by Frankie Love
“You were coming from KMG?” I ask.
“Yeah, you?”
“Yeah. I, um, my friend’s an intern there.” I lie. Not a spectacular way to start this … friendship, but for some reason I don’t want him to know I’m Marshal Kendrick’s daughter. I’ll be judged as something I’m not. And I’m so tired of that. I’m so tired of myself.
He nods. “So ... should we go?”
I may be ready to throw caution to the wind, but now my curiosity has been piqued. “Why were you up there?”
He runs his hand over his jaw. “Honestly?” The question makes me blush, because I know I wasn’t being honest with him. “It sounds so fucking pretentious, but I just signed with them.”
“Oh, yeah?” At least my dad has faith in him as an artist. That must mean he isn’t a wanted criminal. My dad would have had a background completed on him before he forked over an advance. Even though this stranger looks like he stepped out of a music video, I’d be lying if I said his rough edge didn’t make me a little ... or a lot ... weak in the knees. “Did you sign the contract and everything?”
He raises an eyebrow and offers me a corner smile. Oh. That smile is solid gold. Like, dimples in his cheeks perfection.
“Why?” he smirks. “You after some cash?”
I snort. “What? No,” I scoff, embarrassed at how I may have sounded. “I don’t want your money.”
“I think you might want something I have.”
“What? I swear I don’t want anything from you.”
“You sure you don’t want anything I can offer?” He squeezes my hand, and that’s when I realize he’s still holding it.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“I’m joking, girl. My stage name’s Cash Flow, is all. Bad joke. You know, you want my money. Like, you want me. Right.... ” He grins. “So, now you know how much game I’ve got.”
Is he kidding me with that? No wonder my dad signed him. His face is a freakin’ gold mine, and I may not be a KMG intern but I am a music exec’s daughter, and I know that smile is going to sell loads of records.
“You’re Cash Flow? The rapper?” My eyes narrow. I recognize the name. He’s supposed to be the next up-and-coming everything. My dad has talked about him a lot, actually, when he’s taking calls at the house. And since I never have anywhere to go, I usually overhear parts.
“That’s me. And, to answer your question: Yes, I did sign this morning. So I’m thinking we should celebrate.”
“How do rap sensations celebrate?” I ask. I’m imagining Cristal on ice, and dancing on couches at a nightclub.
In which case I will most certainly pass.
“I don’t think I’m a sensation yet.”
“No? When does that happen?”
“I have no fucking clue about much,” he says, surprising me with his sincerity.
“Like what?”
“Like, what’s your name?”
“Evie.”
“You don’t look like an Evie.”
“Uh, okay?”
“What’s your full name?” he presses.
“Why would I tell you, Mr. Cash Flow?”
“Touché.”
I want to be honest with him. “My full name’s Evangeline.
“Gentle Evangeline,” he says without hesitation.
I pull back, looking at him closely. “You know Longfellow?”
“Rappers read poetry.”
I shrug, embarrassed but also intrigued. I wish I knew the right questions to ask Cash—about poetry and words and how this man with knuckle tattoos also knows about old poetry. But I’ve never spoken that language. I speak with keystrokes and silent syllables. I’m not a wordsmith ... but I like that Cash is.
He looks around. The sidewalk is crowded and people rush past; taxis zoom by. We’re staring at one another, and I like how he doesn’t press any harder, and how he reads my emotions and knows when to stop. I like that he’s direct, and I trust him. Even though he is not my type and not what I need, in this moment he’s all I want.
He’s the adventure, the escape. The middle finger to my father, and the rush I crave.
I deserve a day with Cash Freaking Flow. This is my life, after all.
“Well, Evangeline, you from this neighborhood?”
“I grew up in LA,” I tell him. “You?”
“Yeah, but not these parts. I’m from East Heights.” He looks at the ground when he says that, and I understand. He’s from the other side of the literal tracks. “Do you know anywhere we can eat lunch around here? I’m starving.”
I don’t want to waste this chance. I want to give in, and break free—and I need to go all-in with this sculpted piece of man candy who’s actually much more than spun sugar. He’s like a layer cake. And, yes, that’s cheesy as hell, and maybe I have been way too repressed if all I can think is that I want to lick off his frosting … but I can’t help it.
I want something reckless. Something decadent.
Something sweet, and something that might not be very good for me.
What are the odds Cash shows up today of all days, and is willing to go anywhere with me?
I lick my lips, knowing what I want. Something I’ve never had before.
“My house?”
He raises an eyebrow again, as if not expecting that, at all.
Neither was I.
I give him a smile, and I’m glad I do because I’m rewarded with another one of his.
“What?” I tease. “I have a pool. And we can eat on the deck.”
Though, in my belly, I know that isn’t what I want at all. I just want him to take off that shirt, and I want to run my hands over his chest … and I don’t even know where these ideas are coming from. I just know they’re here. That they’re real. And that they’re mine.
He nods, slowly, as if memorizing my inflection—memorizing my smile—and I feel like he’s committing this moment to heart.
I don’t know why.
But that’s a lie, too.
I know why he is.
Because I am, too.
