Cold Hard Cash: Los Angeles Bad Boys (9 page)

O
pening night
.

My heart pounds in fear. It’s nothing like the performances back home. I have five songs to perform before Elle comes out, five songs to give it all I got.

I lay it on the line.

When the heart-pounding-in-fear stops, it’s replaced with an adrenaline rush. With a grin I haven’t worn in years, I’m on stage and I’m alive.

S
how Six

Sold out show. The line for autographs wraps around the building.

My record released on iTunes, and it shot up the charts, unexpectedly.

It’s weird, not having anyone to share that with.

Instead of looking toward a bright future, I’m haunted by my past.

I’ve gotta let that shit go.

I try. My fingers ache because I stay up all night writing, writing the words I’ve kept pent up inside that I thought I’d already let out. Words about my mother. My father. My brother. Myself.

Chad called six times before I went onstage.

I never answered once.

S
how Twelve

Us Weekly comes backstage and interviews Elle and me. A cover photo of us claims that we’re the next “sure thing” in music.

Elle, her girl Sasha, and I celebrate with shots. Lots of them.

I drunkenly confess my feelings for Evangeline.

“Oh, poor Cash Flow, he needs a woman,” Sasha teases. “But he can’t have mine.

I look at Elle; her eyes are on Sasha. They’re lucky, and I’m fucking jealous. I want something I’ve never had: a woman who only has eyes for me.

S
how Nineteen

More calls from Chad.

More voicemails I delete.

In the span of two weeks, I became a break-out hit. It may be Elle’s first national tour, with her as the headliner, but the response for my music is insanely good.

Looks like Kendrick knew what he was doing when he created my image, compiled that record, gave me the songs to sing.

KMG is thrilled with me. They send fruit baskets, books us penthouse suites. Hookers are waiting at my door, and I send them away.

I have an assistant named Jared. He sets out “approved attire” and makes sure I go to the gym for three hours every morning. I drink kale shakes and eat protein bars.

Elle tells me to call Evangeline.

Instead I call Mom.

She’s at the apartment. Her in-home nurse is coming every day, and she sounds good. Still, I feel like a shitty son for not being with her, and I try to make up for it, telling her everything.

She tells me she’s proud, and until she says it, I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear those words. She’s the only thing I’ve got anymore.

S
how Twenty-Four

After the show in Portland, where my blood’s been pumping for an amped up crowd, Chad is waiting out by the tour bus. He needs to talk, he says. His eyes are red, and Gina’s with him.

They look like shit, if I’m being completely honest.

“We need to talk, Cash,” Chad says. “You froze the accounts. I tried calling, but you froze my calls, too. It’s not cool. We drove all the way up here because we need you to fucking help us out.”

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I tell him—trying to play it even, cool. I look back at my security detail, because Chad and I have a past built with burned bridges and I’m not going up in smoke tonight.

“It’s not fucking cool, bro. You swore you’d always have our backs.”

I am over this shit. “You fucked my girlfriend, Chad. I owe you nothing.”

“It wasn’t personal,” Gina says, grabbing my hands. “You’re our only family, and you’ve left us with nothing.”

I know that’s not true. When I signed with KMG a month ago, I gave them each fifty thousand dollars. One month ago. There’s no way they blew through that so fast.

“It
was
fucking personal,” I tell her. “It was as personal as it gets.”

“You’ve always been such a fucking cunt,” Chad shouts in my face.

Security takes a step toward us, and Chad draws away immediately.

“No fucking way,” Chad says, laughing obnoxiously. “You need those boys to fight your battles? What happened to bad boy Cassius from the hood?”

“You need to go,” I tell them, not wanting this story to get out. I swore to KMG I’d buried my demons. I need them to stay the fuck away.

They leave without force, but as he walks away, Chad yells, “It’s not over, bro. You owe us more than the fucking middle finger.”

I can’t help but wonder if he’s right.

