Granny stared into my eyes.
“Sweetheart,” she said gravely, “it warn’t me who prayed you here. It was Creek.”
She waited for her words to trickle into my brain, watching the astonishment surface in my eyes.
“He needs help like nobody’s business to keep us all together, he just won’t admit it. But any fool can see it takes more’n one person to get the kind of cash Brandi needs to survive. So let’s just say maybe I helped him along a little with what I know.”
Granny’s eyes twinkled at the spirals of smoke that rose from her incense sticks, even though they’d nearly burned down to their brass holders.
“Besides,” she said with a mischievous grin, “bringing you back to yer real home, where yer Pa found the only true love of his life, was the very least I could do fer our dear Alessia.”
Chapter 9
“Alessia . . .”
“Alessia . . .”
I let the word roll softly off my tongue over and over again like a prayer.
For some reason it comforted me, even if the whole “mother” idea turned out to be nothing but wishful thinking, or knowing my dad, a downright hoax. The name just sounded so lovely on my lips, as if it belonged to an angelic being with shimmering wings who might offer protection when I least expected it.
And an angel was precisely what I needed right now.
Because at almost sunrise, the woods around Bender Lake were blacker than the inside of a broom closet—I know this for a fact from the time mean-girl Bree Cox locked me behind the janitor’s door before fifth-period Biology at Pinnacle. And with every stick that split beneath my feet, my heart bolted inside my chest, and I wanted to rocket as high as the stars that still twinkled overhead. To make matters worse, the closer I got to the spot where Creek said we were supposed to meet at dawn, the more I heard a peculiar, whispering sound.
It could be just the forest leaves scuffling in the breeze.
Or the noise of birds as they rise and stir in their nests.
Unless Creek had stationed the TNT Twins and the Attack Geese to patrol my every move, and they were getting downright restless.
Feeling paranoid, I rotated on my heels just to make sure no one was sneaking up behind me. It was a reasonable maneuver, considering how many times I’d been pelted or bitten in this God forsaken place.
But who was I kidding?
I couldn't see a soul in the ink-black darkness, and for all I knew, I might’ve just ventured in circles.
Then I felt something soft whisk across my cheek.
Startled, I reached up and grasped a . . . feather?
I stroked it between my fingers, struck by how silky it felt, when I saw a warm, shaft of light glimmer between the trees.
Thank God there was something I could still depend on! The sun—my oldest and most loyal friend—had faithfully inched a little over the horizon, just enough to cast a thin ray that peeked through the forest at my feet.
And that’s when I noticed another feather.
Small and white, like the first one. And the very second I leaned down to pick it up, I heard the whispers again.
Oh Lord, I begged, please don’t let it be Granny Tinker casting another weird spell.
I glanced up, fully prepared to see a whole network of planks and platforms high in the trees with Granny, Dooley, or Creek staring back at me, probably laughing.
But all I saw was another feather swaying ever so slowly to the ground.
As if it had fallen from a wing—
An angel’s wing.
And again, more whispers.
Where were they coming from?
No sooner did I have that thought when another shaft of light pierced through the trees. Suddenly, I could see a trail of small, white feathers illuminated on the forest floor, as though quietly leading me toward dawn.
And before I could blink, there he was.
Creek.
Backlit by the soft rays of the rising sun.
I knew he was facing me, but his features were shadowy in the lingering darkness. Yet there was no mistaking the broad silhouette of his shoulders and strong legs, or the golden hues created by the morning rays on his wayward blonde hair.
I stood in my tracks, unable to say a word.
He was so devastatingly beautiful, his form highlighted in the early light, as though he'd somehow been created fresh, just for that very moment by a higher power.
A cruel higher power who knew exactly how to tear a girl’s heart out.
I shifted my weight and straightened up as tall as I could, a pillar of strength so no gorgeous piece of Trailer Trash could possibly get under my skin.
And I saw him take a bold step towards me.
He whispered something and held up his hand to release another white feather, watching as it was swept up by a soft breeze.
“She hears you, you know,” he called out.
The forest was so quiet that I felt as though his words had delicately slipped into my ears, echoing softly. And I hated to admit it, but I already adored the sound of his voice—so smoky and serious for a guy his age, compared to the flippant, arrogant tones I always heard from the boys at Breton. I clenched my fists, hoping to barricade my heart a little, when I saw Creek lean his head back, relishing the simple warmth of the sun that had begun to envelop him in light.
I swallowed hard, just savoring the sight.
Because it took all of my willpower not to be slayed by his handsome presence in that pastel light. Drawing in a deep breath, I worked up my nerve to respond.
“Who?” I taunted, crossing my arms to act tough. “Who hears us out here—the sun?” Maybe he scatters feathers for a morning ritual, I thought, that Granny had taught him to bring good luck. There was no end to her mysterious ways.
Creek raked his hand through his long hair, warmed now to the color of butter, and he shook his head.
He allowed the silence to hover between us, waiting.
And in that moment, the morning air suddenly felt heavier to me, as if the particles of mist that had collected at my feet had started to swell. A few birds chimed, their voices sharp and eager for dawn. Then a gentle breeze picked up and tousled my hair like unseen fingers—
“Your mother,” Creek said.
