Posey (Low #1.5) Read Online Free

street.
    “Have friends here or something?” my chaperone asks. His grip tightens slightly around mine.
    “No,” I answer.
    Lowen lets out a small laugh. “Is jumping in trucks with strangers something you do often?”
    “You’re not a stranger.”
    “I’m your gardener,” he replies.
    “You’re my dad’s gardener,” I say spitefully, turning my gaze from him to the broken sidewalk passing beneath our feet. “That doesn’t have anything to do with me.”
    Lowen drops my hand to rest his arm across my shoulders as we exchange neighborhood sidewalks for city streets. The night is alive and thriving as the freaks come out, crowding street corners and tramping through gutters. Eventually, liquor stores and laundry mats taper to apartment buildings and run-down houses in a part of town that has the hair on the back of my neck standing straight.
    “This is me.” Lowen stops, stepping away from me toward a yellow house with white trim. Stucco has fallen from it in clumps, the brick steps leading toward the door are chipped, but the lawn is on point.
    “Okay,” I say, looking around. Most of the streetlights are broken, there’s not a star in the sky, and the thick sense of being watched is suffocating. 
    As Low heads toward his front door, leaving me alone on the sidewalk, the fright balled inside my chest reminds me of exactly who I am: a scared white girl from the ’burbs.
    “Poesy,” the deserter calls out to me. “Are you coming in or what?”
    My feet move before I inhale a breath to answer.
     
     
    LOWEN’S HOME I S everything mine isn’t: adored.
    The TV is set on an old dresser, the couch has holes in the arms, the coffee table is missing its glass top, and the artwork on the wall looks like it was taken from a cheap motel. But there’s a young blonde-haired girl sitting at the dining table with a notebook and calculator, doing her homework, and another woman in front of the stove, jumping away from popping oil with the sound of her laughter filling every inch of the kitchen.
    “Motherfuck, that hurt!” she shouts, shaking her left hand while flipping chicken with the right and some tongs.
    “Mom,” the younger girl groans, rolling her eyes.
    “I know, Gillian, but the fucking oil keeps biting me,” the chef hoots, swapping the tongs for a wooden spoon to stir the pot of mashed potatoes. “Shit, my language. Dammit, I’m sorry. Fuck!”
    Low places his hand on my lower back, guiding me to the commotion. Gillian, who’s maybe twelve years old, spots us and drops her pencil. The blueness of her eyes puts me under arrest, enchanting me with the same spell Lowen has for weeks now. She shares the roundness of his lips and the sharpness of his jawline, too.
    “Who’s this?” she asks suddenly.
    I smile at her boldness and answer, “I’m Poesy Ashby. Who are you?”
    “That rude girl is my sister, Gillian,” Lowen says before she can reply, pulling out a seat for me to sit at the table. “Ignore her. She was raised by wolves.”
    Gillian sticks her tongue out at her older brother. 
    “Excuse me. I take offense to that,” the woman at the stove interjects teasingly. She wipes her grease-slick hands on her pants before reaching out to shake my hand to introduce herself. “Patricia Seely, but I guess you can call me Mother Wolf.”
    “Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand with both of mine, taking notice of the coarseness of her palms. They’re the hands of a woman who’s lived a hard life.
    The wooden table wobbles as I take a seat, unbalanced on four legs. None of the chairs around it match, and the varnish has rubbed away in some places on the aged surface. But there’s a green vase with fresh flowers in the center, and red cotton placemats faded from use.
    Lowen takes a seat at the head of the table, unlaces his work boots, and sits back. He closes his eyes, working his neck back and forth to release tension from the day. Patricia sets a glass of ice water in front of him, and