Evangeline

His 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.