And with a jolt, Creek yanked me into the boat—no more waffling on the beach and spewing out my lines of bravado any more.
As I stumbled to regain my balance and plopped down on a wooden slat in front of his candle, for a brief second I closed my eyes.
Dear God, I prayed earnestly, I have no idea what the hell we’re doing. I’m just trying to help my dad and some folks at Turtle Shores. So if you don’t mind, please don’t let us get shot today.
I trailed my finger in the cool lake, watching the slim line I’d made disappear back into the water while I listened to the lapping sounds Creek made as he rowed us to the other side. Oddly enough, it reminded me of the dream I’d had yesterday of riding through a canal in Venice. But my “gondolier” this time turned out to be even better looking—except he had a whole lot more on his mind than flirting and champagne.
In fact, Creek hadn’t said a word at all.
He simply stared at the candle that had burnt halfway down to the wooden slat between us, his eyes studying the pooled wax, preoccupied over our next moves.
Every time a bird glided past us in the morning mist and let out a hoarse cry, it made me jump a little and jostle the boat.
But Creek just kept on rowing.
When we reached the opposite shore, he closed his eyes briefly and blew out the candle, setting down his oar. Then he pulled out a plastic bag from behind his feet. Opening it up, he took out two wigs, presumably Brandi’s. One was long and blonde, like a hippie-boho chick, and another was short, black and spiky.
“Dibs on the Goth wig!” I insisted, grabbing the black one before he could stop me.
Creek shook his head.
“No way. You have to be even more . . . sexy.”
I’m quite sure my cheeks flashed as red as a traffic light.
What did he mean by more?
He grabbed the black wig and thrust the blonde one into my lap.
“You’re the . . . um, distraction,” he said. “Every Wednesday at seven am, an armored car delivers cash for the ATM at Bob’s Beer & Live Bait about five miles up the road.”
I slipped on the blonde wig and tucked in my thick, curly hair. It fit so tightly it made my scalp itch. Twirling a few stiff, Swedish-looking strands, I noticed that they nearly reached to my hips. Geez, I thought, all I need is to put on some white go-go boots, and I could probably make a killing in Vegas.
“So,” I replied, “are you saying want me to sashay my hips and flirt with the armored car guy, then try and grab his money?”
Creek sighed impatiently. His eyes took on a wolfish concentration.
“Sweetheart, the fastest way to get dead is to mess around with an armored car guy. They shoot first, then maybe ask questions later.”
The chills that raced down my spine broke a land record for speed. I straightened up, trying not to look too scared.
“I’ve been casing Bob’s place for weeks,” Creek continued. “He’s a real asshole who rips off everyone at Bender Lake, and he doesn’t exactly hire the brightest bulbs to work for him. So after the armored car guy makes his drop, then it’s up to the store employees to actually load the ATM cartridge.”
“And they can be,” I shimmied my shoulders with a glint in my eye, “easily diverted?”
Creek nodded with a sliver of a smile.
“I should’ve known you’d turn me into a working girl,” I taunted, seizing the black wig on his lap. I thrust it over his impossibly soft blonde hair, just wishing I could take a minute to stroke a few strands, but instead I dutifully stuffed his locks inside. Releasing my fingers, I sat back down in the boat and gasped. By the look on my face, Creek could tell I thought he appeared . . . vicious.
His eyes seemed an even icier blue with the contrast of the black wig and his black t-shirt, and the color brought attention to every scar and tattoo that marred his skin, making him look hard and mean.
Creek climbed out of the boat and pulled it to the shore. He briskly extended his hand to me, and I could already feel the change in him. All of a sudden, he was no longer the tender guy I’d stumbled upon in the woods who whispered prayers at dawn. He was totally focused, like a warrior heading to battle, and his whole demeanor had become cold and determined. Biting my lip, I took a deep breath and stood up to grab his arm.
Good morning Life of Crime! I thought, studying his hard features. So good of you to lend a hand.
Hanging onto him, I leaped out of the boat and onto the sand, mentally preparing for my new future.
To my surprise, Creek dug into his jeans pocket and pulled out one more white feather. I saw his Adam’s apple chase down his neck as he placed the feather in my palm, then folded over my fingers. His hands engulfed mine, but this time they were cold.
