I don’t slow or look for oncoming cars when I cross the street. I’m halfway over when a police cruiser sounds its sirens and accelerates toward me. The black and white car screeches to a halt inches from my legs, jerking the officer behind the wheel forward and back. I slam my palms onto the hood, making eye contact with the law.
He hurries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but I’m already gone, jumping a wooden fence into someone’s backyard. Wet grass soaks through my jeans, dampening them. My backpack falls forward, hitting me in the back of the head. I leave it behind and run over sand toys and hula-hoops, toward the front of the lawn.
“This is the Pinella Pass Police Department. Stop where you are, or I will shoot,” a voice echoes from the sky.
I glance up and see the helicopter hovering above me, the long blades swishing in circles. An officer is suspended from the side, aiming his rifle at me.
I make a break toward the blue house just as a bullet hits the damp grass millimeters from my right foot. It’s the only shot he can attempt before I’m under the protection of the porch, crashing through a sliding screen door, into the home.
My leg catches in the screen’s metal frame, tripping me. I fall into the kitchen, where a woman stands against the refrigerator with a butcher knife in her hand. She jabs aimlessly, screaming for help.
“Get out,” she demands, slicing and dicing near my face. “Somebody help me.”
Scrambling to my feet, I slowly back away from the lady, holding my hands out. She dives forward as I turn and go, sprinting through her place, opening and closing doors, looking for the way out besides the front door.
I exit through the garage to the side of the house, scooting against the rough stucco wall to remain hidden under the edge of the roof.
“We have you surrounded. Come out with your hands up.” The helicopter circles the neighborhood. Through cracks in the fence, I see police cars driving up and down the block. “This is the Pinella Pass Police Department…”
Then I hear the K9 bark.
Left with no other option, I hop the wall into the next backyard, and then the next, and the next. I continuously fall. I bust my knuckles open and fall into a bed of roses. Blood seeps from thorn-deep wounds, and I twist my ankle and slice my face dropping into a pile of scrap metal.
One homeowner greets me with his shotgun, and another eggs me on.
“The Four-Four Bandits. Hell yeah!” he yells as I run through his backyard. “Fuck the police.”
I make it over his brick wall, falling to my back onto a sidewalk, knocking the wind out of me. Coughing and gasping for air, I turn to my side and kick my feet, willing them to push further. Blood smears from my hands to the concrete, and saliva trickles from my mouth as I grit my teeth.
On my hands and knees, I close my eyes and picture sharp golden eyes framed by dark eyebrows. Her long blonde hair falls past her slender shoulders, and my girl’s lips are curved up.
She’s bathed in bright light.
“Freeze,” a voice calls from behind me. “Don’t fucking move.”
“I need to get up!” I yell back, lifting myself up. “I’m hurt.”
“I said don’t fucking move!” the officer shouts. His K9 barks and snarls. His nails scratch against the sidewalk. “Drop your weapon, Lowen.”
Opening my palm, the .44 falls to the sidewalk, skidding into the gutter.
Then I run east.
Because that’s where she’ll be.
And I’d rather die trying.
“Go, boy. Go.” The officer doesn’t fire. He lets the dog loose.
My legs don’t stride fast enough, far enough. I push forward, driving muscle to flex and move, until my entire being strains in protest. I cry out, beating my shoes onto the sidewalk, fracturing bones and shaking the earth.
The German Shepherd is quick. He snaps at my calf, tearing flesh from bone, ripping my jeans. Hot blood coats my lower leg, leaving a trail on the concrete behind me as I shuffle onward. He bites my forearm, sinking his inch-long canines through my skin.
“On the ground!” the cop shouts, approaching with his rifle drawn, flanked by two officers.
The dog jerks my arm, gurgling a mouthful of blood. He pulls me down, tightening his grip, breaking bone between his teeth.
Gunfire rings out. Four rounds.
Pinella Pass PD drops to take cover behind a tree, and the dog finally releases my limb to join his band of brothers.
“Low!” Poesy roars from the street, behind the wheel of an old Cadillac convertible. “Get in.”
She shoots twice more, and we drive away with the entire world after us.
“IT’S TWO THIRTY-five p.m., and we have breaking news out of Pinella Pass, Alabama. Sky 2 is over the scene, following two suspects believed to be Lowen Seely and Poesy Ashby, also known as the Four-Four Bandits.
“We’re going live with our news chopper to bring you up-to-date on the situation. Can you confirm this is actually the Four-Four Bandits, and where exactly are you?”
“This is Stan Andrews in Sky 2 above Interstate 85, heading north toward Montgomery. We have been advised by city police and the FBI to stay five miles back to allow Police Helicopter Forty King room to follow the stolen car, confirmed to be driven by Lowen Seely, while ground units close the north and southbound sides of the highway.
