Low (Low #1) Page 9

  “The woman I knocked down saw you,” I say, leaning against the wall across from her.

  “Maybe she didn’t, Lowen. It happened fast.”

  “They’re withholding information on purpose. There were too many witnesses not to have a better description of the car … of you. An ‘undisclosed amount’ is bullshit.” Scrubbing my hands down my face, I draw in a deep breath.

  “If the police knew it was us, we wouldn’t be standing in our kitchen right now. We would have been arrested the second we stepped off that bus.” Poesy opens our white plastic trashcan at the end of the counter and pushes the newspaper inside, like it will make this go away. “The story isn’t good enough for the front page, Low. That has to mean something. Did your parole officer call while we were gone?”

  I shake my head. “Only a missed call from Gillian.”

  Poesy approaches me, flush-faced and weary from the long walk, and places her hands on my arms. The only support I need holds me as I begin to feel like I’m going to break into a million sharp pieces, and she smiles.

  “Take a shower with me, boy. My hair needs real shampoo and conditioner, and I’m too tired to do it myself.”

  Cold metal is tucked in my waist, and there’s a backpack full of money the local police department is looking for on the kitchen table. We pulled off the robbery and managed the getaway, but this isn’t over until everything that links us to the heist is destroyed or hidden.

  “I need to hide the mon—” I begin to say when there are three loud knocks on the door.

  Lead-heavy dread balled in my stomach plunges to my feet, and the tips of my fingers go numb. My heart’s pulse beats, beats, hammers rib-splintering hard, spitting blood through my collapsing arteries and veins. Terror blows syrupy-scented breath across the back of my neck, and goose bumps rise on my arms. This is it, it whispers.

  “I’ll see who it is,” Poesy says with the same fear kissing her skin.

  Bold beyond what I’m capable of, my partner in crime walks past me with her chin up and her shoulders back. She steps twice more before I wrap my fingers around her upper arm and yank her back.

  “Stay here,” I say firmly, pointing my finger in her face.

  Wide russet eyes remain glued in the direction of the door, but she nods even as her complexion pales. My girl can fake bravado all she wants, but I know she’s terrified over this. Something would be seriously wrong with her if she wasn’t.

  “Who’s there?” I call out, posted between Poesy and the entrance of our apartment.

  When my question goes unanswered, I reach back and retrieve my gun, and load one bullet into the chamber. The next three knocks are hard enough to rattle the frame around the dented steel door, and sunlight shines through the cracks in the corners.

  Poe yelps and covers her mouth with both hands to keep from doing it again. Her fingers tremble over her lips and nose.

  “Open up,” a muffled voice demands while they dish out another round of aggression on my front door.

  “Is it the cops?” Poesy asks. Her tone tiptoes on the brink of hysteria.

  “If it is,” I say, stepping into the living room with my weapon aimed in front of me. “Run.”

  I was eleven the first time I was put in handcuffs. There’s no white privilege or special treatment for being the minority in the hood—we’re all fair game in the eyes of the law. I was predisposed to trouble, and the officer who locked my wrists together for fighting at school and then asked my name knew it the moment Seely left my lips. He stood over me and watched blood gush from my busted eyebrow and didn’t bother to get my side of the story.

  It was self-defense. I was sick of getting my lunch stolen.

  Guilty of my father’s crimes and culpable for being born underprivileged on the wrong side of the tracks, I was considered a criminal before I ever broke a law.

  The next time I had a run-in with the police, my dad was behind bars on a murder charge. “You’re already following in your old man’s footsteps,” the cop who stopped me on my bike had said as he patted my pockets for the pot he claimed to have smelled on my clothes.

  Growing up, I told myself to be better than the man who brought me into this world, and to rise above the confines of Inglewood. Poesy gave me hope, but I’m almost twenty-five years old and have never left California. I’m seconds away from aiming my pistol at a police officer, and Poe will likely end up dead or in jail.

  “Lowen, put the gun down,” my getaway driver cries out. She pulls on the back of my shirt, but is unable to hold me back. “If it’s the cops, they’ll kill you.”