Chapter Five
Cassius
She’s way out of my league. I’m dissing Gina when I say that, and I swear I’m gonna stop thinking about my ex, but Gina is more than an ex ... Gina is part of the fabric of my life. I’m not someone who’s okay with shredding that, even if she was the one who made every last tear.
But right now, Gina’s with Chad on the eightieth floor, and I’m in a pale blue convertible Mini Cooper with a girl named Evangeline whose eyes look like a storm and whose words are almost too soft for me to hear. A girl whose hand held mine on the busy street corner, like she was holding on for dear life.
Maybe we both were.
“So, you grew up here, but don’t live here now?” I ask, as she heads down the freeway toward Malibu. Fancy shit.
“Yeah, I go to college in New York, but I’m home for the semester. My dad lives here, so.”
I try not to be an insecure ass, but I already know this girl is way too sweet, way too rich, way too fucking hot to be driving me to her house. And now I know she’s in college. It makes me really fucking wish I had more than a goddamn GED—and that I hadn’t spent a year in prison. Makes me wish I were something more than a line cook.
And that’s just a promotion I got a few months ago. Before that, I’d been washing dishes for two years.
It takes me a second to remember that I’m not a line cook anymore. Now I’m a rapper with a record contract, and studio time next week. And a national tour.
“Where do you go to school?” I ask, trying so damn hard to play it cool.
“Uh, Julliard?” She says it with a lilt to her voice, ending in a question, as if I’d never heard of the school.
“Shit.” I exhale slowly, because, damn. “And what do you do there, Evangeline?”
“I play the piano. Sort of.”
I can tell she’s trying to dismiss her talent. I roll my eyes, shake my head and smirk at her. “I see. So you’
re one of those students who got into Julliard even though they weren’t hot shit? I didn’t know they existed.”
“I’m not being modest. I knew a guy.”
Now I full-on laugh. “Girl, when you say it like that, it’s like you’re friends with the mob boss. Like your connected.”
She flips on her turn signal, giving me a sidelong glance. “I am Italian.”
“You’re fucking with me.”
“Yeah, I am. But I do know a guy. My dad’s brother is, like, on the board of admissions. I didn’t even audition.” She presses her lips tight, giving a nearly silent squeal. “I can’t believe I told you that. I’ve never told anyone that. It’s the most embarrassing thing about me, actually.”
“You’re a lucky girl, Evie.”
“Why? Because I didn’t have to try to fake-impress a room full of critics who knew I was slightly above average?”
“No, because if that’s your most embarrassing truth, you’re lucky. “
“Oh, yeah?” She turns off the freeway and we’re careening down a palm-lined street, where you can’t even see the homes because they’re so far behind massive gates. “What’s your most embarrassing truth, Cash Flow? I mean, besides your rapper name.”
“You don’t like my rapper name?” I laugh, appreciating her honesty—because I fucking hate it, too.
“You’re getting off the subject,” she scolds. “Back to the embarrassing stuff.”
“Girl, there’s way too much stupid shit to even begin.”
“Try.”
“Uh, one time I got arrested for stealing Slurpees at a 7-11.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I know, right? I’m an original gangsta.”
“Did that really happen?” she asks, punching in a code on a panel next to a wrought iron gate.
“It happened. I was in ninth grade. First time I got handcuffed.”
“They seriously handcuffed you over flavored ice?”
“Well, we had a bunch of pot on us.”
“Oh, now there’s an us involved. The plot thickens.” She laughs, and her laugh is so surprisingly refreshing, so clear and clean and true, that I feel myself get hard. When the fuck have I ever gotten hard over a girl’s laugh before?
The gate slides open, and a mansion sprawls before us.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling like I should have picked a story that painted me with a bit more badassery. God knows there are a fuck-ton; my brother and I were idiots. The boys we rolled with were as stupid as we were. And the sad truth is, I’d still be with those boys if they hadn’t ditched me first.
“So, my room’s out back, in the guest house,” she says, getting out of the car.
I follow her, checking my phone as I do, because it’s been buzzing for the past five minutes.
Chad: where the fuck did you go?
Me: Out. I’ll catch up later at home.
I silence my phone. I can’t stand being around Chad right now. He wants to micro-manage the fuck out of me and I can’t go there. The high I should be on for signing this contract is non-existent. And it’s not about him and Gina—honestly, ending things with her is good. I’ve finally been forced to drop the baggage I couldn’t let go of on my own.
I’m grateful to have this contract, but I need to find a way to put my heart and soul into the music. Right now it’s a struggle to connect my public persona—this ex-con rapper—and who I really am. Who I am right here, right now.
They’re two different people.
“You coming?” Evangeline asks, and I nod, dropping my phone in my pocket.
I smile, letting her lead the way. My stomach clenches, because shit, I’m uncomfortable as hell with this sort of money.
“Your pops must have done something right,” I say as she leads me around the yard, where a massive infinity pool draws my eyes to the Pacific Ocean.
It’s insane—the view, the space, the girl next to me. I might have just signed a quarter-million dollar contract, but the money’s already divided a hundred fucking ways. My mom, mostly, then taxes, and Chad, and Gina, and me.
