MARY ELIZABETH
LOW
MARY ELIZABETH
Copyright © 2016 Mary Elizabeth Literature
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design: Hang Le
Editor: Paige Maroney Smith
Formatting: Shore Thang Publishing Services
First Edition
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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.
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Innocents (Dusty, Volume 1)
Delinquents (Dusty, Volume 2)
True Love Way
Low
Poesy (A Low Novella) – Coming Soon
Novels By The Author
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
About the Author
Even Authors Love
For Catherine Jones.
You’re the only reason this exists.
MAN AND WOMAN DUBBED THE “FOUR-FOUR BANDITS” WANTED IN MULTIPLE BANK ROBBERIES
WEST LOS ANGELES, CA — An investigation is underway into a violent bank robbery at First Division Bank in West Los Angeles Monday morning.
Police say two suspects—dubbed the “Four-Four Bandits” because of the .44 Magnum revolver used during the robbery, described one as a white male and one as a white female—robbed the branch in the 1600 block of Laurel Canyon at 9:45 a.m.
The suspects, between 20 and 30 years of age, who witnesses say were wearing ski masks and dark clothing, burst into the bank, taking a hostage and wounding the security guard before making off with an undisclosed amount of cash. According to detectives, this is the third robbery from the duo in eight months.
"It’s important that we find them before they strike again," said Los Angeles Police Lt. William Ro.
The suspects fled in a stolen Ferrari 458 driven by the male. They were last seen heading westbound on Laurel Canyon onto southbound Laurelmont Drive, according to LAPD.
"The male suspect is reported as having a cross tattoo beneath his left eye, and we believe the female was injured during the robbery. They are considered armed and dangerous. Citizens should not apprehend any suspects, and should call the LAPD with any information that can lead to the arrest of anyone involved in today’s brutal robbery,” Ro said.
The LAPD is working with the FBI and reviewing the bank's surveillance cameras.
Anyone with information about the suspects is urged to contact LAPD at (310) 755-3333.
THERE WAS A choice to make.
Keep a roof over my mother and little sister’s head for another month, or fill the refrigerator with food. White-skinned in a mostly black neighborhood, bordered by LA’s shadiest gangbangers and junkies, living on the streets of Inglewood isn’t something I’m willing to risk for my girls. They’re hardly protected from drive-bys and police beatings in the piece of shit house we rent in “Gangland” as it is.
With a half-gallon of watered-down milk, some frozen burritos, and a few packs of Ramen noodles left, Mom and Gillian won’t starve in the week before the food stamp card rebalances. Turning over every dime I’ve made mowing lawns and trimming hedges in the last month to an impatient landlord was a simple decision.
But I’m hungry, and I don’t want an icy bean and cheese burrito.
“Take the hood off.”
The bell above the liquor mart swing door jingles as I pass under it. Dimly lit by the grimy florescent lights above, the air’s thick with the scent of lavender incense and stale tobacco. The clerk behind the counter is an older man with dark-brown skin and black hair. He eyes me suspiciously from under his bushy eyebrows.
I do as he requests and push back my hood, exposing my entire face and a crown of heat-sticky wavy blond hair.
“Sorry,” I mumble, keeping my head down to avoid eye contact.
The bottoms of my worn shoes stick to the tacky linoleum floor. A fly buzzes past my sunburnt ear, sending chills down my arm. I swat at the hovering insect as a bead of sweat drips down the back of my overheated neck.
“What are you looking for?” the store clerk asks in a thick Mexican accent. A TV on his side of the counter blares some sports game; he turns it down.
“Nothing, man,” I say as I walk down a food aisle.
“We close in two minutes. Hurry and get what you need.” The volume rises again.
Bullshit, I think to myself. It’s summertime, not much past eight o’clock in South Central. This joint will be open all night to serve the whores and hustlers who occupy every corner down Manchester.
Even crooks get thirsty.
Before I can give the prick behind the counter much thought, the yeasty scent from the few loaves of bread on the shelf attacks my empty stomach. My mouth fills with thick saliva as my gut tightens painfully, reminding me it’s been too long since I’ve had a meal. With a hand that shakes, I reach out and squeeze a loaf of wheat bread, swallowing dense spit.
The ninety-nine cents shit my mom buys from the discount grocery store is never this soft and doughy. That brand of bread is always stale and crumbles before my lips touch it; the slices are small and taste like wood.
