Cold Hard Cash: Los Angeles Bad Boys (8 page)

I
f I call Cassius
, I know I’ll break my resolve, and break his focus.

And right now he doesn’t need any extra stress. I’ve been keeping track of his movements via his Twitter account, which I’m guessing his brother is managing. Cash leaves for his tour tomorrow.

If I call him now, I know his priorities will shift. And his music is his one shot. You don’t get many chances like this in life. Ever.

And I don’t think he can see straight. When he pinned me against the garage, his eyes told me he would have dropped everything to be with me. And choosing me would mean losing everything.

Dad may not have my best interests at heart, but that isn’t going to stop him from ditching Cash Flow and finding new talent to take his spot.

When Cassius told me about his mom, how he needs to care for her, I knew then that I would never get in the way of his family.

Because if money could have saved my mom, I would have thrown all the money we had her way.

I didn’t get a chance to save her with blank checks, but Cassius can save
his
mom with them.

So I made a plan for myself that has nothing to do with Cash, that has nothing to do with my father. A plan that only has to do with me.

First, I need to hash things out with my dad.

We haven’t spoken for two weeks.

Radio silence.

When Cash left my driveway in his brother’s car, with his ex-girlfriend, I turned to face my dad, terrified of what he might say.

“You know he beat a man, left him for dead,” Dad said. “He spent a year in prison. Grew up on the streets, in gangs, a police record starting when he was fourteen years old.”

“Yet you signed him.”

“I signed him because he’s the perfect image I’m trying to sell. Nothing more, honey, nothing less. Cash Flow is a cash funnel.”

“You don’t think he’s more than that?”

Dad smirked. “This is why I won’t let you step foot at KMG. You think you can be an intern when you don’t know how the world works? Evangeline, everything is about the bottom line.”

I pushed back, wanting to somehow defend Cassius, even though it was a lost cause. My dad had already won that round. “You let Jack Harris make his own calls with his music,” I said.

“Jack Harris has a different image than Cash, especially now, after all the shit that went down with the media. He’s a songwriter—a serious musician—now.”

“It’s all about the image then?”

“Exactly. I’m a firm negotiator; you’re an innocent pianist, just like your mother wanted you to be. We all have our roles.”

“You’re the one who always pushed me to play,” I said, watching the sun set behind him. The deep pinks and purples painted the sky, and I wanted to brush heavy strokes across the night sky. Blues and blacks. I didn’t want to see something vibrant, when the canvas he depicted was so forcibly bleak.

“Evangeline, your mom was the one with the classical dreams for you. I just indulged her. If you hate it, quit. Go out with what’s-his-name tomorrow, and let’s move on.”

“Go out with Cash?”

Dad laughed, “Cash? No, never. I meant go out with Thomas Bracken tomorrow night, like we planned. Tell him you want a diamond ring, and that I’ll buy you a house anywhere you like.”

“That’s so messed up.”

“I want you to have someone, so I know you’re taken care of.”

“You don’t want to be responsible for me?”

Dad exhaled. “I want you happy, so you don’t end up like your mother.”

“Dad, don’t.” I shook my head, not wanting to hear anymore. I know why my mother died, but I didn’t want dad to rehash it right there, right then. Not like that. The day had been too big, too long, too deep, and too wide already. “I need some space.”

He called after me: “No seeing that Cash boy, or his deal with me is done. You understand?”

I understood.

My dad holds power over Cash. But he doesn’t hold any power over me.

Not any more.

* * *

I
call my cousin Jude
. We meet for drinks at a hipster spot I’d never go to on my own. Newspaper clippings cover the walls, reporting on horse races from sixty years ago; black-and-white films of old Kentucky Derby races play through a projector.

It’s the middle of the day, and the bar is nearly empty. I see Jude in the back, in an oak booth.

“Hey, little cousin, long time no see,” Jude says, as I slide into the booth. He’s drinking bourbon out of a mason jar, from what I can tell.

Jude is all brooding eyes, grit, and tattoo—but he has a heart of gold.

That’s why I called him.

He has a reputation for always looking out for the underdogs, and right now, that’s me. Dad doesn’t seem to think I can make something on my own—but more than that,
I’m
wondering if I can.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I say. the waitress swings by, and I order an iced tea.