  Accepting that I was born up to no good, I suck in a rich breath and place my hand on the door handle.

  Maybe they’ll house me in a cell next to my pops.

  “Whoa, what the fuck?” Our landlord—five feet tall, mostly bald, and sweaty—holds his fat hands up after coming face-to-face with my gun. The sickening scent of breakfast bacon and cigarette smoke surrounds him, and the neck area of his wife beater is stained yellow. “Time’s up. I’m here for my money, Mr. Seely.”

  I lower my weapon and open the door completely, but find it impossible to drop my defensive posture.

  “Hey, Fradil. Sorry our rent’s late. Won’t happen again,” Poesy says, pushing herself in front of me. She hands our slumlord a stack of cash and smiles as he starts to count it.

  “I should call the police,” he says in an Arabic accent, flipping through the hundred dollar bills with a thumb he licked first.

  “We thought you were the police.” My girl laughs out loud, but stops when our landlord quits counting to glare at her. She immediately corrects herself. “We have the gun for protection. The crime rate around here is ridiculous. You should hire a security guard.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Fradil slaps the palm of his hand with his funds and begins to walk away, satisfied. He doesn’t pick his feet up completely, and his plastic sandals drag on the concrete.

  “I told you last week the air conditioner needs to be serviced,” I call out angrily. “It blows out hot air.”

  He doesn’t stop to look me in the eye and talk to me like a man, but continues to walk toward his corner duplex.

  “Open a window,” he says dismissively, entering his apartment as his AC unit kicks on.

  My entire adult life has been spent working to keep a roof over my head and a little food in my stomach. Every penny I’ve made has gone to unworthy motherfuckers identical to Fradil. People like him feel no guilt about taking from the likes of me—underprivileged and in need of a break—and never give anything in return.

  Ignoring the white trash kid with the gangster dad is simple. Overlooking a felon is easier.

  So fuck it.

  I don’t feel guilty about taking from them either.

  “IF THAT’S FRADIL at the door again, I’m going to knock his block off,” I mumble irritably.

  Poesy scoots closer to drape her arm across my chest and throw her leg over my waist. She yawns, elongating her facial features before scrunching her nose and exhaling warm breath onto my neck. Long strands of her hair are tangled between my fingers, stuck inside my mouth, and tickling my ear, covering me like a blonde blanket.

  The blinding bright day has dimmed into blackened night, slurping all of the light out of our bedroom but leaving the stifling heat behind. We’re wrapped in darkness with the exception of the neon-blue gleam from the alarm clock beside our bed.

  “It’s probably a Jehovah’s Witness,” Poe says tiresomely. “Go back to sleep.”

  “It’s midnight in South Central, girl. Only a Jehovah’s Witness with a death wish would be spreading the Word this late,” I say, sitting up.

  My pulse remains relatively even because police sirens aren’t painting my walls blue and red, but a small wave of panic pushes me out of bed toward the knocking. I flip on the hallway light as I walk by, illuminating our small apartment in a hazy orange-yellow glow. The silhouette of a tall man is visible through the window as I
enter the living room. It disappears, and the banging starts again.

  “Hold on,” I call out heatedly, scrubbing my hand over the top of my head.

  Unlocking the deadbolt, I wish I hadn’t hidden my gun so far away.

  “Did I wake you?” Rick, my parole officer, asks after I open the door. He’s fresh-faced, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a plain black button-up, buckled in a Kevlar vest. “I’m here for a random home inspection.”

  “Do you know what time it is?” I ask, feeling transparent, dressed only in a pair of boxer briefs.

  “Sure do,” Rick answers, taking a step forward into my personal space. “This won’t be too long.”

  A wave of heat burns through my body, and I can imagine myself grabbing this motherfucker by his throat and tossing him out of my apartment onto his ass. He’s stopped by for home checks before, but never during the middle of the night, and always after a courtesy call. This intrusion is brand new, and the only thing keeping me from causing an uproar is the eleven grand I was smart enough to stash away before Poe and I crashed.

