Cold Hard Cash: Los Angeles Bad Boys

F
ive minutes
before I walk onstage in the warehouse downtown, I see my girlfriend Gina kiss my brother Chad.

My stomach drops. My mind reels. Flashes of her and me for the past five fucking years grind into my skull.

I went to the alley to breathe before my show, but now all I want to do is punch the fucking wall until my knuckles bleed. The only reason I’ve gotten this far—which still isn’t very fucking far—is one hundred percent because my Gina and Chad have had my back.

Apparently the only backs they have right now, though, are one another’s. Their kiss is more than just mouth-on-mouth; it says a thousand fucking things.

But mostly it says that I’m in this alone.

On the one fucking night of my life I need them more than ever, I don’t have them.

I have nothing but my motherfucking self.

Gina’s eyes lock on mine, and she pulls away from Chad, knowing they’ve been caught.

“Cash, listen to me,” Gina pleads. She tries to grab my arm, make me stay. But she knows that whatever we had is gone. We both know she left first.

Because I’d never have fucking left that woman. I don’t leave people behind, ever.

And where has that gotten me?

I turn and stride into the warehouse, where I’m supposed to open for Elle Camino. She’s the biggest female musician to ever rise up from East Heights, our south of LA neighborhood. She chose me to open, and I thought Chad of all people knew tonight is supposed to be about me.

Chad comes after me, but what can he say? He’s my brother, but I guess blood isn’t as thick as I thought. I push away, not letting them ruin this chance. This night.

It’s my time.

But first I need to fucking remind him that, while he may be my brother, he isn’t my friend. Throwing him against the wall, I ball my hand into a fist, swing back, and let my knuckles crack against his jaw.

“Motherfucker,” he moans, pushing me away as blood rushes from his mouth. He covers his face with his hand, protecting himself. There’s fear in his eyes. He knows where my punches have landed me in the past.

I don’t want him to forget. Prison made me hard—but this play of his, with Gina, is what’s making me cold.

“You need to get on stage,” Chad tells me, his voice wrecked. He’s scared of me, and I’m glad. I never wanted this moment to be about him, anyway.

My eyes burn, but I haven’t gotten here, today, only to let them ruin this.

As I walk onstage, all I have is my pounding heart and a microphone—and the lyrics I wrote lying on a bare mattress in state prison for thirteen months straight. The lyrics I memorized while living on the other side of the tracks, in a hellhole apartment, waiting for my time to come. The lyrics I branded on my heart as I worked my ass off to get here.

Today.

Now.

There’s no looking back.

Not back to Gina, the girl I made a million promises to. The girl I thought was my fucking forever. The girl who chose Chad, on the biggest night of my life.

“You ready for Cash Flow?” the emcee calls out to the full house. There must be over a thousand people here, ready for tonight’s show. I don’t want to think about the ones who aren’t here, the ones who had my back until I turned my back on them—until I left the scene for good.

I couldn’t stay with the boys from my hood—not if I wanted to make a name for myself as a rapper, anyway.

I had to choose.

And running with them was what landed me behind bars in the first place.

The emcee calls to me, “You ready to drop it?”

I want to scream, fucking punch something, lose control.

Instead, I bow my head, stand front and center.

A record label is rumored to be coming tonight, and I can’t fuck it up.

Not now. Not after everything.

This is it.

I have one shot. So I pour my heart out on that stage. And when I’m done, the blood, sweat, and tears that were once in my body are no longer mine to carry.

Because at the end of the performance, I’ve given it all.

* * *

“
S
omeone’s here
, wants to talk to you,” Chad says, finding me minutes after I leave the stage.

Anger swells back up the moment I see my brother’s face. The performance of my life hasn’t dissipated the rage coursing through my veins.

My hands shake, my heart races, the adrenaline pumps through my veins.
Chad and Gina. My brother and my girlfriend.

I can’t forget what I’ve seen. Their hands on one another, their bodies pressed tight in the warm summer air.

Their betrayal is like a death.

“What the fuck?” I grab him by the neck of his tee shirt, slam him against a brick wall. I fucking want his head smashed in, want his eyes to burn the way my chest does. “You fucking do this to me? Now? You think I wanna talk now? Fuck you.”

Chad’s eyes are ablaze, wild. But I know it isn’t fear, not anymore. He knows that no matter how much I hate him right now, how much I want to see him bleed, I need him if I want to make this happen. If I want backing from a major label.

Before prison, I’d never even tried to rap, but the only instrument in the slammer was my vocal chords, so I learned how to fine-tune my voice.

Chad heard about my newfound talent before my stint was over, and he’s been the brains behind this project since day once. He’s the one who figured out how to get me a Twitter following, a YouTube channel, an Instagram feed. He knew how to refine my rawest edges and turn me into something marketable after I got out of prison. He saw my talent as a ticket out.

I hate the bullshit, becoming a product. I just want to make music—and not this rap persona I wear. I want to sit on a stool with my guitar.

