WE ARRIVE IN the grimiest corner of Barstow three-and-a-half hours later, when the sun sits highest in the cloudless blue sky and wind blows bone-dry air and dense earth from the desert against our tired faces. We walk along growing heat waves, and only stop to buy bottles of water and dusty trucker hats with “Barstow … Crossroads of Opportunity” printed on the front that we put on immediately and wear low on our heads.
“Where’s the closest hotel?” I ask the teenage mini-mart clerk while tossing a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter.
“Two blocks that way,” he says, shaking his greasy black hair out of his oily face while pointing north.
The Route 66 Hotel isn’t the Ritz, but they don’t ask questions and let me pay for the night with cash. There’s a discount superstore within walking distance, the hourglass-shaped pool is clean, and when we open our hotel room door, the air conditioner is already on.
Poesy drops our backpack onto a small wooden table in front of a curtain-covered window and falls stomach first onto the aged spring mattress. She kicks her shoes off and curls her small toes inside her socks before the sound of her breathing levels and she begins to snore softly.
Even crooks dream.
POE SLEEPS WELL into the evening, but I’m afraid the police department will kick the door down while we’re defenseless. I can’t close my eyes without stressing over every bang, drip, and drum echoing through the walls. Sitting at the end of the bed with my pistol in one hand, the sticky remote control in the other, I’ve spent the last three hours flipping through basic cable channels, catching news segments from every outlet.
We may have gotten away with this.
Eight hours after the heist, nothing about an Inglewood credit union robbery is reported. Each network airs the same topics over and over again: health, money, weather, lethal violence, and a feel-good story to help the viewers forget they’ve spent the last hour listening to how shitty their community is.
As sitcoms and bad reality TV replace local reporting, I slowly lift my finger from the trigger and set the weapon onto the chipped particle board dresser that seconds as a television stand. As adrenaline settles into non-ignorable tiredness, I scrub my hands down my face and blink stinging tears from my eyes.
“If you’re not going to sleep, inmate, I need food.” My girl, sleep-lined and heavy lidded, pats the mattress beside her.
I lie back, truly filling my lungs with oxygen for the first time since I kicked open the double doors at the bank and soften under Poesy’s touch as she runs her fingers though my shoulder-length hair. She brushes it away from my forehead and curls the tattered ends around her fingertip. She tugs on the blond strands and sighs.
“It’s grown on me. Are you sure you want to shave it?”
“We should do it before we leave the room,” I say.
Poe suddenly sits up and climbs over me, stepping onto the dingy carpet with her bare feet, and lifts our backpack from the floor at the end of the bed. My heartbeat speeds up, but she unzips the bag without hesitation and shakes the stolen money onto the mattress beside my legs.
The hair clippers fall out last.
“Have you counted it?” she asks, gazing at the small pile of rubber-banded stacks of cash with wide, glossy eyes.
I lean on my elbows and shake my head. My guard needs to be down for that, and I’m not there yet.
“I haven’t touched it.”
We’re far from rich, but it took five minutes and a gun to get our life back on track. The peppery scent of dirty dollar bills overpowers the odor of musty curtains and moth-eaten bed sheets, and is powerful enough to turn this shithole hotel into a castle fit for a king and queen. Mesmerized by the funds we so badly need and were so easily pinched, my girl reaches for the money but pulls her hand back like she’s been electrocuted. Her wide eyes light up with curiosity.
“Should we count it now?” Poesy asks, brave enough to brush her trembling fingers over our way out of homelessness.
Sitting up, I pull my shirt over my head and say, “Cut my hair first.”
“DON’TLET ME fall.” Poesy laughs, wrapping her arms around the back of my neck and clinging to the bathroom floor with her toes.
I hold my arms out, clutching on to the wall with my right hand and the sink with my left to steady our wobble. Stripped down to our underwear, Poesy and I balance our combined weight on a wooden chair with four rickety legs, a few loose screws, and zero integrity.
“I’ll just stand,” my girl says, careful not to shift too far one way or the other. The hair clippers with the number two guard on the blade, plugged into the wall, are in her hand.
