Low (Low #1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  “There was another bank robbery,” my CO says. “And I just found out you worked laundry detail with an inmate who was convicted of multiple armed robberies while you were in the pen. Did you pick up a thing or two from him during your time together?”

  “Only how to fold a mean shirt,” I say with a smirk, crossing my arms over my chest. He doesn’t need to see my hands shake.

  “We assume it’s a male and female twosome taking the banks, judging by multiple statements provided by victims. A decent description of the aggressor was given this last time. Apparently, the one brandishing the weapon and threatening to kill children has blue eyes.”

  “Sounds shady,” I answer, clenching my teeth. My character is shit, but aiming the .44 at the kid was an accident.

  “You have blue eyes,” Rick says in a high-pitched, smart-ass tone. He sits back and mimics my posture, but he rocks his chair back and forth.

  “I’m not the only crook with blue eyes, hack,” I say in a harsh tone.

  Poesy and I have done everything in our power to cover our asses, down to burning the clothes we wore during the Los Angeles Bank heist. This motherfucker knows my ins and outs, and that includes where my girlfriend’s parents live. His antagonizing tone of voice and body language are intentional. Disrespect will set off any criminal who has nothing but their pride to bargain with.

  He’s testing me.

  “No. No, you’re not, but the downside to your current parolee status is that you’re under constant suspension. As far as I’m concerned, you fit the profile for this crime.”

  “When did you start investigating bank robberies? I thought your job was to collect piss samples and invade my privacy for the next three years.”

  Rick’s grin drops, and his nostrils flare over his mustache. He sits up straight, and his large arms flex under the short sleeves of his black Correctional Officer shirt. In a holster strapped over his shoulders, the handle of a police-issued Glock gleams in the muted light against his right side.

  “I own Los Angeles County. I own you. Catching you slip is my job, and I will put you back behind bars with your white trash father if you so much as litter on my streets.”

  “Are we done?” I say, forcing the words between my lips as anger boils oil-like blood under my skin. Heat scalds my self-control. Snapping this motherfucker’s neck under the sole of my shoe would be too easy, and worth it.

  “It’ll do you good to remember I see everything, Seely. Even that pretty woman of yours.”

  I stand to my feet and kick the chair back, knocking it into an old filing cabinet. Rick doesn’t flinch, but he blinks. It’s good enough.

  “Hey,” he calls me back before I walk out the door. There’s a plastic cup on his desk in front of him. “I need a sample.”

  This will be the last time I do this.

  THE CONVERSATION WITH my CO brews within me for weeks, devouring the small sense of decency I cling to for my soul’s sake—for my family’s sake. It’s a hopelessness that breeds into recklessness as I’m overlooked and snubbed by employers who refuse to hire a felon over and over again. Poesy hates her job, and her repulsion chips away at my determination to live a lawful life.

  With no substantial income coming in. and the cost of living on the rise, we have no choice but to use the robbery money to get by. It won’t last six months, and we will come face-to-face with poverty again.

  “What’s on your mind, Lowen?” Poesy asks.

  She drapes her arm over my bare chest and presses her lips to the pulse point on my throat. The sweet-salty scent of our sex lingers in the dark air around us. Sirens howling around the neighborhood whisper through the walls, and the wind whistles through the cracks in the windows.

  Harsh bedsprings protest under our weight, even as we breathe, and our old blankets are bunched around our feet. Our pillows are too thin, and the bed is still on the carpet.

  Despite robbing two banks, and because we can’t find adequate work, my girl and I are stuck in the gutter with no way out.

  We’re drowning in a sea of scarceness.

  “How long can we keep doing this?” I ask, mostly to myself. Reality is a bitter pill to swallow.

  “For as long as you want,” Poe answers sweetly, without blame or resentment. Only acceptance.

  “I had an idea that I could be someone I’m not, but nothing’s different. Because of me, you’re stuck in this fucking cycle of sickness.”