“As you probably remember, Lowen Seely and Poesy Ashby have been on the run for the majority of the past year for the murder of bank security guard, Jonathan Henning, in a Hollywood, California robbery. In the months since his death, the Four-Four Bandits have become celebrities, considered to be the modern day Bonnie and Clyde. Sightings of the dangerous pair were reported worldwide after the Hennings family raised over a two hundred thousand dollar reward for their arrest, but they were never caught, despite robbing convenience stores and banks from one side of the US to the other.
“But it’s the reward that led police to their whereabouts today. At exactly twelve twenty-five p.m., Pinella Pass PD received a tip that Lowen and Poesy were hiding out in a trailer park on the 600 block of Sixth Street. The FBI was immediately called in, and by the top of the hour, authorities made contact with the wanted criminals. Shots were fired, and I’m told K9 Chase wounded Seely during a foot pursuit.
“I can also confirm that Ashby was originally behind the wheel of the stolen Cadillac Eldorado, but switched seats with the male suspect before driving onto the highway. Their speed has remained at a leisurely rate, at approximately sixty-five miles an hour. Authorities have done a good job of closing the highway to keep other drivers out of danger, and for now, this chase seems to be playing out safely.”
“Stan, what can you tell us about the mindset of the Four-Four Bandits?”
“Because they’re in a convertible, both suspects are in plain sight. Lowen has his arm over Poesy’s shoulders, and they seem to be talking. Oddly enough, if they weren’t two of the FBI’s most wanted criminals, they could pass as an average couple on a Sunday drive.
“I should also add that even though there are no other vehicles on the road, in the last half hour or so, thousands of spectators have appeared on the outskirts of Interstate 85, cheering as the outlaws pass. Some hold signs of support, but most just take pictures with their cell phone cameras.
“There’s no doubt the country is sympathetic toward the bandits after stories of their charity began to surface. A homeless woman in New York claims Poesy gave her a blanket and cash to get a room for a week. Reports of money for their victims being found in the cars they’ve stolen became Lowen and Poesy’s calling card. In fact, Jonathan Henning was the only casualty during their entire crime spree. They are not your typical criminals, but no one should forget they are, in fact, dangerous murderers.
“I don’t see a way out for them. This may be the end for the Four-Four Bandits.”
WE COME TO a stop when the engine starts to sputter, low on fuel, leaving us stranded in the middle of the highway. To our left and to our right, and atop the bridge b
efore us, hundreds … maybe thousands of people standby, waiting for our next move. News cameras record, reporters report, and others shout and clap, jumping up and down, waving their arms.
Directly in front and in back of us, dozens … maybe hundreds of police cruisers, trucks, and motorcycles wait, too. With only a mile between us on each end, they notice we’ve come to a halt and position themselves accordingly. Protected by bulletproof doors, FBI, HP, Sheriffs, and city police alike build a wall of armor between them and us—Good vs. Evil, Right vs. Wrong—and prepare to open fire.
“Step out of the vehicle,” they call out over a bullhorn. My head is their target.
A spike strip is thrown out, promising to mangle our tires if we try to drive over them.
Poesy slips closer, leaving no space between our bodies. She laces her fingers with mine over her shoulder, careless about the steady stream of blood dripping onto her lap from my wound.
“There’s no way out,” she says softly, exhaling an easy breath. “Will I be beautiful in stripes, inmate?”
I kiss the top of her head, rubbing my thumb on the inside of her palm.
“What do you think all of these people want?” I ask, looking around. A kid holding his mother’s hand waves at me. “What are they waiting for?”
My getaway driver follows my eyes toward the crowd. She scoots even closer. “A gunfight.”
Our eyes meet, and hers are a fiery yellow-green, swallowing me whole. I search her expression, expecting to find signs of worry, but her cut lips are slightly arched, and Poe’s blush is sweet, not terrified. It’s only now I realize my heartbeat rocks steady, pumping nothing put acceptance and adoration through my veins.
“I fucking hate stripes, anyway,” the only girl I’ve ever loved says.
I tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear, then rest the palm of my hand on the side of her face. She turns into my touch, pressing her lips to my skin and closing her eyes.
“This isn’t it for us, Poe.” Tears burn my eyes, spilling over. “There’s more.”
“We had one hell of a ride.” She laughs. It ricochets through my body. “We gave each other a wonderful life, right? Not many people have done what we have, Low. It means something.”
“It means everything.”
Poesy cries, but a smile spreads across her face. She wraps her arms around my neck and holds me tight, until our heartbeats touch and our souls sync. My girl runs her fingers up and down the back of my neck, breathing in my breath, living my life. I can’t look away from her, my tender side.
“I’m not leaving, you son of a bitch,” Poesy whispers. “I’m here. I’m here with you.”
We spend a few moments touching each other’s elbows, behind the knees, below the waist. We kiss between fingers, on the wrist, and on the mouth. I savor her lips, like silk against my own, tasting blood and tears. She traces the cross tattoo under my eye with the tip of her finger, and I draw mine along her jawbone.