“Keep this in your pocket,” he insisted in a voice made of flint. “For protection.”
There it was—a flicker of that softness in his eyes again, like I hadn’t been imagining things. For a moment, he gazed at me with what looked like genuine . . . worry.
I nodded, taking his feather by the quill and studying its thin, tapered edge. But of course, knowing me, I couldn’t resist messing with him.
“Don’t worry, I can take care of myself,” I smiled, lifting the feather to trace a sassy curve along his scarred cheek.
Creek seized my wrist so fast it hurt—hurt hard. He met my gaze with a frighteningly rigid stare.
“We’ll just see about that. You keep your wits, you hear? I don’t want to have to report the worst to your dad.
Releasing my arm, he turned away and strided to some nearby bushes, pulling out a motorcycle that had been completely concealed in the leaves. It was old and rusty, and it had metal casings that extended halfway down each wheel with the word Indian barely legible on its motor. Creek gave it a kickstart, and the engine sputtered for a few seconds, then roared to life, spewing out black smoke like an angry dragon.
“Creek!” I coughed, waving at my nose. Just then I noticed that the seat was as wide as a platter and looked like it had been ripped off from an old tractor. “We’re going to wake up everybody at Bender Lake—”
“About time they got up before noon!” he shouted back, climbing onto his motorcycle. He nodded at me and smirked like he was Satan. “Get on!” he ordered.
I didn’t think it was actually possible to shake from my forehead to my toes, but I swear that damn cycle was so loud that it made even the sand quake beneath my feet. I clenched my hands into fists, hoping to keep from wobbling as I bravely stepped towards Creek’s monster. Slipping behind him on the tractor seat, my body began to jostle so hard that I feared my molars might tumble out. I closed my eyes and flung my arms around Creek, locking my fingers together in a death grip.
And in that moment, I felt his whole body stiffen, like perhaps it had been a long time since he’d had a girl so close. And I know this sounds crazy, but in spite of the earth-shaking engine, I could’ve sworn I felt a subtle ripple run through him and then linger in my hands.
“Robin,” he turned to say into my ear, “are you okay?”
I tightened my knuckles until my joints hurt, squeezing my eyes shut and feeling utterly petrified.
“Fuck you,” I replied.
Chapter 10
We careened like some crazy snake on fire through the woods, dodging trees and shrubs so fast I had to bury my face into the back of Creek’s t-shirt so my scream wouldn’t reach all the way to Cincinnati. But when I felt our motorcycle sputter and slowly rumble to a halt, I finally worked up the nerve to poke my nose out.
Hacking, I fanned at the fumes and opened my eyes. Before us was a wide field covered in vibrant green shoots that sparkled in the morning dew. The blanket of color was so rich that I half-wished I could eat it, the way I used to want to devour the emerald baubles I spied at Tiffany’s. I felt Creek’s ribcage swell beneath my fingers, as though he’d taken a deep breath, struck by the sight, too.
“Spring cornfield,” he called out over the engine noise, shifti
ng in his seat to steal a glance at me. “Still green, like you. Hold on—we’ve got one more mile.”
He turned the motorcycle onto a narrow gravel road that bordered the field and accelerated, bulleting down the lane at what surely must’ve been 90 miles an hour.
“Creeeeeeeeeek!” I hollered, carving my nails into his waist. “Do you have to go so fast?”
The motorcycle slowed down a little, and I nearly fell off as he slid it to a stop.
“Nope,” Creek shouted to me, cutting the engine. At once, the world became as quiet as a church sanctuary. “’Cause we’re here.”
I glanced around, seeing only more cornfields.
“Here?” I said, surprised.
“Yep, time to ditch the cycle before we hoof it.”
We hopped off, and Creek cleverly hid the motorcycle in some overgrown brush. Then we walked along the gravel road until we came to an intersection. Up ahead was a tacky building with cars up on blocks beside it and buzzing neon lights advertising cheap cigarettes and lottery tickets. The sign over the store said Bob’s Beer with the words & Live Bait crossed out. To the right was added Quick Loans & Paychecks Cashed in red spray paint.