  “Don’t worry about me, boy. You know I’m on this crazy train until it derails,” Poesy says with a small smile, optimistic about our situation. She sweeps her fingers up and down my arm until chills form.

  Poesy was right when she said my mom and Gillian live their own lives now. They can survive without me, but the girl who refuses to leave my side can’t. She’s given up a tidy future to experience this mess with a criminal. There’s no convincing her otherwise, and I’m past trying.

  She deserves more, even if it means becoming someone else.

  “What if we make one more hit? Not another local branch, but a bank with enough money to change our lives for good.”

  “Are you serious?” She leans up on her elbow, wide-eyed and breathless. Her heart’s beat hammers against my ribcage.

  “If we case a bank in Hollywood or Beverly Hills, there’s millions of dollars in those vaults. The drawer count has to be higher, too. We’ll have plenty of cash to leave all of this behind and start over.”

  “Where will we go?” inquisitiveness asks. Her cheeks burn deep red.

  “Anywhere you want,” I say. “Pick a city … choose a country.”

  Whisking Poe away from this hell and leading her around the world—one beach, one culture, one language at a time—would be a dream come true and more than what I can offer in Inglewood. We can travel until she finds a city she wants to grow old in, start a business … start a family.

  “If this has anything to do with your CO, I already told you not to let—”

  “Crime is what I’m good at, but these small heists aren’t worth the risk. Twenty Gs isn’t worth a life sentence without you.”

  “Neither is your life, Low. There’s larger crowds and heavier security in those banks. Our getaway will be harder because of the one-way streets, and traffic will be a fucking nightmare. We’ll need a good car … a fast car.”

  I smile, despite the pang of guilt that eats at my conscience for turning this girl into an outlaw. Her worries are my own, and they’re stresses I’ve agonized over since accepting this is our only chance at extraordinary. Five minutes will feel like an eternity compared to the timeline I’ll have in the biggest bank in Los Angeles. Security guards will be strapped with loaded weapons, and the tellers will be protected by a bulletproof glass partition.

  Dying for this is probable.

  “I can do this, Poesy,” I say, finding her hazel eyes through the dark.

  “We can. You won’t be alone.”

  Our airless room sizzles with anticipation. Sleep evades me, even as Poesy lays her head against my arm and snores softly, safe from me in dreams. Her eyes move behind her thin eyelids, and her bare foot unknowingly rubs my leg.

  Love is worth it.

  I might die for this, but she won’t.

  FIRST DIVISION BANK in Hollywood, California is three stories high and twenty-five thousand square feet of lush, luxury banking. The industrial-style structure sits bold on Laurel Canyon—West LA prime real estate—and is open for business between 9 a.m. and 5 p.m., Monday through Friday for the most elite clientele only. Though, after-hours and weekend appointments can be made for high rollers who need funds at any time.

  An armed security officer walks the branch perimeter twenty-four hours a day, and three more protect inside. Strapped with a semi-automatic weapon, a guard dressed like an Army Ranger stands watch in front of the money vault. The other two, with lesser firearms, take post near the front entrance and elevators.

  “Surveillance cameras are set up in every corner of the lobby and
smaller ones at each teller booths,” Poesy says.

  Sitting inside a McDonald’s across the street from the bank, we watch customers rotate in and out through the branch’s front doors over milkshakes and burgers gone cold. Poe, disguised in a brunette wig and large sunglasses, passes me pamphlets about mortgage rates and small business loans. She went inside at the nine o’clock hour, claiming to be new to the city and acquiring information about opening a checking and savings account.

  “He gave me a tour of the building. The third floor is all offices, and the second floor is reserved for private banking. What we need is on the first level. Eight teller booths are protected behind the glass, and the only way to get behind the barrier is with a keycard. The vault is within view and doesn’t look like it’s kept locked during business hours.”

  “It’s been robbed before. It can be done,” I say as my gut fills with heavy anxiousness. The massive structure with dozens of lavish cars in the parking lot mocks me with its superiority.

  First Division has been held up, but the thieves didn’t make it down the block with the money.

