Cassius

Opening 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.

Show 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.

Show 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.

Show 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 facility. Around the clock care. She likes the nurse that 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.

Show 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.

Show 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.