“Of course—though, I have to say I was surprised. Since when did you not have a life plan?”

“You know that plan was never my own.”

“My mom thinks you’re making a mistake.”

“You told your mom about this?” I ask, surprised. But as I lean back in my booth, looking at him, I remember that he and his mom were always close. Just like my mom and me—the only difference being, my mom wanted me to be a pianist, pushed for that, while my Aunt Katy never pushed Jude into a certain path. Jude carved his own, always.

Two very different sisters, who both had two very different children.

Still, Jude is the only cousin I’ve got.

“It’s not a mistake,” I tell him. “I just need a chance to figure it all out.”

“You’re so talented, Evie. You want to give that up to work as a gopher on my set?”

I look at him, hard. “Do you ever just want a redo, a second chance? An opportunity to make your life the one you want?”

He smiles, softly, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.

“How’s Rachel?” I ask.

Jude shakes his head. “Rachel is Rachel. Same as always.”

“You’ve been dating for like a year, though, right? And you’re living together?”

“Yeah. But enough about me.” He takes a drink. “You dating anyone?”

I lick my lips, won’t meet his eye.

“Guess neither of us want to talk relationships.” He runs his hand over his jaw. “Listen, I’ll get you a job. Of course I will. And my buddy Holden says you can stay at his guest house.”

“What?” I ask, indignant. “I thought I was crashing at your place?”

“Rachel doesn’t exactly want company.”

“Oh.” I roll my eyes, not quite understanding why a guy like Jude, who’s made a real name for himself, can’t seem to have a nice girlfriend. “Well, wouldn’t want to intrude on your love bubble.”

“Right,” Jude laughs sharply. “Love bubble.”

We’re quiet, and I don’t know how exactly to express my gratitude for him taking care of me.

“If my mom were alive, she’d make me stay at Julliard. Dad, though, he doesn’t care what I do.” I swallow, look up at Jude, knowing that right now he’s here, and willing to hear me. “It makes me wish everything were different.”

“You can’t wish your mom back, Evie.” Jude rolls the ice in his glass. “And we both know your relationship with her was fucked up in a lot of ways. it was built on you proving you were enough to make her happy.”

“I wasn’t enough to make her stay.”

“It’s not your fault she killed herself.” Jude’s voice is steady, and I don’t want to look at him. In the nine months since mom died, no one talks about what really happened.

All we know is she wanted something she didn’t have, something she didn’t think she could find anywhere on Earth.

“So you don’t want to play the fucking piano, that’s fine.” Jude says, a voice of reason. “In the end, you can’t live your life for anyone but yourself.”

“Life is easier, though, when you only make choices that you know will make other people happy.”

Jude shrugs. “Evie, I’m the patron saint of lost causes. You don’t need to tell me what I already know.”

I smile. “Yet you’re still living with Rachel.”

He smirks, knowing he needs to take his own medicine. “I can give you job, a place to live—but heaven knows I don’t have all the answers.”

“You’re giving me enough,” I tell him. “More than enough. Now, I need to stand on my own.”

C
had’s pissed
.

Well, that isn’t even the word.

Livid. Furious. Ready to take me to the motherfucking grave.

I don’t give a shit. Elle was right; this is my time. Evangeline was right; it was a fucked up situation.

“You think you can do this without me?” Chad screams, pacing the living room. I’m leaving for the tour in an hour, but I need to cut ties before I go. I can’t start my life with his baggage dragging me down.

Gina fumes, ready to pounce. The girl’s claws are fucking out.

She can scratch all she wants. She’s not coming with me.

Maybe I’m a fucking pussy, to wait until the last minute, but better late than never.

“I don’t want your help anymore. I need to focus on the tour, on the thirty-six shows I’m performing before I come back to LA. I swear I haven’t even memorized all the new shit. I can’t do this while you guys are still part of my life. You’re fucking with my head.”

“We are the only ones who’ve stuck by you through everything.”

I laugh sharply. “You haven’t stuck by me, neither of you. Not even close. And you say you want to make a name for yourself as a manager or agent or some shit, Chad? Good. Then go do that. But leave me out of it.”