  Or their lives.

  “Teach me how to fire a weapon, Lowen. You’ll need me for this one. I know it,” my girl whispers eagerly. She looks over her shoulder to make sure other customers can’t hear our conversation. “The room is too big for you to control alone. I have your back.”

  “No,” I say sharply, pushing my food away.

  “Our chances will be better if I’m with you. Your life isn’t expendable, Low. Let me help you.” She takes off her sunglasses to reveal her glassy hazel eyes.

  “I need you to wait with the car, Poe. If you want me to succeed … if you want me to live through this, stay with the fucking car.” Fright prickles my skin like millions of tiny needles.

  “I’ll never forgive you if you’re killed,” she says, wiping sadness from under her cheeks.

  “And if something happens to you, death won’t give me peace. Do you understand that? I need you, baby. Give me something to run to when this is over.”

  She smiles, despite the tremble in her hands and the tears ruining her mascara. Poesy uses a white recycled paper napkin to clear her smudged makeup from her face, and she nods. Brown hair falls in her eyes and dips through the ketchup as she reaches across the table for my hand.

  “What’s the plan, inmate?” she asks, lacing her fingers between mine. “You have a future to fund.”

  WE WAKE UP between the ruckus of night and the rush of morning, at the point where time ceases to exist and stars fade into nothingness. The sky is a milky black, and the air is bitter cold. We sneak out of the apartment we’ve called home for the last year, hand-in-hand, and toss the keys into the littered dirt lot across the street. With only the clothes on our backs and the .44 in my waist, Poesy and I take one more look at what’s to be left behind before dashing into obscurity.

  Breathing traces of garbage and dank pollution—the scent of Los Angeles—we run down empty streets and outmaneuver lurking shadows and eerie darkness until we come upon a decent car without an alarm.

  “I was thinking more Ferrari and less Honda,” Poe jokes, buckling her seatbelt.

  A large Rottweiler runs along a tall chain-link fence lining the driveway as I slowly pull our getaway car onto the bumpy, pothole-riddled street. I can still hear it barking when I flip on the headlights and turn out of the neighborhood and head toward the freeway.

  “Where do you want to go first, Poe? What do you want to see?” I ask to distract myself from the sharp sense of burden looming over my head like a rusty guillotine.

  Poesy pulls her legs onto the seat, and a small smile fractures the stony worry sculptured onto her face. She fiddles with her long, dingy shoe ties and shrugs.

  “I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon,” she says. “Or the World’s Largest Thermometer in Baker.”

  “What about Vegas?”

  “What about it?” Her eyebrows arc, and a small smile spreads into one so large it makes the dark sky feel blinding.

  “When this is over, we can go there.” My heart’s throb hammers inside my chest. “And get married.”

  Silence dangles between us for one … two … three beats.

  “Are you serious?” Poesy turns in her seat toward me. Headlights from passing cars cast shadows across her face, illuminating her broad eyes and reddened cheeks.

  “I don’t have a ring yet, but—”

  “Of course, I’ll marry you, convict. Yes, a million fucking times, yes.” My girl reaches across the center console and circles her arms around my neck, pressing kisses all over my face. She stops only to push my arm. “I thought you were never going to ask, jerk.”

  I spot our exit and ask, “This is what you want, Poesy?”

  “Lowen and Poesy Seely: Outlaws. Absolutely.”

  With the inkling of wedding bells and lifelong vows at the front of my mind, the shock of reality is brutal when First Division comes into view. Fear creeps up my spine and saunters over my shoulders, pouring down the front of my body like boiling wax. Coated in hardening dread, expanding my lungs is difficult, and ripping my eyes away from the building as we cruise by is impossible.

  Illuminated in soft blue light from his cell phone, the on-duty security guard is posted against the gray stucco building near the entrance. He doesn’t look up as we pass, but I memorize his dark features and roundness in his face.

  I might kill him today.

  “Follow the plan, Low,” my girl whispers, as if the guard might hear our voices from here.