But this kind, carved thick and golden-brown, is easy under my fingertips, even beneath the plastic wrapping. It takes me back to when times weren’t so tough and having a loaf of fucking bread in the breadbox didn’t feel like a luxury—before my dad was locked up, and before my mom threw her back out at work and had to go on permanent disability.
Before I had to drop out of high school to take care of my family.
Trying not to make a sound, I lift the loaf from the shelf and shove it under my oversized hoodie and continue to walk as if nothing’s out of the ordinary. Desperation makes me do some despicable things, and although I’ve stolen more times than I care to think about, my heartbeat still jumps and pumps adrenaline-juiced blood through my veins, dosing me with a temporary, untouchable high.
I wipe sweat from the top of my lip, using the back of my hand before I reach out for a decent jar of peanut butter and slip it up my sleeve. Having what I came here for, I stick my hands into my front pockets and scrutinize my surroundings as if I can’t find what I’m looking for.
“Where are the bike tubes?” I call out, turning out of the aisle.
I come face-to-face with the store employee. He has a dirty, white cordless phone in his hand and stands a head shorter than me, but there is no fear in his experienced stare … only anger.
“You didn’t come on a bike,” he says.
The smirk that decorates my face is forced, but the nonchalant shrug I give this man is practiced and easy.
“It’s out there,” I lie, trying to stride past him. At the same time, my right hand brushes against the metal weapon in my pocket. “I had to walk it. Has a flat.”
Habit slips my digits into the four-fingered armor my dad left behind, clutching the brass grip in my clammy palm.
“I saw you,” the man raises his voice. “I saw you steal.”
Staying cool, I shake my head. “I didn’t take anything, man. I just need a tube for my bike.”
Instead of budging past him, I turn around and walk the perimeter of the dingy store, past boxes of wine, endcaps of cheap vodka, and coolers full of malt liquor. My hand’s secured safely around my means of protection, but I need to get out of here before I’m pushed to use it.
“Under your sweater,” the man calls out.
The sound from his sandals, following me on the sticky floor, echoes behind me. Five feet from the door, I turn around as he reaches out and grabs the sleeve of my hoodie. The jar of Jiffy drops from my possession.
I hold my hands up and surrender. “Look, I’ll pay you tomorr—”
“I called the cops,” he interrupts, shaking out the rest of me. The loaf of bread I want so badly joins the peanut butter at my feet.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say, jerking back and forth as the brazen store clerk pats me down. “I’m sorry. I was hungry, but I’ll pay you double when I get some cash.”
“No,” he says loudly. He shows me the grimy phone. “The police are on their way.”
Momentarily defeated, I close my eyes and picture sharp golden eyes framed by dark eyebrows staring back at me. Her long blonde hair falls past her slender shoulders, and my girl’s lips are curved up—how they usually are when we’re together.
The idea of being away from her hurts more than hunger, so when I open my eyes and see the short store employee point at me accusingly, threatening to steal my freedom for lifting his four dollar loaf of bread, I knuckle up.
Brass glistens in the light.
“Let me go,” I say. Sweat drips down my temple. “I won’t come back if you let me go.”
My accuser wants his jaw intact because he steps to the side, and for a moment, I think I’m free to go home, pleased to eat chicken-flavored noodles. But right before I exit the store into the city of lost angels, the clerk grabs my left arm, and impulsively, I swing around with my right fist.
Brass knuckles split skin and crack bone on impact. Deep ruby red explodes across his face and drips down his chin.
The noise he makes is inhuman.
As the man drops the phone to free his hands and cover his wounded profile, I square up, full of selfish damage and vile desperation.
The blameless cries out while blood seeps between his brown fingers covering his eye.
“I can’t see!” he shouts manically. His pain ricochets off the stained walls. “I can’t see!”
Seizing the opportunity, I run.
I don’t make it two blocks before red and blue lights brighten the street, and I’m surrounded at gunpoint. With nowhere to go, I drop to my knees and raise my hands above my head.
As cool steel handcuffs bind my wrists together, the only person I think of is my girl.
Poesy.
I’M COLD, ITCHY, and uncomfortable in a regulation orange jumpsuit, and my right wrist is handcuffed to a metal table, but I’ve eaten better in the last three days since I was arrested than I have in months. Jail’s nothing new to me—which might make these charges harder to beat.
The interrogation room door opens, and I sit straight to meet the person who walks in with an armful of files eye-to-eye. The guy, I assume my public defender, wears a cheap polyester brown suit that hangs off his slight body. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair is greasy.
