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

end up pregnant at 16 with a dozen crummy tattoos all over my body and only two teeth left after getting strung-out on meth.
    Yet as I neared our trailer, the thought
d
i
d
occur to me that if it hadn’t been for Creek hiding him in a bunker last night, my dad might’ve been nabbed by the mob. Or cops could’ve traced us to the Mazda, and we’d both be in the slammer.
    Why did everything have to be so complicated? Creek was good/bad, bad/good—which one was it?
    I halted in front of our trailer door and shook my head.
    Maybe that’s not the right question, I thought. Maybe I just need to shut down my emotions and get all the money I can, as fast as I can, and sort out reality later.
    I took a deep breath and braced myself to face Brandi before I opened the door, knowing she was probably playing a rousing hand of cards with my dad by now. Hopefully, it wasn’t strip poker.
    But when I swung the door open, Brandi was nowhere to be found.
    In fact, my dad was all stretched out, asleep again on the couch. I noticed that the plate of ham and beans sat empty on the small table beside him, so Brandi must’ve succeeded in feeding him something. Stepping inside, I gazed at my father, who looked so cozy with Granny’s colorful patchwork quilt wrapped around him like a cocoon. His face appeared sweet and innocent, with none of the “Crocodile Cunning” that had made him so famous at Tweedle, Beckman & McArthur.
    Hesitantly, I crouched down in front him and pushed aside a wisp of hair that had fallen across his forehead. It felt strange to stroke his warm skin and feel the slight perspiration on his brow—to touch his face at all, for that matter. I mean, this was the man who’d never even bothered to give me a fatherly peck on the cheek, let alone read me a bedtime story or tuck me in at night.
    “Was I really so unlovable, Daddy?” I whispered, my voice splintering a little. “Or were you just too obsessed with work all those years to ever notice me?”
    Inside, I half-hoped he might fess up for once to his role in our pathetic family tragedy, even though he always pretended it didn’t matter, since he made more money than God. So when his breathing hitched for a second, it sent my heart racing.
    I leaned in closer, eager to hear if he might have some witty explanation for himself. But all he did was release a long, slow breath, accompanied by a ragged snore.
    Of course!
    Who was I to think that the great Royle McArthur, the most blood-thirsty law shark ever to circle for the kill in Cincinnati, would lower himself to give
m
e
an answer?
    That is, if there even was such a thing as Royle McArthur.
    Or shall I say,
D
o
y
l
e
—
    I stared at his crumpled, sleepy face and slid my hand from his forehead down to his cheek, gently patting it with my palm.
    “Who are you, Daddy?” I asked, secretly wishing it was possible for me to feel his soul before he woke up and put on one of his clever masks again. No sooner did my fingers release his cheek when I heard him mumble.
    “Alay-seeee-ahhh,” he said, somewhere between a call and a moan.
    “Myyy . . . Alay-seeee-ahhh . . .”
    In that moment, his expression became stern, and I swear his voice sounded rocky and almost a little . . . haunted, as though his mind was searching for something precious he’d lost.
    And I couldn’t tell if maybe he was having a nightmare, or if he was physically ailing.
    “Daddy?” I jiggled him a little. “Y-You okay? Should we get you to a doctor?”
    His lashes fluttered. Then I saw his eyes barely open a crack. He appeared groggy, as if he were somewhere very far away. As he struggled to focus on my features, taking in the curve of my forehead and cheeks, all at once his eyes grew as big as silver dollars.
    Bolstering himself with his good arm beneath him, he managed to pitch his body upright.
    Whoa—my dad stared at me, wide-eyed, like he’d just seen a ghost.
    “Alay-see-ahh?” he gasped, his face turning a little pale.
    There was