Cassius

Back at the apartment I check in with Mom. The nurse has left for the day, and Mom is sound asleep in her bed. I sit next to her, and see a drawer in her nightstand open. Inside, there’s a bottle of cheap vodka—God knows, I’ve cleaned the alcohol out of her room enough times to know that she always gets another bottle somehow.

I’m guessing Gina got it for her; she’s the easiest around here to manipulate.

Trying not to stress, I realize I also need to make a plan for what I’m going to do about Chad and Gina, before I see them again.

I pour the bottle out in the kitchen sink, and instead of focusing on those problems, I look over some of the songs that KMG has sent over. The music is what it’s really about right now. While I have control over a few of the songs on the first album, I only get to use half of my original stuff.

They want an LP produced before Elle’s tour starts in three weeks, which means I’m going to be in the studio for fourteen days straight, starting tomorrow.

When I first found out about this two weeks ago, I was pissed, but at least I knew before I came down to LA today and signed the contact. These are the terms KMG is willing to offer, and the truth is, I have zero leverage.

Mom’s health was shitty before the accident, but now it’s only going downhill. She needs my help, and those fucking court fines are piling up. She damaged property at a city park when her car crashed—thank God it was just a city-owned lawnmower, park benches, and a retaining wall. It could have been a person.

But, fuck, it all costs money.

So, I’ll play this shitty pseudo-rap shit, with lyrics that play up my prison time a hell of a lot more than I’d like. It isn’t the worst thing, and I need to buck up and remember the point of this. Maybe one day I’ll be like Jack Harris, able to call my own motherfucking shots.

Until then, I’ll go on stage and deliver. I always deliver.

In the meantime, I’ll keep working on my own shit. I have a notepad and pen in hand as I lay sprawled out on my bed, thinking about Gentle Evangeline, jotting down everything about our time together.

It looks like I found myself a muse in the least expected place. KMG headquarters is a breeding ground for wannabes—musicians and groupies alike. But Evangeline isn’t like those fame-obsessed people hanging around in slinky clothes, draped on leather couches, hoping to be chosen.

Evangeline is unlike any girl I’ve ever met.

Probably because there were no girls like her in East Heights—privileged girls who never worried about things like lunch money and having shoes that fit, and keeping their younger siblings safe from an alcoholic mother or an abusive father.

The girls I grew up with had to fight for survival. Evangeline avoided all that because she happened to be born in a home where money meant nothing, because there was so much of it. She doesn’t know the sort of heartbreak that jaded girls like Gina were raised on.

And that makes me want to protect Evangeline from anything that might hurt her. That makes me want to wrap her in my arms and carry her somewhere safe, because she has no fucking clue how lucky she is to have lived twenty-one years without any scars. In this world, it’s a gift to have wide eyes and believe in possibility.

I don’t know if it’s her innocence that draws me to her like a moth to a flame, but I can’t deny that I’m counting down the minutes until I can see her again.

Taste her again.

Fill her up for the first time.

The front door opens, and brings me back to reality. Gina and Chad are back with a six-pack of Coke and a bottle of cheap rum. Fantastic.

“Hey, motherfucker,” Chad says. “Wanna drink?”

I shrug. I was all spun up after the morning photo shoot, and it took nearly fucking a virgin to clear my head. I want to keep it on straight.

Gina struts in, then plops on the couch, picking at her long shellacked nails, nails I know she fucking loves. No matter how tight the money is, she always has enough to sit and get her nails done.

Not that I care. Gina grew up in the school of hard knocks. If shiny red nail polish dulls some of her pain, good.

I just wish I had something I could use to coat over the places she cut into my heart. To seal the wounds. Seeing her makes my skin tighten and my jaw tense. She and I still haven’t dealt with any of our shit. She left my bed one night and went to my brother’s the next.

Does that make me a weak-ass motherfucker? I don’t know. I want to believe it makes me strong—because, dammit I don’t want to push her, when I know how far she’s come to the edge, and how many times I’ve had to pull her back up to the land of the living.

I don’t want to destroy her just so I can say my piece. That isn’t what it means to be a man.

At some point, what she and I had was love. Maybe it was childish, love borne from desperate fools clinging to whatever they could find, but we found one another.