S
how Twenty-Eight

The stadiums are huge. Elle is a big name, but as we move from city to city, night after night, I start to realize my name is getting pretty fucking huge, too.

Evangeline was right, I can do this. I can really fucking do this.

Elle was right, too. The songs KMG picked for me were spot on.

I’m on the radio.

On the Top 40.

I’m breaking sales records on iTunes everyday.

I want someone to share it with. I have no one.

I stay up all night reading the poem
Evangeline
. Hating myself for getting sucked into visions of her, but dreaming of her all the same.

I wake up with a hard-on, and jack off, knowing it’s the only option to keep my sanity.

We’ll be in NYC next week for the final show. When I get there, I’ll call Evangeline, find out what went wrong, ask for another chance.

Twenty-eight shows in, my name on billboards and in magazine spreads—but the only thing I can see when I close my eyes is her face.

Not the lights. Not the fans. Not the money.

Only Evangeline.

The girl who pushed me away, the girl I won’t let get away again.

D
ay One

Jobs suck. Even ones where you work for your cousin. Being a coffee runner sucks, no matter where it’s at. Mochas and Americanos and steamed milk slosh across my hands all day as I run drinks around the set to whoever demands them.

And, speaking of sets, being on a movie set is not as glamorous at it sounds. It actually blows.

The movie Jude’s making is a dark comedy, with dysfunctional parents who mess up their kids by feeding them lies.

The irony is not lost on me.

Anyway, the set is just like a regular movie set, only with less money floating around, and longer workdays.

Which means everyone is cranky, and really needs their coffee.

But it’s a job.

It’s independence.

It’s a start.

D
ay Six

Dad calls. I don’t respond.

My feet ache, because I’ve never walked so much in my life. Not only did I do coffee runs today, but I also filled in as the prop assistant because the regular girl was sick.

Dad calls again. I press ignore.

I come home exhausted; I eat Thai take-out, and open a stack of old scrapbooks, and think about my mom. I think about how I wanted to be the person she wanted me to be so badly, and how I never really was. How she would hate that I quit Julliard.

She wanted me to be famous. Be a star.

I just want to be Evangeline.

Dad calls a third time. This time I power off my phone.

D
ay Twelve

Some girls from the set ask me to get drinks after work.

It’s eleven at night, but I agree.

I need to stop living in shadows. I need to grow the hell up.

We order tequila. Lindy pulls up her phone, scrolls through Twitter.

“Oh my God, this guy is so fucking hot.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Cash Flow?” Lindy says. “He, like, came out of nowhere and hit the world by storm.”

I swallow hard. He did come out of nowhere, when he walked into my life.

“I’d so do him,” Trina says, groaning. “Did you see that spread in Us Weekly? His abs are insane. And those eyes? God, I swear my panties are soaked just thinking about it.”

I smile tightly, not wanting to wear my heart on my sleeve.

But the truth is, my panties are just as soaked when I think about Cassius.

D
ay Nineteen

Jude pulls me aside.

“I gotta talk to you, Evie.” He looks pained, and for a second I think the worst—something happened to my Aunt Katy.

“Is everything okay?” My voice must sound terrified, because he immediately drapes an arm over my shoulder.

“Hey, yeah—it’s just, we have a problem.”

“Is Holden kicking me out?”

“Oh, no. He’ll be back in town this weekend, though. But no, come on, Evie. I’m guessing you’re the best houseguest in LA.”

“Then what is it?”

“Your dad called.”

My heart drops. I’ve avoided his calls for days. I didn’t even tell him where I was going. But this town isn’t as big as people might think.

“If you want people to think you’re an adult, you gotta call people back. You gotta give people a chance to tell their side of the story.”

“Ugh,” I moan, pushing him away from me. “Jude, stop being so put-together. God. Your movie is about dysfunctional families. Pretend we’re like them.”

“This movie is about a mom who deep fries the family parakeet. It’s not the same thing.”