“Do you swear we’ll be together, Low? Do you swear it?”
“Yes,” I answer confidently.
She nods and smiles, looking at me one last time. Her long eyelashes sweep across her cheeks, blinking slowly. In an instant, our entire life together flashes before me. Rose thorns and grass clippings, bus rides and forbidden kisses. There are tender touches and the angry sound of her voice when I tell her I’ve been arrested again. I can see her write every word of every letter she wrote while I was away, never crossing the T’s or dotting the I’s.
And then she’s there, waiting at the gates.
I experience the hurt she felt when her books were stolen and the pride she felt when I fixed the car. She’s mopping the kitchen floor, determined to make our apartment a home, and tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, waiting to drive us to safety.
She’s in that pink robe again, sleeping in my arms.
She’s my favorite thing.
The most precious one.
The girl who loves me constantly.
“We can’t take it with us.” Poe unzips the bag of money and sits up on her knees. “And we’re going to need all the brownie points we can get.”
I start the car.
The crowd roars, and the law prepares.
“Drive, Lowen!” my girl shouts, holding the bag above her head. “Get us the fuck out of here.”
I press my foot on the accelerator and roll the tires forward, laughing with Poesy as we gain speed. The money flies from her grip one-dollar bill at a time, floating in the air around us, painting the sky green in our victory.
And I watch her soar.
Even crooks love.
THERE IS LIGHT.
Poesy’s wrapped in it.
Brilliance trickles from her fingers, browns her skin, and shines through her long blonde hair. I squint against the white glow surrounding my girl as she walks toward me, only a few yards away. My bare feet are buried in sand, and the salty scent of the ocean tickles my nose. Waves crash against the shore, washing up to my ankles. My heart beats calmly, endlessly.
“Come on, inmate,” a love-like-fire says, offering me her hand. “It’s time to go.”
I slip my palm over hers and lace our fingers together, breathing evenly. Poesy tucks her golden tresses behind her ear and looks up with her smoldering hazel eyes. Her long lashes sweep across her cheeks, and her beautiful pink lips curve up.
She tugs on my hand, leading me toward blinding grace.
As we get closer, the sea disappears and warmth remains. I watch her face illuminate in its presence, free of harm, free of struggle, free of pain.
Free.
“Where are we going now?” I ask as my love builds with consuming light.
She smiles, and it’s radiant.
Poesy looks up at me one more time, hand-in-hand, and whispers, “Everywhere.”
Mary Elizabeth is an up and coming author who finds words in chaos, writing stories about the skeletons hanging in your closets.
Known as The Realist, Mary was born and raised in Southern California. She is a wife, mother of four beautiful children, and dog tamer to one enthusiastic Pit Bull and a prissy Chihuahua. She's a hairstylist by day but contemporary fiction, new adult author by night. Mary can often be found finger twirling her hair and chewing on a stick of licorice while writing and rewriting a sentence over and over until it's perfect. She discovered her talent for tale-telling accidentally, but literature is in her chokehold. And she's not letting go until every story is told.
Follow Mary Elizabeth on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and her blog, Mary Elizabeth Lit.
You can also sign up for her newsletter for up-to-date information on her 2016 book releases, including Poesy, a Low Novella.
“The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure.”--Jeremiah 17:9
This book was a long time coming. I truly had an amazing team of people to help and support me as I wrote one paragraph at a time. Bank robbers are finicky people.
I have to show appreciation to my family. My husband and children, who gladly entertain themselves while I’m lost in whatever stories I have brewing inside my head. If I weren’t a writer, they might have something to worry about. My husband and littles also provide amazing feedback. Jason, thank you for always knowing the word that’s stuck on the tip of my tongue, and what I mean when I say, “You know, that thing!”
Christina, I literally wouldn’t have finished this book without you. By the time you read this, you’ve set off on your own adventure. You’ll be fine. Thank you for being the most generous and selfless person I know.
Jennifer, Jeff, Mark, and Michelle, thank you for picking up my slack.
Catherine Jones, like I wrote in the dedication, this wouldn’t have happened without you. Thank you for constantly telling me that I can and I will. You are my fixer.
Sunny, Mandy, Kelly, and Amber, thank you for putting up with my crazy. Your feedback was vital to Low and Poesy’s story.
EK, thank you for letting me look over your sho
ulder and follow you around like a child. Your advice, guidance, and friendship is priceless.
Paige, the best editor around. Thank you, because I definitely would have fired me by now.
Hang Le, who makes everything I do look so much better. I look forward to all of the covers you design for me.
Elle, thank you.
Stephanie, Tiffany, Yvette, and Courtney, you have been the most amazing additions to my life. Thank you for all that you do.
COPA, my driving force.
To my readers and friends, you probably read this every time you finish a book, but thank you for deeming me worthy of your time. Writing is so much fun when there are people who want to read what I come up with, and I couldn’t ask for a better audience than you.
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