“You’re such a fucking dumbass. No wonder you were the one to take the fall and end up in prison, all alone.”

“Don’t fucking go there,” I shout, reaching for Chad’s collar, pushing him against the wall. “I got Mom out of this apartment, in a full-time care center while I’m on tour. I’m taking care of all her bills, trying to keep our fucking family together. You don’t get to make me feel like shit for being the only man around here.”

I slam his head against the wall, fury running over my skin.

Gina screams. I push Chad into the plaster wall. A picture falls, and the drywall crumbles as I press him deeper into the pain I keep trying to get past.

“You’ve always been a sucker, a fucking fool,” Chad sputters, gasping for breath as I pin him harder against the wall. He’s red-faced and yelling at me, but I refuse to let him go, even when Gina screams and pulls at my shoulders.

“Don’t tell me what I am,” I shout in his face. Rage courses through my veins. My knuckles are red; his face is going blue. “You’re the fucker, Chad—taking Gina, and trying to cash in on me. Go get your own goddamn life. I’m not sharing mine with you anymore.”

He gasps for breath. Gina begs me to let him go.

I don’t want his blood on my hands, and truly, I have nothing more to say, so I drop him to the ground. He reaches for his throat. Gina’s on her knees, crying, wrapping her arms around him—arms that used to wrap around me.

Good fucking riddance.

I grab my bags, open the front door.

Recovering from the chokehold, Chad calls out in a raspy voice for me to stop, but I don’t turn back.

I’m already long gone.

I
have
enough money in savings that I hire a few guys to load my things into the back of a rented truck. My bed, a couch, a desk.

My baby grand.

I follow behind them, driving to Holden’s house in the Hills. When we arrive, a maid leads us to the empty guesthouse. Holden’s place is in a different part of LA than where I’m from, but the sweeping beachfront property reminds me of home.

“Is Holden going to be gone for awhile?” I ask the maid.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Holden is shooting a movie in Switzerland for a few weeks, but I was told to give you the keys.” She smiles, handing over a set of keys and a piece of paper printed with the security codes. “And there’s the pool, the hot tub, an exercise room—all things you can use. The beach is down this path, right here.”

The place is great. It’s not my style—but, honestly, I have no freaking clue what my style
is
. And I appreciate that Jude hooked me up. Not that I expected him to get me a place to live at
the
Hollywood Holden’s house. But Jude knows I grew up around the Hollywood elite, and an actor isn’t going to leave me star struck.

The movers leave, and I unpack. I have nowhere to be until tomorrow, when I’ll start working on Jude’s set.

And, for the first time in a really long time, I feel okay.

Sprawled out on my bed, I hold my phone, one tap from texting Cassius.

I drop my phone.

I can’t go there.

Instead, I pull out my laptop, wanting to watch clips of his recent performances.

I pull up his Twitter, my eyes narrowing when I realize nothing has been tweeted all day. Huh. His brother usually keeps a running commentary on every move Cash makes.

Still, I find a link advertising his show tonight. I drag the computer onto my lap and go to YouTube to watch his old performances, pressing repeat, watching him on stage.

He looks so happy. So alive.

He looks like magic, and I can’t mess with that.

I won’t mess with that.

Instead, I tell myself to be happy for him.

My entire body tingles as I watch him strutting across the stage. His arms are raised, his body chiseled. I’m entranced as he holds the microphone to his full lips, filling the club with his powerful lyrics, songs I’ve never heard.

But also, songs I feel like I’ve memorized—because they’re the songs written on his heart, the songs that are his essence.

I look over at my piano, wondering what my essence is.

Then I look back at the computer, and listen to him, realizing I don’t care about essence so much at this moment, because my body is on fire, thinking about him.

Remembering him. His touch.

Missing that, craving that. Knowing one time with him was not even close to being enough.

I take a cold shower, feeling like a boy in junior high with an unwanted woody. Except I don’t have any shame; I press my hand inside myself, giving in to the release I need. Giving in to the memories of the way he made me feel on the beach.

It ended before it even began.

I don’t know how to forget him, but I hope he can forget me. He needs this time to shine. I knew him for a day, and that was long enough to know that what Cassius needs is a chance to fly.

He’s been behind bars for far too long.