“I’m not so sure. My mom was a neurotic alcoholic who couldn’t see beyond herself.”

“Give it a rest, Evangeline. You’re being too hard on a woman who always struggled.”

His words sting, even though they’re true.

My mom was rarely stable; nothing I could offer was enough. But maybe my dad feels the same way. Maybe that’s why he’s pulling so hard, because he’s scared of losing me too.

I remember the words Cassius spoke, the words he wrote:
Hope and fear are both borne from desperation.

“Give your dad a call. Who the hell knows? Maybe he struggles, too.”

I give Jude a quick nod, not able to speak. The tears brimming in my eyes say enough.

D
ay Twenty-Four

Dad and I meet for coffee. A neutral location.

“You’re working for Jude? Giving up Julliard to be an assistant to the prop director?”

I shrug, pick up my nonfat two-sugar latte. I’ve gotten very particular about my own caffeine concoctions. “I’m really more of a coffee runner, actually.”

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, setting down his black drip coffee. “Is this payback for not letting you see Cash? Because you can, if you want. I’m done fighting you, Evangeline. I think he’s all wrong for you—but, dammit, I’ve been wrong about a lot in my life. I won’t stop you. Not if it means losing you.”

I want to press the issue, ask him exactly what he means about being okay with me seeing Cash, but I also know that if I give in to that line of reasoning, he’ll think Cash is the exact reason I decided to quit school, that payback is all I’m after.

And it’s so not.

“This isn’t about Cassius. It’s so much bigger than him. And that’s the problem, Dad. You don’t even understand that.”

“You’re such a talented pianist, Evangeline. You could keep playing until you decide what you want to do. Winter term doesn’t start for another eight weeks. I spoke with my brother; he says Julliard is willing to take you whenever you’re ready. Everyone understands that your mom’s dea—”

“It’s not about Mom dying. It’s about me living.”

His face is blank; he looks lost. “I want you to be happy.”

“Then let me mess up, on my own terms, Dad.” I wipe away the tears that are filling my eyes. “Don’t hold me so tight. Let me fail. Let me try. Let me—”

“Go?”

My shoulders drop. I shake my head. “I don’t want you to let me go, Dad. I just want to be set free.”

“Free? Sweetheart, what can freedom give you? You need security. You need stability.”

“Dad, keeping me in your box is not going to make me happy.”

“But it will keep you safe.” He looks so weary. Even in his red tie and power suit, I can tell that he’s scared of losing me like he lost Mom.

“Oh, Dad,” I say, softening. “Mom dying made me doubt everything I knew, caused me to withdraw more than I ever have before. Which is saying something; I’m a recluse by nature. I’ve never liked the limelight. But I don’t want to live in anyone’s shadow anymore. Especially not my own.”

Dad reaches for my hand, squeezing it tight.

“Evangeline, I don’t want to lose you, too.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m just learning to stand on my own.”

“What if you fall?”

“Then I’ll get back up, Dad.”

“Will you let me help you get where you want to go, even if I don’t understand why?”

“I think that’s all I’ve ever wanted, Dad.”

And, for the first time in my life, I see him as more than an enemy, more than a person trying to vie for Mom’s attention.

Maybe he’s been an ally all along, in a war neither of us wanted to fight.

I just never knew he would want to be on my side.

D
ay Twenty-Eight

Dad’s words ring in my ears.

He won’t fight me on seeing Cash.

I pick up my phone. I want to call him. Apologize, or explain, or just hear his voice.

Maybe I should let him finish the tour before I mess with his head.

I drop the phone and look over at my baby grand.

My fingers itch. My heart swells.

I sit down on the piano bench, open the lid. I set my fingers down on the cold keys, and play until everything inside of me is warm.

I smile, realizing that as soon as Dad stopped pushing me, I wanted back in.

That’s okay. It isn’t a fight.

It’s the song I needed to let play out.