  With a clipboard in his left hand and a black Maglite in his right, Rick stands in the middle of my living room, expressionless and to the point. He aims the white light around the small space, over blankets on the floor and across the bare walls.

  A Glock is strapped on his hip.

  Our low-toned voices are thunderous in the dead of the night, and I have no doubt that every resident in our small complex is aware the law is here. Never resting criminals and lowlifes alike shrink away from rule enforcers, shutting garage doors and turning down lights. Midnight air is Kush-scented and electric with wrongdoing.

  “I have work in the morning, so if you can move this along, that would be great,” I say, slamming the door.

  My PO is unmoved by my aggression. He points the flashlight in my eyes before lowering it to my chest, but I’m still unable to see him over its brilliance.

  “Jorge said you didn’t show up to the plant yesterday,” Rick states in an even tone, unreadable. “Wouldn’t that be a normal work day for you?”

  “I called in sick.”

  “Yeah, he said that, too. You seem fine.” He drops the light to the floor between us, poker-faced.

  “My girl was scheduled off, so I stayed home with her,” I tell a practiced alibi. No one can challenge whether or not Poe and I were alone all day. Cell phone records can prove that they only pinged off local towers, and our bank accounts will show no recent activity. Quality time isn’t a parole violation.

  I follow Rick into the kitchen, flipping on the light as my feet step onto the cool linoleum. Flickering florescent bulbs hum and tinkle as they power to life. Rick flashes brightness behind the refrigerator, and he lifts the trashcan lid only to find it empty.

  He opens and shuts cabinet doors and drawers, searching for anything that could send me back behind bars. When he comes up empty, the seasoned PO reaches into his pocket and pulls out a plastic cup. He sets it onto the counter.

  “I’m clean,” I argue tightly, biting pride tightly between my teeth.

  “Protocol,” he answers indifferently.

  Crossing my arms over my chest to keep from knocking this guy out, I ask, “Do you want to tell me why you’re really here?”

  Rick strides past me and slides open the sun-brittle vertical blinds and unlocks the small sliding glass door that leads to a cracked slab of concrete and a patch of dirt that Fradil called a “backyard” when he did the initial walk-through with Poe. There’s nothing but a broken barbeque and rotted storage shed we normally keep empty out there.

  Another visit from my PO was inevitable, but I didn’t think it would be so soon. My plan was to crush the gun with the aluminum cans at the recycling plant in the morning. I didn’t want the pistol in the apartment overnight, so I hid it under a loose floorboard in the shed.

  “I don’t know if you heard this, Mr. Seely, but California Credit Union was robbed at gunpoint yesterday morning,” Rick says, shining his light outside. “And you’re a convicted thief.”

  Oxygen is sucked from the room, and I can’t breathe. Strobing panic steals my vision, and the convict in me screams to get my girl and run, run, run, so loudly my eardrums throb. Airless, blind, and deaf, I concentrate of the swift beat of my heart and ignore compulsion—for now.

  The truth is, I am the bad guy.

  Rick didn’t show up on my doorstep in a bulletproof vest because I’m a good-natured person. He’s here, strapped, because I’m dangerous, and he doesn’t trust me not to take his life if given the chance.

  I’m Lowen Joshua Seely.

  Son of a murderer, property of the state, society’s downfall.

  I am what nightmares are made of.

  It’s biological for me to cheat, lie, and steal; corrupt genes preprogrammed me to sin, breaking God and people’s laws with ease.

  “Stop,” Poesy suddenly calls out. She steps beside me and slides her arm around my lower back, returning my senses. The smirk on her lips is nothing less than criminal. “You’re invading my privacy, officer.”

  Rick looks over his shoulder before he steps out. Light from his flashlight glows around him like a halo, and the truth has never been more apparent to me than it is in this moment.

  This is Us vs. Them. Right vs. Wrong. Good vs. Evil.

  I have to pick a side.

  “That’s the thing about living with a felon, Miss Ashby. You no longer have any privacy.” Los Angeles County’s archangel turns to face burden with grace.