That counts for something.

* * *

Chad’s pouring rum and Cokes. Gina’s pursing her lips.

The air is thick and I want out.

Gina’s next to me on the couch, in stilettos and skintight pants. Her blazer from this morning is gone, and she’s left with a sheer top with a black bra, hair knotted and tight. Nothing left to the imagination.

I can’t help but compare her to Evie, who wore a dress and flats, who had loose hair and an open heart.

“So what do you guys want?” I ask them, cutting to the chase. Chad hands me a drink, and I know it isn’t a peace offering—but it’s liquor, and that counts for something.

“Gina and I are having drinks tonight with the KMG people, but we have a few hours so we thought the three of us should have a business conversation, bro. Before we meet with the big guy. Make sure we’re all on the same page.”

I scowl. “Who are you meeting with, exactly?”

“Actually, we’re having drinks with the head fucking honcho: Marshal Kendrick himself, at his pad. We were invited, personally.” He looks over at Gina, smiling like they have big plans for tonight.

I fucking want them out of my business.

“He’s the CEO. What do you have to do with him?”

“I’m considering finding more talent. Becoming a scout. Meeting with Marshal Kendrick is a step in the process. I want his endorsement.”

“You want to be a talent scout?” I scoff, shaking my head. Sure, Chad was able to mold me into something profitable, but that doesn’t mean he can replicate it.

Or is that my gut instinct, to cut him down, because of the shit I’m holding against him?

“He’d be good at it,” Gina says, scooting closer to me. Too close for comfort. She smells like my childhood, like memories I want to lay to rest.

Maybe now is my chance to break ties with Chad. Maybe he’s looking for a way to let me go without hurting my fucking feelings.

Though he’s never seemed to consider them before.

Two can play that game.

I look at Gina. “This what you want, Gina? To be with fucking Chad?”

I don’t know why I say it like that. It’s not like I want to be with her, not at all. It just kills me that she’d pick a fucker like him over me. Like, what does that shithead have that I don’t?

She sighs, like she knew this was coming. “You really wanna do this now, Cash?” she asks.

“How do you wanna do it?” I look at both of them, my voice even—but I’m not calm. Not at all. Inside, my blood is boiling because the three of us have been tiptoeing around things that matter way too much.

It’s like we’ve been holding it all together long enough for me to sign the fucking contract—but now it’s signed, and our hearts have space to finally explode.

And, right now, I could burst. I hold a lot of shit against the two of them. They turned on me when I needed them most. Maybe I’m holding it against them because people have been turning their backs on me for a long time before that.

Chad never went to prison. I did. I took the fucking fall for all of us.

And, sure, I got out after thirteen months, but being incarcerated changed my life. I’m not the man I was, and I lost more than a year of my life. I lost my boys, my hood. My identity.

And I’m no closer to finding it, two years later.

“Cash, this can’t be a surprise,” Gina says.

“Not a surprise?” I give a sharp laugh. “I promised you everything.”

“And what was that?” she asks, plainly.

And, God damn it, that slays me. Because, sure, I never had much to offer, but I was willing to give her all I had.

It’s so fucking clear. Why Chad, and why not me.

I don’t know who is the bigger fool.

“You think Chad will end up with more than me in the end, is that it? That he’ll rise in ways I won’t? That he’ll give you a life I can’t.” I down my drink. “Gina, I’m the talent he’s scouting. I’m the product. I’m the reason we have money in the bank.”

Her eyebrows raise; she’s not convinced.

“I made you what you’re going to be, little bro,” Chad says, walking toward Gina, and pulling her to stand. “And I am going to make a dozen more just like you. You may have the chops, but I have the vision. Visionaries always win in the end.”

“Fuck you.” I walk to the front door, throw it open. I want to fire him right here, on the spot, but I don’t trust my gut anymore.

I can’t fuck this up—ruin my chance—because Mom needs me. And I have no clue how Chad might react to getting the boot.

I can’t give in to the heat of the moment, because that would only confirm my fear: that I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

The only thing that has felt real, true—good and honest—in a long fucking time is Evangeline.

I need to see her. Maybe I can look in her gray eyes and see the truth I seek.

Maybe my muse will set me free.