Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) by Diane J. Reed

cheese ones best. But the TNT Twins, well, Creek don’t get mixed up in their explosions much, so he just hauls in potatoes for ’em.” Dooley’s finger aimed at a burlap sack on the ground.
    Something about the skin on the boy’s forearm caught my eye, and it wasn’t simply the black snake tattoo. Below his elbow, I noticed he had a string of round, brownish dots, like maybe he’d had chicken pox? Yet when I squinted, I realized that they were more like scars—as in, burn marks—from somebody’s cigarette. Shocked, I seized his arm.
    “Dooley! What on earth happened—who would do this to you? Granny? Creek? Did Creek hurt you?”
    “No!” The boy squirmed like mad, his eyes the picture of horror, but I held onto him with all my might.
    “Tell me the truth, Dooley,” I insisted. “What kind of sick, horrible human being would deliberately—”
    “Time to come up. NOW.” Granny Tinker had opened the hatch and bellowed in an iron tone that I swear could have leveled a building. Not since Mother Superior had I heard so much mettle in a woman’s voice. “Our visitors done skedaddled.”
    Dooley slipped out of my hand like he was made of liquid and rushed up the stairs.
    Shaking my head, I slowly climbed the steps, only to find Granny sitting at her small table with two steaming cups in front of her. Dooley was nowhere in sight.
    “Sit down,” she said.
    I didn’t get the impression I had a choice. “B-But I have to get back to my dad,” I pointed out, “he’s all alone, and probably scared—”
    Granny’s eyes narrowed, unrelenting, and she shoved a teacup towards me. She glared until I picked it up. Nervous, I lifted the warm liquid to my lips, praying to God it didn’t have any lizard’s feet or magic ’shrooms in it, and I took a careful sip. To my surprise, it tasted wonderful—like raspberries with cream and honey.
    Granny folded her arms and smiled.
    “No need to fret, child. Yer Pa’s perfectly safe in his bunker—with Creek. He built one for all the trailers in Turtle Shores, just like my wagon. The Colonel and the TNT Twins blasted out the bunker holes with their explosives, and then Creek finished the rest. It was all his idea.”
    I could tell her eyes had picked up on my fear of Stalker Guy. She shook her head.
    “Honey, Creek would rather die than hurt that little boy. Matter of fact, if it weren’t for him, Dooley wouldn’t be alive right now.” She squinted at me, leaning closer. “And neither would yer Pa. Thems weren’t cops that were just here. We can buy them off easy any day of the week. They was the mob. Said some high-falutin’ guy hired ’em to flush out yer Pa. Like he owes him or somethin’.”
    All of a sudden, I felt the tea cup rattle in my hand.
    “Doyle’s got himself up shit creek this time, ain’t he?”
    “Royle!” I said adamantly. “Y-you’ve got him confused with somebody else—”
    “Suit yourself,” Granny Tinker nodded. “But I tell you this,” she picked up her cigar from an ashtray and pulled out a pearl-handled switchblade, clicking open a long, shiny knife to cut off the cigar tip. “I ain’t seen those mob boys up here for quite a spell. Surprised Doyle came back to Bender Lake to try and hide.”
    “It wasn’t his idea—it was mine! And what do you mean came back?”
    “He ain’t never told you?”
    Granny lit a match and leaned against her chair, puffing her cigar till it glowed. I could feel her studying me, her timberwolf eyes tracing the contours of my cheeks and nose, the waviness of my long, chestnut hair that never went completely straight, even with a hot iron. Then her gaze met mine, as if she were reading my dark brown eyes.
    “Yep, you look just like her.”
    “Who?”
    Granny let out a cackle that could have stirred the dead. “Why, the one that got away, darlin’. Must’ve been eatin’ at him his whole life—”
    “Who on this planet are you talking about?”
    Granny’s gaze rested on the candles