Cold Hard Cash: Los Angeles Bad Boys (3 page)

H
is hand is softer
than I’d have guessed. It holds onto mine as he leads me across the lobby and out the door.

I don’t have time to think it through.

But I know, even if I had the time, it wouldn’t change my choice. I’d let this man carry me anywhere.

Maybe it’s a case of right place, right time; maybe it’s more. Maybe it’s exactly right. I needed someone to carry me away from the trap of that building, and my suffocating father—and then this man walked into my day and carried me away.

Exactly what I wanted.

When do I ever get the exact thing I want? Never.

Yet here he is. A man whose blue eyes reminded me to breathe, because I didn’t want to die before I spoke to him.

And then what did we talk about? About my anger issues and panic-ridden moment. I’m sure that really turned him on … said no girl ever.

And, oh. Just,
oh
, my hand in his feels so warm. So comforting. So right.

And I don’t know the first thing about him, besides the fact that his hair is light and his eyes are lighter, and his shoulders are broad and his grip solid and his words sincere. Like he knew exactly the right thing to say, without knowing a single thing about me.

Like he knows everything.

We push through the enormous glass door of my father’s building—a place where I’m only welcome if I play by a set of rules I silently agreed to a long time ago, before I even knew their importance. But I’ve outgrown those rules: Smile. Agree. Hands on the keys.

That can’t be the sum of me.

Though, if you take those things away, what’s left?

“Hey.” The stranger is looking down at me. We’re outside, and I pull in my bottom lip, wondering what happens next. “Breathe,” he tells me. “In and out.”

I do as he says.

“Again.”

I nod, inhaling, exhaling. I close my eyes, letting the LA sun wash over my shoulders and feeling the concrete beneath my feet. I no longer feel like I’m free-falling.

I’ve been caught.

“Better?” he asks, as my eyelids flutter open, as my eyes meet his.

I nod. “Much better.”

And I am. He’s still holding my hands, and it’s like the world is spinning but not in a dizzying way. In a way that reminds of being a child on a carousel.

In a way that feels alive with movement.

“Want to go somewhere?”

“Where?” I ask, knowing I’ll go anywhere, because I don’t want to ride a carousel all day, buckled to a toy horse, stuck in a circle. I want to break free.

“Away,” he says, his eyebrows raised, tempting me with a side smile, not realizing I don’t need a smile from him in order to go.

My heart, it’s off and running.

Still, I smile, shake my head. Who is this man? “I don’t know you.”

“What do you need to know?”

I look at him more closely, realizing that I’m crazy attracted to this guy and the way he acts like he actually doesn’t give a fuck about anything besides this exact moment. But I also know he’s not my type at all. I date the guys who attend NYU: business majors and law students, oxfords and blazers and khaki pants.

This guy is ... different.

He has on a straight-billed ball cap and a tight tee shirt, and his biceps could ... well, they could carry me anywhere. He has on slim jeans, high-top shoes, and a chain around his neck. He looks straight out of my dad’s catalogue of clients—and that’s when I realize, of course he is. We were exiting the same floor.

“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.

S
he’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.