Centering our gravity and stabilizing the only chair we have in the room, I cautiously let go of the wall and sink and clasp on to Poe’s sides. Her grip eases enough for me to turn my face into her neck where I kiss her warm pulse point with a smile.
“Stay here with me,” I say, slipping my calloused palms down and around Poe’s round bottom. Forcing her forward, my getaway driver’s hottest part rubs where I’m hardest. “Don’t be away from me, girl.”
I’m answered with a click and a hum. Poesy sits straight and presents the powered-on clippers between us, meeting my blue eyes with her sepia-toned ones over the moving blade.
“Speak now or forever hold your peace,” she says. The right side of her mouth curves up.
When I don’t say anything, she glides the rusty hair clippers from my temple to the top of my head. Loose strands fall over my shoulder and pour down my back, tickling me with prickly ends. Poesy goes over the same spot twice because the dull, double-chopping blades pull my hair at the roots and cut unevenly. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth as she guides the clippers carefully around my ear and smiles as she moves to the other side.
Processed air from the air conditioner cools my exposed scalp, and the back of my neck isn’t as tanned as my arms.
“There you are,” Poe whispers, inspecting my buzz for any uneven spots. She goes over the top of my head one more time before setting the clippers down onto the edge of the leaky sink.
“How does it look?” I ask, peeking around the chair. The mane I’ve lost is scattered around the bathroom floor in masses.
Tiny pieces of just-cut hair are sprinkled across her chest and shimmer in the low light like glitter. Longer strands itch our bare legs and tickle our feet like unseen spiders.
“Amazing,” my hairdresser says, rubbing her hands over my new cut. “It looks brown when it’s this short.”
Turning toward the mirror, I can see half of my face and the top of my head from where I’m sitting. Not only does my hair appear darker, but sleeplessness and drained adrenaline have left bruise-like discoloration under my eyes and worry-etched deep lines around my eyes. I raise my brows, lifting my lids, trying to smooth them out before they become permanent.
“Maybe I should cut my hair,” Poesy says. “Since we’re fugitives now.”
Rested and fresh-faced, my girl uses the pad of her thumb to caress uneasiness from my expression before sweeping her waist-length hair off her shoulder.
“I’ll color it red and change my name to Greer,” she says, holding her hair to show me what it would look like cut to her chin. Poesy’s small chest swells in her black B-cup bra as she inhales; blueish veins are visible under her thin porcelain skin.
Kissing the top of Poe’s breasts, I reach behind her back and unhook her bra. She releases her hair so the thin straps can fall to her elbows, and I take the black lace and drop it to the floor around our feet.
“We’ll get fake IDs and move to Bali. We’ll burn and dance and sweat under the Indonesian sun and make friends with the locals. I can teach English, and you can chop down trees.”
I laugh out loud, pressing my girl forward until our chests are flush.
“We’re not moving, Poe,” I say, brushing my lips across her collarbone. “We’re going home to forget this happened.”
She circles her hips.
I close my eyes and inhale.
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br /> “What about Paris?” she asks, breathlessly. Eagerness drops her head back, exposing her throat for my mouth, and she grips on to the back of the chair so hard it shakes. “Take me there, Lowen. Show me art. Speak love to me, boy.”
Senseless under her readiness, I reach between us to release myself from my gray boxers. Quickly moving her panties to the side, slick heat strokes along my knuckles, and it’s all I can cope with before I’m inside my reason for thieving.
“You can’t cut your hair,” I say, gripping white-knuckle-tight on to Poe’s hips, guiding her on and off my cock.
“Why?” she asks with a soft smile on her pouty lips. My girl’s nipples harden, and her solid hold on the chair rocks it back and forth with our movement.
Wrapping her hair twice around my hand, I jerk Poesy’s head back forcefully, curving her spine. Poesy cries out, and I yank harder, taking her pink nipple between my teeth and pulling as she starts to contract around me.
“That’s why,” I whisper into her ear as she comes undone.
