Lowen Seely has a criminal record to prove it. Determined not to follow in his father’s footsteps, he fights instinct and tries honesty. But hunger becomes painful, and bills are due. Forced to choose between what is right and wrong, the boy from the hood learns abiding by the rules is nearly impossible when corruption is in your blood.
Falling for an outlaw has changed everything.
Poesy Ashby is the definition of ride or die, even when it means turning her back on freedom. The girl from the suburbs gives conformity the middle finger. Bonnie and Clyde have nothing on her love story.
On the run with consequences in the rearview mirror, Lowen and Poesy accept the truth: they are the bad guys.
But can they get away with their crimes?
“Tell me a story, Poe. Say something important,” I whisper, pulling another stitch through her skin. The tips of my fingers are blood-soaked and numb.
“There’s a boy who loves a girl,” she says, hyperventilating at this point. “He might think he loves her more than she loves him, but the truth is they love each other the same.”
I smile, rounding another stitch.
“The boy doesn’t realize he saved the girl, because before she met him, she was trapped, kept by parents who never cared.” Poesy sobs. Her small frame shakes, and blood streams down her back like exposed veins. “This boy was the first person to ever make the girl feel beautiful and needed and loved.”
I close the wound and let the needle hang on extra thread as I press my forehead to the center of her spine, soaking in her heartbeat and sorrow. She continues to talk, and her fragile voice soothes my conflicted soul.
“She tells him over and over she doesn’t want to go, but the boy is always trying to get rid of her. ‘It’s for your own good,’ he says. But what the boy doesn’t know is that by sending her away, he would kill the girl. The girl knows what’s best for her, and that’s the boy. Even when she cries. Even when she’s in pain. The girl knows, Lowen, and I know what you’re thinking, but you can’t send me away. Please, don’t leave me alone again.”
Poesy falls forward, burying her face in the blankets. Spiced rum and burnt needles triggered her tears, but her fear is legitimate. It’s a fright we share equally.
Gathering fragile and drunk in my arms, I position our heads on the pillows and circle my arms around her like a cage.
“The boy won’t,” I whisper into her ear. “He knows.”
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About Mary Elizabeth
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.