I’ll have plenty, but a place like this is half a billion dollars, or some crazy-ass shit. I don’t know. I live in a goddamn apartment, not even a house. Certainly not a castle on the coast of California.
She sidles up next to me, and we look out at the sprawling ocean. It’s crazy, but I’ve never been to this part of LA before today, never set foot in this neighborhood. But here I am, with Gentle Evangeline.
“Yeah, my dad’s good with business. But family? Not so much.”
“So you have some daddy issues, that’s what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Oh, major daddy issues.” She gives me that laugh again, the one that makes time stop and my heart race and my hand clench, wishing it had a pencil in it so I could write something down about this moment, because I swear her laugh is like a song. Her laugh is why music was made. Her laugh needs to be remembered.
I swear, I won’t forget.
“So,” she says, “can I get you lunch?”
She looks at my hand and hesitates, and that’s when I’m reminded that this girl is hella sweet, and hella good. And I know I’m all wrong for her.
Still, I can tell that she’s way too tentative to reach for mine, and that inviting me here may have been the most reckless thing she’s ever done in her life.
I take her hand, and it fits mine in a way we both know it shouldn’t: perfectly.
Chapter Six
Evangeline
Okay, so I really, really invited a boy—um, man—to my place. Like, I for reals just did that. Me. Evangeline. The girl who never, ever takes a risk, never steps out of line or breaks the rules.
For example, the rule about: Don’t have dinner with my dad’s clients. My dad said it like it was a joke, an improbability. But Cash-freaking-Flow is in my guesthouse, with his tattoos and strong jaw and eyes that slay me.
I don’t even know what’s happening with my life right now, but I needed a breath of fresh air so damn bad, and the moment I voiced that need in the elevator, Cash arrived. Slipped into my day, just like that, and now I want more of this abandon.
Because Cash holds my hand like he’s not going to let go—but not in, like, a creepy way. In an I’ve got you way.
In a way that makes me melt.
“This is my place.” I wave my hand around, because it isn’t anything special.
“It’s nice,” Cash says, looking around.
“I moved out here when I was a senior in high school, because my mother thought giving me a chance to spread my wings was important before I left for college.”
“Did it?” he asks, playing with my fingers, the ones still laced through his.
“Did it what?”
“Help you spread your wings.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I shake my head. My memories of my mother and me are the root of every story, every choice. Every part of my life. I don’t know how to explain that to a stranger. “The truth is, I think she just needed space. She was one of those people who pushed everyone—pushed them too hard or pushed them away.”
“Was?”
Realizing he caught my past tense, I explain, “Yeah, she died earlier this year.”
Cash’s fingers tighten around mine, and I know this hook-up, or whatever is supposed to happen next, just got really heavy.
“But now she’s gone,” I tell him, shrugging even though I don’t want to, even though it hurts to let my shoulders fall. I don’t want to dismiss the memory of her.
And, for the first time since she died, I don’t feel like someone is asking me to. I don’t think Cash is asking me to. He’s just watching me with these soulful eyes that seem to hear every word I say.
“And now you’re back home,” he says thoughtfully.
“Yeah, except nothing about this property feels like home without her. She was never a safe place, but she was my mom, my rock. “
“How does that work,
Evie, not having an anchor?”
“I’m floundering, big time,” I admit, letting go of his hand, not knowing why I’m opening up to this guy so candidly. “Why am I telling you this?”
“I know exactly why.”
“Which is?”
He smiles, his eyebrows raised. “You’re terrified to kiss me, so you’re telling me everything that might push me away.”
I don’t know if Cash is right. Maybe he is a therapist, because I’m sure opening up to him more this afternoon than I have in three years with mine back in New York.
“Who’s your anchor, Cash?”
He gives me a sad smile, and I’m reminded that we all have nerves, pressure points that mess with our minds.
“I don’t have one either.” He takes my other hand, laces our fingers, and pulls me to him.
“Did you ever?”
“I thought so.” He wraps our hands behind my back; my body is against his, and I don’t pull away. I always, always pull away.
“And then what happened?” I ask, forgetting, again, how to breathe.
“I was wrong, Evie. Really wrong.” He whispers this in my ear. His smell is so unfamiliar to me. It’s gritty and deep and broken.
“I’m not terrified to kiss you,” I tell him. “That’s not why I’m telling you all this.”
He raises an eyebrow, leans his forehead against mine. “No?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t know why I’m telling you ... but I know for certain it isn’t because I’m scared.”
And I’m not. I want him to kiss me. That’s why I brought him here.
“I don’t scare you even a little?” He lets go of my fingers, runs a hand up my spine, over the back of my neck. My hair falls through his fingers as he reaches my chin, tilts it ever so slightly, looking straight at me.
“No.”
I always thought the magic word was please or thank you—not no. But with Cash, it is.
Me saying no causes him to cup my face with his hands; his mouth brushes against mine, softly at first, before pressing tight against my lips. He doesn’t waste any time, and for that I’m glad—because I’ve wasted too much time in my life already. I’ve wasted all the time.