I rest my forehead above her heartbeat and let the world fade away as I empty inside the only person great enough to help me feel at ease about what we did today. Her hair gently falls free from between my fingers, and Poesy releases the chair to wrap her arms around me as I let loose all of the overwhelming exhilaration, dread, and panic I felt today.
“I’m here with you,” she whispers now, repeating the same words she said to me while I was locked up. “Just like before, Low. You can’t get rid of me, you son of a bitch. Even if you try, I’m here.”
What she doesn’t know is that the choice isn’t hers.
Dying to protect her will be worth it.
Falling for this will be worth it.
“Okay,” I lie, as we go down—literally.
Splintered and frail, the chair comes apart, and we crash to the floor in a pile of laughter, naked bodies, and hair I should have cut months ago.
Thirty minutes later, our room fills with steam from our long showers and the damp, muddy smell of mildew only intensifies the stale scent of cigarette smoke stained on the walls. The ceiling in the bathroom perspires, the mirror fogs, and the tile sticks to my bare feet.
With an itchy towel wrapped around my waist, I run my hand over the sweaty mirror until I can see my reflection. The scent of fake flowers from the cheap moisture-sucking bar soap covers my skin, and without a toothbrush, I use the travel-sized bottle of mouthwash left beside the mini-coffee maker to freshen my mouth. It tastes more like water than spearmint and tints my teeth a faint mint color. I leave half of it for Poe.
“This conditioner sucks!” she yells from behind the torn shower curtain. “It smells like canned air freshener. Who the fuck wants to reek like tropical dew, anyway?”
Using a smaller towel to dry the back of my neck, I take a few steps toward the bed where the money lies in piles. I flip through a stack of crisp twenties wrapped in a violet band, kept in five hundred dollar increments; there are eight bundles altogether.
Next I count the tens, strapped in yellow, and fives, bound in red. The tellers handed over fifty stacks of ones in one hundred dollar increments tied in a blue band. I add ninety-seven dollars in loose bills, and another fifty in rolled coins.
“How much is it?” Poesy asks, exiting the steamy bathroom with a white towel wrapped around her body and drying her hair with another.
Standing a foot and a half shorter than me, my girl leans against my side and stares at the cash divided into ten piles of one thousand dollars each.
“Eleven grand,” I say.
“Damn,” she replies. Drops of water dripping from the ends of her tangled hair run down my arm.
Robbing a bank comes with a ten-year minimum sentence, not including brandishing a weapon and holding those people hostage while I took what wasn’t mine. I’m a convicted felon; therefore, crimes like these could leave me behind bars for life. Considering once we catch up on bills and Poe enrolls back in school, this money is already spent, so I’m not convinced this was worth it.
I should have looked for more work.
We could have sold the car.
Maybe swallowing my pride and asking my mom if we could shack up with her and her old man until Poe and I got back on our feet wouldn’t have been a bad idea.
Then reason touches my face, and she smooths the worry lines away from between my eyes with her thumb.
“I’m here,” she echoes in a for-sure tone. “We did this together, and anything we do together is right, Low.”
THE NEXT MORNING, we leave our room before the stars fade and roam the streets with wickedness, sharing the sidewalk with junkies searching for hustlers, whose pockets are fat from posting on street corners all night. Johns stroll out of alleyways, tucking their dicks into their pants, and whores with scraped knees follow ten feet behind them.
Bright orange outlined in pinks, the sun peeks over the horizon, dropping the temperature by a couple of degrees and coating the desert in its morning glory. Poesy pulls a shopping cart with a wobbly tire from the passenger door of a beat-up Geo and leads the way into the 24-hour discount store, where a yellow happy face logo mocks our tired eyes.
“What about this?” my girl asks, holding a floral printed dress to her body.
“Looks good, babe.” I rub day-old mascara out from under her eyes and push cut-rate conditioned hair behind her ear.