I never needed an audience.

But strumming chords doesn’t pay the bills, and Chad reminds me of that every time I mention wanting to lay something down besides a beat. I need to get on the fucking stage and put on a show if I want more than I’ve got. More than I’ve had.

And my Ma—she needs more, too. Especially now, after a car crash—a crash where she was the one drinking and driving—nearly killed her three months ago. Her hospital bills and rehabilitation costs have put us in more debt than we can pay off with my day job as a line cook and Chad’s gig as a fucking car salesman.

She’s back home in our apartment now, but she needs an in-home nurse to come every day and help.

Just yesterday the in-home care service provider called; this month is the last they’re sending the nurse to her unless we fork over cash.

So much is on the fucking line.

It would be one thing if she was improving, but she isn’t. She needs more help than Chad and I can give.

“You need to put that aside, Cash,” Chad says, struggling under my hands. “Right now, you need to go meet the man from Kendrick Music Group.”

I swallow. An exec really came tonight—from the label that signed Jack Harris no less. Fuck, I didn’t think it would really happen. Dreams are cute when you’re a kid, but I’m twenty-two. At some point I need to put up or shut up—set the music aside and get a real fucking job.

Not that anyone is willing to hire an ex-con.

But maybe tonight that will change.

I let go of Chad; I’d rather see this music exec’s face than my brother’s mangy mug anyway.

But before I walk away, Gina shows up.

“Baby, it didn’t mean anything, I swear.” Gina rushes over to where Chad and I stand backstage. I look at her skanky-ass ripped jeans, cropped top, and high heels; her bleached-blonde hair; and the makeup covering every beautiful thing about her. Seeing her here, looking nothing like the girl I grew up with, fucking hurts.

I know how hard she’s trying to be something, prove something. I know, because I know everything about Gina. She was my first everything.

Looks like she’s also the first person to break my fucking heart.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I tell her, stepping away from the people who stabbed me in the back. I wanted to end this night with her in my arms, just like I’ve done for every single performance of my life.

But not anymore. Now I just want to get the fuck away.

* * *

P
ushing through the crew backstage
, I scan the space, looking for a music executive—whatever the fuck that looks like.

A man in a suit stands in a corner; when I meet his eye, he nods discreetly, then uses two fingers to wave me over.

Like I’m already in the fucking palm of his hand.

Which, no doubt, I am.

I need this break. Everything hinges on this night. This man. This chance.

Chad sent my demo to every major label in the country. He knows the business side of things—and, as much as I hate the motherfucker, I know this meeting isn’t one I’ll easily get again.

“Cassius, the man of the hour.” The suited man gives me the slightest smile. I’m not sure if I should play it cool, like Chad always seems to do, or if I should go with my gut instinct, which is to lay it all out at this man’s feet.

“Cash, people call me Cash,” I tell him. I swallow hard. All the confidence I had out on the stage is gone. I need the bright lights blinding me, the buzz of the crowd blocking out any thoughts. Now my mind only sees one thing:
Chad and Gina. Together.

I gotta clear my fucking head. Focus.

“I’m Marshal,” he says, sticking his hand out for me.

I shake it, grip firm. Don’t want him to think I’m a fucking pussy.

“Marshal Kendrick,” he clarifies. “Of Kendrick Music Group.”

“You fucking with me?” I ask, giving a low whistle. Why the hell is the CEO here at my show? I mean, I know Chad worked to get someone here tonight, but this is more than I ever hoped.

Kendrick shrugs good-naturedly. “I represent Elle Camino, and I live in LA. It all seemed to work in your favor tonight.”

“I wasn’t expecting you, is all. Glad I didn’t know you were here before I went on.”

“You get nervous?” Kendrick’s eyes narrow in, clearly wanting to get a read on me.

I need to put up or shut up.

“Ehh, you know,” I say coolly. “It was a big show. Elle Camino’s a boss around here.”

“The girl has a big tour starting up in a month. That’s when her name is going to explode. Give Elle a few years, and Beyoncé won’t have anything on that girl.”

“Big shoes to fill.” Elle Camino has everything I want: signed with KMG, a national tour, all before she turned twenty.

I know I need to make this happen now, or my career will never take off. If I’m lucky I’ll get an audition for The Voice or some shit.

I want more. I want to walk away with a contract from Kendrick.

“Elle Camino still needs an opener for her tour,” Kendrick said. “You seemed to offer the right vibe. Your grassroots, raw style complements her South American influences.”

“I’m the guy you need. You won’t regret it.”

Kendrick pauses. “I saw you back there, with your brother. Are there skeletons I need to know about?”

“Fuck,” I tell him. “I’m not looking for bones.”

“What are you looking for, son?” Kendrick asks, his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m looking to make some motherfucking magic.”

Kendrick smiles, shakes my hand again. We have a deal.

I’ll bury my past. In fact, looking over at Gina and Chad, who are watching us, that’s all I want to do.

Right now, I’m ready to live.