Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) by Diane J. Reed Page B
Authors: Diane J. Reed
Tags: General Fiction
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toppled our boat.
I screamed and bolted upright.
Only to discover that I wasn’t covered in balmy, Mediterranean water, but rather, in a faded, army-issue blanket.
Good God—
I glanced around, realizing I was inside a rusty, old trailer.
So it hadn’t all been a weird nightmare.
I really
w
a
s
in a trailer park, with only my dad and three-hundred-and-fifty bucks of bingo money to my name.
Brushing back the hair from my face, I vaguely remembered Granny Tinker walking me home the night before, where we found my dad asleep on the couch. Granny had wrapped my quilt around him to keep him warm, and then she helped me out of my wet clothes and tucked me into the back bed.
Another blast shook our trailer and echoed outside.
Cautiously, I peeked out the window just in time to catch a man in a boulder costume hurling through the air, his arms and legs flailing. Thank God he was wearing a helmet—
“JUSTIN! JASPER!” I heard Brandi’s voice holler. “Now cut that out. The Colonel done told you not to launch each other from the trebuchet. Besides, yer cannons are gonna wake the new neighbors.”
“But it’s already noon!” one of the TNT Twins whined.
Astonished, I reached into my pocket for Sparkle to check the time, only to recall that we’d dumped her all the way back in Cincy. Oh yeah, and I had no pockets—I was still in my underwear.
Sighing, I leaned my hand to the floor to feel for my damp Pinnacle uniform, but instead, my fingers detected a dry stack of clothing and the rustle of . . . paper?
Beautifully thin bills of paper, as in
c
a
s
h
?
What the—
I rolled out of bed, rubbing my eyes to make sure it was true.
There, on the floor, was a folded pair of jeans and a shirt with a stack of bills on top.
I grabbed the money and began thumbing through it. Each bill featured my all-time favorite Founding Father—Benjamin Franklin!—and his ever-so-lovely denominations at a 100 bucks a pop. Swiftly, I counted one hundred, two hundred . . . could there really be seven-hundred freakin’ dollars here?
I gasped, nearly giddy, and I wanted to run and tell my dad the good news, until I looked down at my Pinnacle-issue bra and panties that reached nearly to my armpits. Heavens, I didn’t want to scare him.
But my old uniform was nowhere in sight.
So where’s the bingo money that was in my pocket? I wondered.
Maybe Granny Tinker dropped off the dry clothes last night, I thought, and hung my uniform out on a line? But why would she have doubled my money? With a shrug, I slipped on the skimpy, white tank top with lacy straps, noticing that it barely reached my belly button. My old French teacher would’ve called it a “camisole,” but I was thinking more like “boob bandage.” Then I threw on the ripped jeans that fell super low on my hips and had holes in the knees. As I zipped them up, I realized that they fit liked they’d been sprayed on.
And unless I rolled down my underwear, I’d look like freak of the century.
So I tucked in the waistband and slipped on my shoes, then bravely stepped over to a cracked mirror on the wall.
My mouth slung open.
Holy Cow—
I looked like a total slut!
More brazen than CeeCee Stone ever dreamed.
But I had curves—
Honest-to-goodness, flaunt-’em-if-you-got-’em
c
u
r
v
e
s
!
I busted into giggles, staring at my bare midriff and cellophane-tight top.
Wow, welcome to Trailer Trash! With a few bold tattoos and navel piercings, I might actually win a six-pack at a local Karaoke bar.
Swiveling to the left and right, I tried on my best rebel scowl, full of bad-ass attitude, and let the new look sink in. Never in my entire life had I been allowed to wear a single shred of clothing that wasn’t strategically designed to shout the McArthur’s lofty status.
Or, I should say, what
u
s
e
d
to be our lofty status.
And that’s when a shiver sped down my spine.
Who was my father, really?
Royle?
Doyle?
Had
a
n
y
t
h
i
n
g
about our lives been real?
I
I screamed and bolted upright.
Only to discover that I wasn’t covered in balmy, Mediterranean water, but rather, in a faded, army-issue blanket.
Good God—
I glanced around, realizing I was inside a rusty, old trailer.
So it hadn’t all been a weird nightmare.
I really
w
a
s
in a trailer park, with only my dad and three-hundred-and-fifty bucks of bingo money to my name.
Brushing back the hair from my face, I vaguely remembered Granny Tinker walking me home the night before, where we found my dad asleep on the couch. Granny had wrapped my quilt around him to keep him warm, and then she helped me out of my wet clothes and tucked me into the back bed.
Another blast shook our trailer and echoed outside.
Cautiously, I peeked out the window just in time to catch a man in a boulder costume hurling through the air, his arms and legs flailing. Thank God he was wearing a helmet—
“JUSTIN! JASPER!” I heard Brandi’s voice holler. “Now cut that out. The Colonel done told you not to launch each other from the trebuchet. Besides, yer cannons are gonna wake the new neighbors.”
“But it’s already noon!” one of the TNT Twins whined.
Astonished, I reached into my pocket for Sparkle to check the time, only to recall that we’d dumped her all the way back in Cincy. Oh yeah, and I had no pockets—I was still in my underwear.
Sighing, I leaned my hand to the floor to feel for my damp Pinnacle uniform, but instead, my fingers detected a dry stack of clothing and the rustle of . . . paper?
Beautifully thin bills of paper, as in
c
a
s
h
?
What the—
I rolled out of bed, rubbing my eyes to make sure it was true.
There, on the floor, was a folded pair of jeans and a shirt with a stack of bills on top.
I grabbed the money and began thumbing through it. Each bill featured my all-time favorite Founding Father—Benjamin Franklin!—and his ever-so-lovely denominations at a 100 bucks a pop. Swiftly, I counted one hundred, two hundred . . . could there really be seven-hundred freakin’ dollars here?
I gasped, nearly giddy, and I wanted to run and tell my dad the good news, until I looked down at my Pinnacle-issue bra and panties that reached nearly to my armpits. Heavens, I didn’t want to scare him.
But my old uniform was nowhere in sight.
So where’s the bingo money that was in my pocket? I wondered.
Maybe Granny Tinker dropped off the dry clothes last night, I thought, and hung my uniform out on a line? But why would she have doubled my money? With a shrug, I slipped on the skimpy, white tank top with lacy straps, noticing that it barely reached my belly button. My old French teacher would’ve called it a “camisole,” but I was thinking more like “boob bandage.” Then I threw on the ripped jeans that fell super low on my hips and had holes in the knees. As I zipped them up, I realized that they fit liked they’d been sprayed on.
And unless I rolled down my underwear, I’d look like freak of the century.
So I tucked in the waistband and slipped on my shoes, then bravely stepped over to a cracked mirror on the wall.
My mouth slung open.
Holy Cow—
I looked like a total slut!
More brazen than CeeCee Stone ever dreamed.
But I had curves—
Honest-to-goodness, flaunt-’em-if-you-got-’em
c
u
r
v
e
s
!
I busted into giggles, staring at my bare midriff and cellophane-tight top.
Wow, welcome to Trailer Trash! With a few bold tattoos and navel piercings, I might actually win a six-pack at a local Karaoke bar.
Swiveling to the left and right, I tried on my best rebel scowl, full of bad-ass attitude, and let the new look sink in. Never in my entire life had I been allowed to wear a single shred of clothing that wasn’t strategically designed to shout the McArthur’s lofty status.
Or, I should say, what
u
s
e
d
to be our lofty status.
And that’s when a shiver sped down my spine.
Who was my father, really?
Royle?
Doyle?
Had
a
n
y
t
h
i
n
g
about our lives been real?
I
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