to rob a bank right now. We could have fenced it for thousands of dollars.

That thought struck me in the gut, and I sank a little in Creek’s grip. When I glanced back into Tiffany’s, I noticed a few baubles were lit up in the innermost display cases of the store. Those shiny jewels used to represent a kind of hope for me. A belief that I could make life better for myself someday—somehow—if I just hung on long enough to survive my family’s weirdness.

But now everything inside that store looked dark and cold.

Creek wrapped me tightly in his arms, as if he’d felt me shiver. “We gotta get out of here, Robin,” he whispered, “into the shadows again.”

I nodded, and he grabbed me by the hand and rushed me back to the motorcycle. But instead of kickstarting it, he walked the bike by the handlebars as we headed into the darkness beside a building, slinking quietly into the shadows towards the back of a bank.

And not just any bank.

Cincinnati Federal.

The richest, most glorious financial institution in the city—with crystal chandeliers in the lobby, Italian marble on the floor, and bank tellers who were forced to wear little black bowties and greet everyone, regardless of age, as either “Sir” or “Madam.”

How do I know this?

Because Laura Ritter’s dad is the bank president. And a month ago after school, she finagled a pass from Pinnacle for us to visit him under the guise of “career day.” After he spent all of one minute smiling at us and giving me a handshake, he sent her off to give me a private tour of the bank so we’d be out of his hair. Which included entering the vault without a single adult around.

This is back when Laura thought we were going to become girlfriends.

As in,
t
h
o
s
e
kind of girlfriends.

And I completely led her on so she’d finish my crummy essay on “The Legacy of Geisha Power in Asian Culture.”

Just a few kisses—okay, that led to a full-blown makeout session inside the bank vault where no one could see us—were enough to convince Laura that she could trust me. And her work got me an A.

As well as the code to the vault and the back door.

It wasn’t hard. Laura’s dad had made her name and beginning letter of their last name the password to the vault keypad, and reversed it for everywhere else. I could hear her proudly whisper “L-A-U-R-A—R” as she typed it in. Being her dad’s only daughter, who he showered with expensive gifts instead of attention, I could tell Laura took the code as a grand sign of affection. How would she know any different? That same slick crap used to work on me, too.

And I didn’t think much of it at the time, until now.

Little did Laura know she’d been kissing a future criminal. But I guess after copping a feel up my bra, she’d gotten what she wanted out of the deal.

“Creek,” I said, grabbing his jean jacket to make him stop walking. “We don’t have to con the security guard to this bank. I know the codes—”

“What?” he replied, floored. He moved towards a thin alley between two buildings that was as black as ink.

“Seriously, I know how to get in,” I pressed. “I went to school with the bank president’s daughter. Trust me.”

Creek was silent. I could feel him weighing my words, weighing the consequences of altering plans that had taken him months to create. But then he very carefully opened up the bag he’d dragged with him all the way from Bender Lake and pulled out our wigs and coveralls.