She walks down sticky-floored aisles flinging a pair of oversized shades, a straw hat, and a pair of pink rubber flip-flops into our basket. When we reach the men’s clothing section, I can’t be bothered with cheap jeans and plain white T-shirts, because the scent of lingering dreams on my girl’s soft skin clouds my under slept mind. I trace dying sleep lines across her face with my lips, and decide that tropical dew is my new favorite smell.
“Don’t make me send you to the hole, convict.” Poesy giggles, playfully jabbing me with her elbow.
“I won’t mind being sent to your hole,” I say, smacking her bottom as she drops a pair of Wranglers into the cart.
It’s easy to forget we broke the law and can potentially be wanted criminals as my girl smiles over her shoulder and winks. Long eyelashes brush the apples of her cheeks, and hair I just tucked behind her ear falls free.
Poesy pushes the rickety cart forward and stops to sort through a wall of cheap cotton shirts with lame taglines printed on the front.
“Do you like any of these?” she asks, stopping on a black tee with I am The Batman stamped across the chest.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I laugh, sparking weight-free carelessness I haven’t felt in months. The warm sensation of joy eases the stiff tension in my shoulders and soothes the twisted fear looped around my brittle bones.
Paranoia takes a backseat for playfulness, and I’ll be the masked crusader if she wants me to.
“It’s not like there’s much to choose from, Lowen.” She scoffs. Her quick hands flip though plastic hangers labeled small, medium, and large, haphazardly searching for something I might like.
Grabbing Poesy by her wrist, she turns to face me with thoughtful wonder in her eyes and smiles right before my mouth collides with hers. I live for the way she lightly bites my tongue when we kiss, and wish I were a better man every time she whispers, “I love you” against my lips.
I deepen our touch, pushing my girl between two racks of clothing until she bumps into a display of packaged undershirts and boxer briefs, and socks in every length and color fall to the floor.
“Do you guys need help?” an intruding male voice suddenly asks, shattering untroubled peace of mind.
I instinctively protect Poesy from the enemy, using my body to block the employee’s view of her. She drops her forehead to my chest and clutches on to the front of my shirt as I gaze over my shoulder toward the worker wearing a blue polo shirt.
“We’re good, man,” I answer. Stiffness in my muscles returns at the sight of him, and I ready myself to break his fucking jaw if I have to.
Dosed with a shot of reality, it’s now impossible to forget we broke the law. I can’t let my guard down when a life lived like fugitives is what we bargained for by robbing that bank. Keeping Poe safe from this means not letting my feelings for her get in the way of what we need to do until I know for a fact the authorities are not after us.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I lift my girl’s hand and kiss the cross like mine etched in the center of her palm.
“I love you, too,” I say before I reach behind her for a package of black undershirts and turn to toss them into the cart.
We pay for our things without speaking another word.
INGLEWOOD LOOKING FOR BANK ROBBERY SUSPECT
Inglewood, CA — Los Angeles Police are looking for the suspect of a bank robbery that occurred yesterday morning.
“Around 9 a.m., one man walked into California Credit Union on 3372 S. Century Blvd, wearing a black ski mask and gloves and armed with a .44 pistol,” Los Angeles Police Lt. William Ro said.
He reportedly demanded money from tellers and fled with an undisclosed amount. Ro said, “Eyewitnesses outside the bank saw the suspect exit [the credit union] and enter a small four-door sedan.”
The suspect was last seen driving west on Century Boulevard.
Anyone with information about the suspect is urged to contact LAPD at (310) 755-3333.
WITH INK-STAINED fingertips, Poesy tosses today’s newspaper onto the kitchen counter and crosses her arms over her chest.
“It could be worse,” she says.
After a lengthy bus ride back to LA, instead of calling a cab to give us a lift home, we walked. I didn’t think of buying a paper until we saw one sprinkler-soaked in the middle of someone’s lawn. Poe ran through the wet grass and took it. I slipped a five-dollar bill into the owner’s mailbox for their trouble.
The article is on page nine.
“They don’t have a description of you, and I’m not mentioned,” Poesy continues. She pulls the oversized hat from her head to reveal a disarray of sweaty hair.
Low (Low #1) Page 8
