Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Here, I think there are some tissues in this drawer.” She opened a bin beside a rusty oven and handed me a packet with
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written on it, like it had been stolen. “A few swipes of these around your face, honey, and you’ll be as good as new. Call me if you need anything!”
    “Wait, what’s your cell number? I left mine back at the—”
    “T’ain’t no phones, silly!” Brandi roared, rocking back on her kitten heels. “They don’t work here anyhows. You just open up your door and let ’er rip.” She turned the door handle and leaned outside. “Howdy-doodle!”
    Her voice echoed through the woods, but I didn’t exactly hear a reply. All I could detect was the sound of the TNT Twins blasting yet another target in the distance. And if I wasn’t mistaken, I thought I saw a man swing from a rope through the trees.
    “Criminy,” Brandi sighed. “Bixby must be huffing paint again. And I wanted him to fix my toilet, too. Take a number, I guess.”
    She shrugged and patted me on the back. “Well, if you need any help, sweetie, I’m in the silver Airstream to the right of the biggest maple tree over there, covered with thatched branches and leaves. Our trailers are all hard to spot, if you get my drift,” she grinned. “But don’t ever think that means we don’t know what’s goin’ on. Toodles!”
    Brandi wiggled her fingers in my face before she headed out the door. “I’ll be back in the morning with some of Lorraine’s sausage and cheese grits. You’re gonna think you died and gone to heaven.”
    “Right—heaven,” I mumbled uncertainly.
    I tried to force a smile as she hopped down into the mud from our trailer that was barely half the size of my old dorm room at Pinnacle. All of a sudden, I craved my dry bed there with its overly starched sheets and aroma of industrial cleansers everywhere. At least it was clean! I gazed around our grubby trailer, which was so small that I could touch the kitchen table, the range, and an overhead bunk bed without moving an inch. Not to mention that it was covered from floor to ceiling in shades of “burnt orange”, “avocado” and “harvest gold” like some sicko shrine to reruns of
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. I was afraid that if I squinted, my father in his pimped-out leisure suit might actually disappear into the sofa’s retro, hallucinogenic hues. Shaking my head, I folded my arms and glared at Dad.
    “All right, start talking,” I demanded.
    He looked at me, confused.
    “How is it you’re so familiar with this place? Every time I turn around, you’re practically lip-synching with these people, like you’re totally used to their drill. Do you have relatives here or something? You always said our ancestors were English lords who came over and topped Cincinnati’s social register. Not backwoods bumpkins—”
    My dad flinched.
    No, more than that. A pained expression came to his face, as if my words had somehow pierced his . . .
    His . . .
    Soul.
    Oh my gosh. Who was this guy, anyway? Just yesterday he was
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Royle McArthur—the loudest, baddest, most infamous law-shark of the Tri-State region. He had no soul! And now all of a sudden he seemed like a total stranger?
    To my astonishment, tears rimmed the corners of his eyes. My dad reached out his good hand and ran his fingers along my dark, jello-coated hair.
    “Bootifull . . . bootifull baybee gurrll,” he said with a quiet sincerity, admiring the long strands, despite their stickiness.
    I choked up in an instant.
    For once in my life, I was utterly speechless.
    “Go to the layk, Wobbin,” he whispered.
    It took a moment for him to roll his tongue back into position to talk again.
    “Everrthin be all rite. Jus go to the layk.”

Chapter 4
     
    I shook my head as I walked alone through the thick woods, bewildered by my dad. It was like he’d put on a completely different face with me, one I’d never seen before. And he was so insistent that I go to the lake.