  He fights this moral match like a pro, never giving off a sense of entitlement or abusing his power. Rick doesn’t try to pretend like my girl isn’t standing in front of him wearing nothing more than underwear and a white tank top her nipples can be seen through. The good guy blushes like an honest man would and offers to address our concerns if we put some clothes on and let him finish his search in the apartment.

  The flashlight turns off, and he shuts the glass door.

  “HERE’S THE DEAL, Seely,” Rick says, shoving his clipboard under his arm and joining Poesy and me outside after completing his hunt through our place. “This was nothing personal. It is what it is.”

  Beneath barely visible stars, Poe sits on the trunk of our broken down car, and I lean between her legs. With her arms draped around my neck, she sighs as I calm her erratic pulse with my lips. Promising that everything is how it’s supposed to be, I softly kiss her warm skin and thank her for trusting me.

  “He stole a jar of peanut butter. I don’t see how that makes him a suspect in a bank robbery,” my girl comments harshly over my shoulder.

  I smile against her temple before turning to face never-ending consequence.

  “You’re not a suspect.” Rick directs his attention to me. He lingers awkwardly at the edge of our driveway, close enough to be taken seriously but far enough to be out of my reach. “You fit the description because of your previous convictions. I didn’t find anything incriminating, and your piss is clean, but when these things happen, nine times out of ten, it’s a repeat offender.”

  Poesy snorts, and I shake my head. The right side of my mouth curves into a condescending smirk.

  “That’s not me,” I say.

  “But you have stolen a car, and you did rob that liquor store with a deadly weapon,” Rick replies quickly.

  “I’d hardly call brass knuckles deadly,” my girl says, frustrated.

  Rick’s joyless brown eyes snap from my face to hers. “Tell your boyfriend’s victim that. Luis Gutierrez is blind in one eye, and I’m sure there was a time during the robbery he was fearful for his life. Brass knuckles are illegal for a reason, Miss Ashby. The Seely name is notorious for robberies gone wrong. Your definition of deadly does not define the law.”

  I push away from the Tercel, unwilling to have this conversation, and stand between Poesy and my parole officer. “Are we done here?”

  “Yeah, we’re done. If you hear something about this, hit me up. We’ll work som
ething out for your cooperation.”

  Laughing out loud, I wave this guy off before taking my girl’s hand to lead her back to bed. Even if I was not guilty in this particular case, the last thing I would do is drop a dime on anyone else. Snitching will get you killed in No Man’s Land, and I’d like to live long enough to see where crazy takes me.

  “I’m serious, Low,” Rick calls out, using my nickname before I shut the door in his face. “The life of a parolee is hard, and I’ve seen thousands of men turn into monsters. Don’t turn out like your father.”

  “Thanks for the advice, asshole,” I mumble before kicking the door closed.

  TWO WEEKS LATER, the gun is still in the shed.

  The logical decision would be to destroy the one thing, besides the cash hidden in my mattress, which ties me to the heist. But Rick hasn’t asked any more questions, and the media coverage never went beyond a two-paragraph article printed the day after the crime.

  Curiosity got the best of me a few days ago, and I went by California Credit Union after work. With the exception of the new security guard outside the front doors, nothing was out of the ordinary, and business was back to normal.

  Life goes on.

  I robbed a bank and got away with it.

  “I think this is the sexiest you’ve ever been,” Poesy says, popping up beside me with a red-lipped smile.

  With the setting sun shining in my eyes, I wipe the sweat from my brow on the back of my forearm and return her expression. We didn’t spend the money right away to avoid suspicion, but I was tired of riding the bus when I didn’t have to. I bought what the car needs and have spent the day exchanging bad parts for good ones under the warm end-of-summer sky.

  “I can say the same about you,” I say, appreciating her thick hips in tight jeans and the shirt that hugs her smaller chest just right.

  I lean in to kiss her, and she pushes me away and laughs, avoiding the grease coating my hands and sweat sticking to my bare chest.