Title: ROBIN’S A LITTLE HOOD
Genre: Women’s Fiction with Thriller elements
Word Count: 94,000
There’s a fine line between revenge and justice, and Robin and Nina are determined to stay on the right side, even though it feels better on the wrong. Way better. The best, actually…dammit.
Supporting survivors of sexual assault on a daily basis, rape-crisis counselor Robin Richards’s thick skin is beginning to crack. Not even her mother’s weed brownies can soften the truth—that the judicial system doesn’t care about female survivors of violence. But when Robin’s closest friend, Nina Soleti—a residential counselor at a shelter for battered women—uses a stun gun to defend herself, the two realize they can triumph where the system has failed. An opportunity they grab with all four of their manicured hands.
With the success of their first “intervention,” both women fall hard for the intoxicating blend of power and dominance but quickly develop a tolerance, needing to up the ante to feel satisfied. And after one of Nina’s clients dies after falling down a set of stairs, they find the perfect excuse. They know her abusive ex is really to blame, despite what the police reports say. So, they kidnap him to force his confession, an operation that goes off without a hitch. Until he escapes. While duct-taped to a wheelchair. With a pair of scissors lodged in his leg. Yeah, they don’t get how he did it either but they better find him. Fast. Because the system may not take violence against women seriously but a living victim of kidnapping and attempted murder is hard to ignore.
ROBIN’S A LITTLE HOOD is complete at 94,000 words and could be described as NINE TO FIVE meets DEXTER. Although unpublished, I maintain a blog at wellshutthefrontdoor.blogspot.com and can be found on Twitter with the handle of @ms_jennieshaw.
Just when I think they can’t get any dumber, they manage to out-ass themselves.
I forced myself to take a deep breath and stifled an impulse to bang my head against the wall. Wearing flip-flops meant that I could wiggle my toes to ground myself but it didn’t work. What I’d heard was too ridiculous—too mind-blowing for me to simply swallow. Not that I should have been surprised because it happened all of the time.
Bunch of over-educated morons. Wearing their fancy black robes, passing judgment on survivors when they should be judging the men who raped them. What was it going to take for them to take this shit seriously? A personal experience with forced sodomy? Don’t tempt me.
Julia shifted on the tan couch, not meeting my eyes.
Even with the central air conditioning—a perk of being in a downtown high-rise—the closed door stopped the air from flowing, turning my average-sized office into a claustrophobic closet. Maintaining confidentiality was crucial in counseling sessions though, so there wasn’t any other choice. The oscillating fan on my standard issue wooden desk hummed as it feebly tried to combat the beads of sweat from rolling down my back and soaking the top band of my favourite black linen shorts. And it was only getting hotter as our rage bounced around the room, gaining momentum like a rubber ball and threatening to break through the small window of the door, set to maim whoever was unlucky enough to be on the other side.