“Lowen Joshua Seely?” he asks, pushing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses up his long nose. I nod. “I’m Chadwick Mahan, and I was assigned to your case.” His skinny fingers grip the top of the yellow plastic classroom chair across from me. He sits down and blows air from between his thin lips and opens a thick file. “Your bail was set at two hundred thousand dollars.”
“I used my one phone call. My mom can’t afford to make bail,” I say dismissively.
My assigned lawyer nods, flipping through page after page of my delinquency. “Your family can’t offer collateral?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“How old are you?” he asks, pausing on a pink sheet of paper in my file.
“Twenty-two,” I answer.
Mr. Mahan scans me with an unamused expression. “Your juvenile record is impressive: theft, petty theft, car theft … You ever thought about getting a job to pay for your own shit?”
Anger rises from the pit of my stomach and coats every flexed muscle in my arm down to my fisted hands. My crimes have never been victimless, but as a kid from the hood, when welfare wasn’t enough, I did what I had to do to help my family get by.
My jaw tightens before I say, “I have a job.”
Chadwick shows emotion for the first time since he walked in and smiles smugly. “Then what are you doing here, Mr. Seely?”
Bars and guards haven’t kept me from sleeping at night, but what I did to the store clerk’s face has. When I close my eyes, I see blood oozing from between his fingers again, dripping to the floor with dirty shoe prints and dried, spilled fountain drinks. In the dead of the night, when the world is dreaming, my ears ring with the echoing sound of his terrified screams.
I don’t know his name, but the man was only doing his job, and I hurt him for being a good citizen.
Even crooks feel regret.
“I didn’t mean—” My intention to thieve when going into the store was the result of the painful ache in my stomach, but I never wanted to hurt anybody.
“Listen, Lowen.” Chadwick’s voice softens. “Your charges are serious, and with your record, you’re doing time. I can probably have the robbery charge reduced to shoplifting, but the assault with a deadly weapon is going to stick. Mr. Gutierrez suffered from some pretty—”
I drop my head to my arms on the table and breathe steadily through my nose and out of my mouth. “What exactly do you mean by time?”
“You caused great bodily injury. Mr. Gutierrez needs surgery to repair his occipital bone.”
“How much time?” I ask again.
“With the charges you’re facing now, ten years,” he answers nonchalantly.
I lose my breath and close my eyes.
“More realistically, you’ll serve two to four.”
THE ONLY THOUGHT running through my mind as the judge reads the plea deal Chadwick negotiated on my behalf to the court is that Poesy will be twenty-three years old when I get out, if I serve my full four-year prison sentence.
With my handcuffs chained to the shackles around my ankles, I know I’m despicable. What ca
n I—now a felon—offer the girl, who sits beside my teary-eyed mother, listening to my offenses? We haven’t shared a word since I’ve been locked up. Poesy’s middle-class parents would never allow her to accept a collect call from the guy who mows their lawn, and I’d never sentence her to their disappointment.
Unallowed yet unable to stop myself, I stare at the girl I fell in love with a year ago—the girl who ran out of her house in shorts too short with a cold bottle of water for the man trimming her roses—who now posts at the back of the courtroom.
“Why do you have a tattoo on your face?” she asked the first time we spoke, bending her toes in the just-cut grass. Her hair wasn’t as long as it is today, but just as blonde.
“God forsakes me,” I answered as I touched the cross under my left eye. I held the sharp hedge trimmers in my free hand.
Poesy’s pretty pink lips spread into a prettier smile. “False penance. Tattoos do nothing for our King.”
Every Friday after that, she ran out her front door with a cool refreshment, and before long, Poe’s lips were too pretty not to kiss.
Forsaken or not.
Our eyes meet as the judge calls for my attention. I can’t look away from hazel irises that know my devils and me by heart. She pats my mom’s shoulder with compassion as she winks and blows me a small kiss.
“How do you plea?” the judge asks for a second time.
Chadwick Mahan clears his throat, not appearing any less cheap or sweaty than he was the first time I met him. Today his suit is blue.
Forcing the word from my throat, damning not only myself but also Poe to a four-year sentence behind high walls, I look away from my girl and announce, “Guilty.”
“YOU NEED A haircut.”
I scratch my fingers through my longish hair and laugh. “I don’t trust anyone to touch it.”
Poesy sits up, beautiful on the other side of our glass barrier. Her full eyebrows sit low above her light russet eyes, and she picks at her fingernails with the phone connected to me between her shoulder and ear.
Low (Low #1) Page 1