“Bob chucked selling live maggots and worms a while back,” Creek said. “He decided to become a maggot himself and fleece half the county with his crummy loans. Practically everybody I know is paying him in blood.”
At that moment, a bulky gray truck hastened down the road and came to a stop, screeching its wheels.
“Here’s our armored car,” Creek folded his arms and nodded. “Right on schedule.”
We watched as a man in a black jumpsuit hopped out of the truck and threw open the back, pulling out a small gray bag and darting into the building before we could say “money drop.” Quick as a flash, he returned and climbed into his truck, scribbling something onto his visor before he roared out of the parking lot like he was going to catch hell if he was more than 30 seconds late.
“Bob’s too cheap to pay Amos’ Armored Car Company the extra ten bucks a week to load his ATM cartridges,” Creek pointed out. “So that money’s just sitting behind the counter right now, waiting for us—”
He startled me by stripping the jean jacket he’d loaned me off my back.
“Here’s the plan,” he said, his black spiky wig only magnifying his intense gaze. “You go in first and loiter inside the store for a while. I’ll be right behind you, keeping a low profile. Then you act sexy—you know, hot to trot. When the guy steps out from behind the counter to flirt with you, make sure you occupy his sole attention.”
A smirk rose to Creek’s lips, flashing that infernal dagger scar again.
“For a girl who looks like you, that shouldn’t be too hard.”
A wave of heat rose from my cheeks to my forehead, but I simply squared my shoulders and straightened my blonde wig, refusing to break my Pinnacle code of coolness now. Nevertheless, I dug my fingernails into my palms to the point of pain to keep from showing my reaction.
So Creek really does think I’m a looker! I thought, floored. What a nice little Ace to slip into my back pocket for later.
“What happens if you get into trouble when you try to grab the money?” I said casually, pretending my part in all of this was a piece of cake.
Creek’s eyes transformed into blue ice.
There it was—his warrior demeanor again—accompanied by a cold stare so penetrating that most people wouldn’t mess with him if their lives depended on it. Goose bumps shimmied down my spine.
“You just worry about you,” he replied with a tone as sharp as a knife. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
I nodded and turned away, chewing my lip, and sauntered off with fake confidence ahead of Creek, swinging my hips in my low-slung jeans. Part of me was just dying to know whether he thought I’d actually achieved “sultry” or not. As I approached the front door, I hiked up my lacey camisole straps to bare more midriff. The thought occurred to me that I’d never worn such skimpy clothes in public before, let alone to lure the opposite sex, but I didn’t dare let on my rookie misgivings. Instead, I poured it on like a Victoria’s Secret supermodel, moistening my lips into a sullen pout and fluffing my blonde wig until my hair appeared wild and windblown. But when I opened the door, I noticed that the red-haired guy behind the counter with the yellow plaid shirt glanced aside when he saw me, heaving a sigh. He appeared to be downright . . .
Bored?
No, worse than that. More like . . . annoyed.
As if he thought I was as sexy as a concrete cinder block.
He just doesn’t want to surrender, I told myself, feeling sorry for him.
I stood in my most vampish pose by the door, judging my prey to be maybe nineteen or so. Quickly, I made a beeline for the donuts on the counter. It was only a little after 7, but I was already starving. I boldly opened a box of donuts with white powdered sugar and lifted one for a provocative bite, allowing my lips to linger on its pillowy edge. Thrusting up my chest as I chewed, I glanced down at my cleavage.
“Oh my,” I said in my breathiest, sex-bomb tone, “Look! I’ve spilled sugar all over my shirt.”
With that, I slowly loosened the top lace of my camisole until I thought my breasts might spill out, and I began to seductively lick the end of the lace, when I heard the swoosh of Creek opening the door behind me.
I assumed the boy’s eyes would be glued to the tender white skin exposed over my Pinnacle issue bra.
But I couldn’t have been more wrong.
He only had eyes for Creek.
“You’re going to pay for those donuts, right?” the guy sniffed, locking his gaze on Creek’s chest with a hunger never intended for fifteen year-old girls.