His words sliced straight into my heart. And then twisted.
What the hell would he know about my mother?
“There are no secrets in trailer parks.”
Creek took brisk strides towards me, and in that instant, I wished I could sink into one of the TNT Twins’ holes after all. Tingles rifled my cheeks, but I stood my ground, realizing the sun was probably illuminating every feature of my face by now, so I’d better not cower. I slung my hand on my hip, pretending to be nonchalant, until he walked up to within inches of my face. He cupped both hands and held them out to me like an offering.
And in them were feathers.
Downy and white, with sand dusting their edges.
“Prayers,” he nodded.
His voice was so tender that I felt as though he’d invisibly caressed my cheek.
“Because they hear us, Robin. Our mothers—nothing can break that bond. Go ahead, take one,” he urged.
His striking blue eyes held mine, and I swear to God it didn’t cross my mind to blink for at least a minute.
And my fingers began trembling out of control—
God damn him!
He’d totally nailed the deepest hurt inside my hardened, Geisha-girl heart—the one that’d been hemorrhaging ever since I was old enough to realize that I didn't have a real mom, like other kids. Just surly caretakers and mercenary gold-diggers who couldn’t wait to get rid of me.
But of course I wasn’t able to stop my hand from picking out a feather from his palm. I cradled it for a few seconds, like it might actually be a silent message from a mother I could call my own. Then I let it go, watching as it was lifted by a delicate breeze. The feather twirled and rose up in a band of sunlight, shining white, and
I found myself hoping that somehow, somewhere, whoever was or is my mother might sense my presence, maybe even feel the beats of my yearning heart.
And when I glanced back into Creek’s eyes, for a split-second, I thought I saw them actually glisten.
He blinked and steeled himself, thoroughly rejecting anything that might have remotely looked like . . .
Tears.
Tears?
Good God, everything this guy just said is either for real, or he’s by far the most accomplished sociopath I’ve ever met, beating out the worst of the alpha Pinnacle chicks by a mile.
My teeth clenched together.
“Tell me what you know!” I spit out, in no mood to be manipulated by Creek or anyone else, regardless of how handsome or clever they might be. “Is my real mother dead? ’Cause that sure as hell has always been the line I’ve been sold.”
Creek’s gaze fastened to his boots, and I saw the snake tattoo on his arm tighten and then ripple. Even the bruise I’d left on his skin from biting him in the lake shimmied a little, making me proud.
“No,” he replied.
His jaw stiffened. He appeared to be selecting his words very, very carefully.
“I mean, I doubt it . . .”
He paused and glanced up to search my face. His gaze felt as intense as a spyglass, as though he was doing more than just checking for my reaction. He was scrutinizing my soul.
“I can tell by your dad’s eyes,” he finally said. “They still have . . . hope. Rare quality in these parts.”
“Then where is she?” I sunk my fingers into his tattooed arm before I could stop myself, digging into his bruise. “Why would she leave me or my dad?” I asked a little too desperately.
Creek studied my eyes as if carefully testing my mettle.
And his silence felt downright endless . . .
But I waited for what seemed like forever without a word, eager for some honesty—the kind I knew I’d never get from my dad.
Then I saw the ragged scar on his cheek shift just a little, as if he was measuring his response.
“She left because she loves you too much,” he finally said. “Both of you—enough to want to protect you. Believe me, I know something about how that feels.”
He turned to face the morning sun, as if the rays strengthened him a little, and all of a sudden his features lit up with gold.
He was utterly breathtaking. But that didn't prevent me from wanting to slap him right then and there.
“What do you mean?” I cried out, trying to make my tone sound more menacing than desperate this time.
“It was over fifteen years ago,” Creek replied. “Folks around Bender Lake say your mom was rich and beautiful, from Italy. She fell in love with your dad, a stockboy at her family’s pasta sauce plant in Cinci, and she got pregnant. Her father wanted to kill him.”
“Kill my dad?” I smirked. “Get in line! Who doesn’t want to murder my father—he has that effect on people.”
I might’ve been wisecracking, but inside I was trying to hide the fact that a deeper part of me was sucking air.
My mother—Italian?
And my dad a mere stockboy?
How is it that everyone in my life had a way of playing musical chairs with their identity lately? Including me?
This was too much. My whole body betrayed me by trembling right in front of him.
“Here,” Creek said in that soft, smoky way he had that could reduce a girl’s heart to warm liquid, “you look cold. Put on my jacket.”
He took off his frayed jean jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders, and I eagerly slipped my arms inside. It was still warm from the heat of his body, like an embrace. My breath hitched—it even had his smell. Traces of spring leaves and campfire smoke and something sharp and invigorating, like maybe tree sap. I’d never been allowed to be this close to a guy my age before, let alone one who was so . . . intoxicating. Swiftly, I glanced aside, hoping he couldn't read my thoughts.
But Creek clutched my shoulders and swiveled me to face him. His blue eyes burned into mine.
“Alessia’s dad forced her to put you up for adoption before they left the U.S., like you never existed at all. But Doyle—he tracked you down and broke in one night and stole you back. With Granny and Lorraine’s help, of course. They say she could see back then.”