  Turning my attention to her, there’s peace in Poesy’s eyes, framed by long lashes. Blue-green and slow blinking are enough to ease fright’s barbed hold around my determination, and I can breathe again.

  Armed with the will to live, I sit up as bravery shoots through my veins, washing away self-doubt and terror. Courage bombards my senses, bulking muscle and sharpening my eyesight. I sit up in the driver’s seat and shift gears, pushing the transmission to its limit.

  “Get your mask on,” I say, speeding away from the bank. Rubber spins and burns mightily.

  As I speed toward our rendezvous point, where we have a second car to make our escape with, the orange sun burns over the horizon, blanketing Los Angeles in its warm embrace.

  Waking up the motherfucker inside of me.

  MY MOM, RICK, the cops—whoever looks for us first—will find the Tercel parked in the driveway in front of the apartment. With half of the cash from the Culver City heist, we bought a used Mazda from some guy in Chino and registered it in Bobby and Chloe Bryne’s names, and stowed it in a storage unit under the same name, so it can’t be tracked back to Lowen Seely or Poesy Ashby.

  Packed in the trunk of our getaway car are a bag of clothes and our new identification documents.

  “If I’m not out of the bank in three minutes, come here and wait for me. I’ll meet you here if I can. In an hour, with or without me, take the car and get out of town. Drive and don’t stop until you absolutely have to. The rest of our cash is stashed under the passenger seat. It’s enough to get you far away from here.”

  “I hate when you say these things, Low,” Poesy utters in a broken tone behind a thick cotton ski mask I know is soaking up her tears.

  We’ve switched seats, protected in our disguises and hidden behind a book depository building, watching the dashboard clock inch toward business hours. The sound of the city coming alive is more recognizable as each minute kicks closer to nine. Cars honk, brakes screech, helicopters fly in the blue sky over us. If I could get my heart to stop beating in my ears, I’d hear footsteps, pigeons chirping, and the whoosh of the sewer under the streets.

  “But you’ll do it?” I ask, swallowing thick emotion at the idea of her on the run alone.

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  At the top of the hour and concealed behind dark-tinted windows, Poesy stops the car in the furthest parking space from the bank’s entrance. We watch unsuspecting customers—men, wo
men, children; hipsters, business people, and wives there to withdraw their husband’s money—flow into the banking establishment.

  “Let the rush calm down before you go in,” Poesy says. She bounces her foot up and down and holds on to the steering wheel with a white-knuckle grip.

  “It takes the guard six minutes to walk the perimeter of the building. I have to go in when he’s on the other side,” I say as he strolls into view after completing another rotation. A nightstick and pistol are strapped to his waist.

  “For fuck’s sake, Lowen, let me go in with you,” my girl says a half hour later in a tone tipping hysterical. Traffic in and out of the bank is noticeably slower, and the guard has returned from another circle around First Division.

  I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the top of the barrel of my gun with the muzzle aiming up, and pray, slipping my finger on the trigger. The cold steel warms under my touch as I ask God to spare our lives today.

  “Forgive her,” I say quietly. “Forsake me.”

  Poesy starts the car. The small engine turns and idles gently, and I wonder if I should have stolen something with more power.

  “Tell me to drive us home, and I will,” my girl says, looking over at me.

  I cock back the hammer, loading a bullet into the chamber, and look into the glassy eyes of my partner in crime.

  “It’s now or never, Lowen. I’m here with you,” she says, adrenaline cracking her voice.

  Hooking my arm around the back of her neck, I pull the girl who took a chance on a felon against me and hold her so tightly she cries out. Poesy grips on to my arm, and I kiss the exposed skin between her shirt and mask. Sucking it between my lips, I break blood vessels and leave bruise-like wounds.

  If I die, these marks will stay with her for a little longer.

  “Only you,” I say breathlessly, kissing her face over the cotton disguise. Brushing my lips from her chin, to her cheekbones, to the tip of her nose, my lips burn from friction.