“Uh, sure,” I replied, flustered. “L-Let me go get some milk—”
I sped over to the back of the chips aisle where Creek was killing time.
“What do we do now?” I whispered, shooting a glance at Mr. Salivating behind the counter. “He doesn’t even know I exist.”
Creek’s eyes fastened on mine.
“He will now.”
Clutching me by the shoulders, Creek moved in for a full-blown kiss!
His hands roamed up the back of my camisole, and I wanted to freeze—to try and keep my wits just like he’d instructed—but I couldn’t.
Instead, my bones had melted into simmering butter, and there was nothing holding me up any more except the grip Creek now had on my waist.
No one had ever prepared me for the fact that when the hottest creature in the continental U.S. decides the moment’s right for a total lip lock, a girl’s brain is pretty much going to wash downstream.
And I couldn’t help myself—I reached up and grasped Creek’s face and poured myself into him with more passion than I’d ever daydreamed possible under Pinnacle’s ever-present security cameras.
Take that, Mother Superior!
I wrapped my leg tantalizingly around Creek’s, treating the jeans fabric between us like nothing more than tissue paper. Then I ran my hot hands up his miraculously-tight chest beneath his t-shirt, until I swore I could feel sparks actually alighting from my fingertips. All of a sudden, I felt Creek’s lips break a little and mumble against mine.
“Jealous yet?”
“Huh?” I managed to reply, keeping my lips glued to his. I peeked behind us, but the red-haired guy was busy wiping the counter. He coughed and turned to straighten postcards on a rack.
“Nope—not at all. I don’t think he’s even bothered to notice.”
“Then slap me,” Creek ordered, barely loud enough to hear.
“Are you serious?” I whispered, breaking off my lips this time.
“Go for it!”
I stepped back from Creek’s embrace, hardly able to believe his imploring eyes. He nodded at me, so I hauled off and gave him a thwack—
“You asshole!” I cried, my Geisha skills revving up to full force now. I stole another glance at counter guy, whose eyes were riveted to Creek now like
a hopeless puppy-dog crush. “You know better than to kiss me after hitting on my brother and openly admitting that you’re . . . you’re GAY!”
For the first time since I’d met him, I saw Creek’s eyes become as wide as the Moon Pies that hung from the peg board beside him.
Ha! I thought. So Creek doesn’t figure out everything after all.
I winked at Creek and moved in for the kill, tearing off his jean jacket and running my hands up his impossibly toned chest, then lifting up his black t-shirt over his head, leaving his ripped abs completely exposed.
“Well I’m not going to share you with every freewheeling cowboy in this county, mister! And it’s high time you gave me back my favorite t-shirt,” I hissed, shoving Creek into the beef jerky turnstile until he toppled over with a clatter. “Take that, you traitor!”
In a fury, I marched up to the front with the black t-shirt wadded in my hand and glared at the counter guy. “No donut or milk money for you today,” I fumed, pointing back at Creek. “You want payment? Then send two-timing Sir Lancelot over there the bill!”
Just as I suspected, the guy couldn’t wait to dash over to Creek, suddenly becoming Mother Teresa in his shit-kicker boots and Wrangler jeans.
“You okay?” they guy gasped, tenderly petting Creek’s black spiky wig. “Here, let me help you up—”
And frankly, at this point I didn’t hang around to hear the rest, because I was too busy marching out the front door with an awkward bag of money stuffed up my camisole and padded by Creek’s t-shirt, making me look like I’d suddenly bloomed into a teen mother-to-be.
And although it was a total drag to try and jog across the gravel parking lot with a few thousand dollars bumping against my belly, the adrenaline pumping in my veins helped me reach our motorcycle tucked in the brush in seconds flat.
Luckily, my heart was charging so fast I barely noticed the deafening roar of the engine after I’d managed to kickstart the Indian all by myself.
And with one last glance at Bob’s, I cringed and blew a kiss in Creek’s direction. “Please take care of him!” I prayed to God earnestly, hoping that angels or maybe even mothers on high would help him find a way to get out of there. Then I tore across the cornfield, sending loose dirt and those pretty, green shoots flying.
Robin in the Hood (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 1) Page 10