My hands clamped over my mouth in total shock.
“We don’t never abandon nobody at Turtle Shores.”
Creek’s eyes narrowed.
“Say what you will about your dad, but he risked his life to get you. And Granny says he’s been beatin’ himself up ever since, trying to become rich enough someday to win back your mom. He still loves her.”
“D-D—” I stammered, trying to compose myself, “Does he know where she is?”
“Probably Europe somewhere. Rumor has it that her father had her locked away in a convent so she couldn’t stain the family reputation any more.”
“With a name like McCracken?” I added, still stumbling over the sound of that word.
Creek shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. I could tell he was getting cold, but toughing it out. He cast a glance at the lake, which we could see now through the trees, its ripples sparkling in the morning light. He nodded.
“When we cross that lake, Robin, you ain’t you anymore. Understand that? You won’t be just out for a joy ride. You’ll be considered a criminal, like me. And there’s no way to go back to your old world—they’ll smell you in a heartbeat. You’ll have the stink of Turtle Shores.”
I leaned back on my heels to ramp up my courage, then flashed my most brazen smile.
Oh, how you underestimate me, Creek! I thought. I’m still a Geisha girl to the core, just like my dad who passed us off at Indian Hill for the last fifteen years. And I am so gonna enjoy proving it to you.
“Sure,” I replied, lifting my chin. I winked just to keep him guessing. “I'll try to keep that in mind.”
But Creek surprised me by grabbing my hand—and a shiver sped through my body, which I refused to reveal. His large fingers felt warm but calloused, and he began to lead me carefully through the woods. The whole time his grip remained firm, as solid as a clamp, as if he thought I might bolt. And I have to say, I loved the feeling of his skin against mine, the way he slowly picked his way through the brush and made certain to guide each step so I wouldn’t trip or fall, as if he knew every inch of the forest blindfolded. No one had ever paid such attention to my welfare before, but I wasn’t about to yield my heart too easily.
As soon as we reached the edge of Bender Lake and stopped, I yanked back my hand just to remind him that I was a free agent—and my soul remained tethered to no one. For a minute, I scanned the dark blue lake with a cottony layer of mist still clinging to its shores. The sight was so lovely that I felt completely absorbed in its hushed beauty, hardly registering when Creek pulled up a small wooden boat on the sand. He stood beside it, waiting.
Then I felt his eyes travel slowly over my body and linger, his gaze settling on my cheeks now warmed by the sun, as if—
Just maybe . . .
He thought I was breathtaking in the morning light, too!
Quickly, I bit the inside of my cheeks to hide my smile.
After all, the first thing a girl learns at Pinnacle is how to perfect the fine air of indifference.
Cold.
Calculating.
All the while falling madly in love.
Yep, my heart was thrumming faster than a race car engine at full throttle.
Until I caught the sight of something bright flickering out of the corner of my eye.
It was a white pillar candle, cemented in a pool of wax and surrounded by a loose ring of feathers, nestled in the bottom of Creek’s boat. I swear, it looked almost like . . .
An altar.
The gold flame danced in the breeze. When I looked closer, I realized that Creek had assembled small tokens around it—a copper bracelet, a lock of brown hair in a turquoise ba
rrette, dangly silver earrings—that might have once belonged to his . . . mother?
And then Creek’s gaze met mine.
Raw.
Brutally honest.
And fiercely challenging—
Without even the slightest hint of upper crust pretense.
And in that moment, I could see all of his built-up pain, simmering rage, even all of the fragile hope he still had left in him—right there in his piercing blue eyes that didn’t know how to hold a single thing back, or maybe never wanted to.
So very opposite of everyone I’d known at Pinnacle.
And I understood, in that instant, that if I got into Creek’s row boat, I was going to be stripped bare of every shred of soul camouflage that I’d ever counted on—at least when I was with him. Because somehow, in Creek’s presence, it seemed utterly impossible to remain phony for long.
But that didn’t mean I didn’t have a few tricks left up my sleeve.
Bluntness being one of them.
“Creek, did you pray me here?” I blurted, hoping I’d cut to the bone.
I saw the flame on the pillar candle leap at my words.
But Creek didn’t flinch.
In fact, his stare was so unwavering that I felt like he’d swallowed me whole, and was still game for dessert.
“What I prayed for,” he replied defiantly, “was help to take care of Brandi.”
He steadied one foot in the small boat and boldly stretched out his hand to invite me in. A wisp of a smile passed over his mouth, just enough to make his cheek scar crinkle into that scary dagger again.
“Guess God’s got a sense of humor,” he added.
“B-But why do we need to get into a boat to rob a bank?” I asked him, reluctant to take his hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve found one that floats.”
Creek’s cool gaze scanned the sandy beach beside us. He shook his head and waited for me to get a clue.
Footprints . . .
The sand was completely covered in our footprints, I realized. Each one a tell-tale sign of exactly where we’d been and where we were headed next. I watched as the lake water gently surged onto the shore, erasing the last of our tracks like we’d up and disappeared.
Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) Page 9
