Cassius

I watch her pull containers out of the fridge, but I don’t offer to help because I’m too spun up. Too worked up. Way too revved up.

That kiss was fucking insanity.

Why, exactly, was I monogamous for two years straight?

I turn from her, adjusting my cock because, damn, this girl is making me insane.

Evie is so fucking precious, and she has no idea how appealing that is. She has a black dress on—but not like that, not how you’d think. It has a belt high on the waist and goes down almost to her knees, and there are tiny ponies printed all over the entire thing. She has flats on, and her hair is in waves around her shoulders, and everything about her screams innocent.

Everything about her screams Yes, please.

Will you have sex with me Cash?

It’s a fair question. Will I?

“So, I have chips and salsa,” she tells me as I turn back around. “And I can make us quesadillas. Oh, and beer. You want a Corona? Or are you a tequila guy? I can’t tell.”

“What are you?” I ask her, leaning against the kitchen island. She called this place a guest house, but most people would die for a place like this. “I’d guess sangria.”

She smirks, gives me a shrug, then pulls a bottle of tequila down from the cupboard. Grabbing a lime, she slices it, then pours us shots, finds a salt shaker.

“To you, Cash,” she toasts. “To your contract.”

We toss the shots back. The alcohol burns my throat, and I watch her grab the salt, the lime. I don’t want either. I just want her.

She’s wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and her gray eyes seem brighter. She lets another laugh escape.

“Do you lure lots of guys back to your guest house?” I ask, as she pours us another round.

“No. None. Ever.”

We take the second shot. This time I know what to expect. Her laugh still gets my cock hard, but at least I knew it was coming.

“I need to eat,” she says. “I’m a lightweight.”

“You don’t say?” I ask, coming up behind her, kissing her neck and running my hands around her narrow waist, letting them linger lower. As low as possible without literally pressing my hand against her pussy—though God knows I want to.

Her breath is heavy, and I hold onto her as she turns on the gas, sets a pan on the flame. Adds a tortilla and shredded cheese. When the fuck did making lunch become such a turn on?

The whole time, my arms are wrapped around her. I’m nibbling at her ear and the base of her neck, inhaling her soft hair. She’s wind-blown—salt water and saltier tears. And the thing is, she doesn’t swat my hand away or act coy. She’s all-in.

She leans her back into me, her little ass against my growing cock, and damn, it takes everything in me not to flip her around, rip off her dress, press my mouth against her tits.

I know if I start I won’t stop, and I don’t know if fucking this girl an hour after we met is in her best interest. She seems fragile today; she was crying when we met. I may come off as a bad boy but the truth is, I treat girls right.

“It’s ready,” she says, turning to me.

“Girl, you’re killing me.”

She tosses her head back. “Cash, I’m the one who put the offer on the table, so your death is on you. But I really hope it doesn’t come to that.” She pushes away from me, grabbing the tequila. “You wanna eat outside?”

I nod, grabbing the chips and salsa. She takes the plate of quesadillas and the booze, and we step back into the Los Angeles sunshine.

“So, Cash, I already know an embarrassing story about you,” she says, grabbing a cheesy tortilla. “So tell me something else.”

“There isn’t much to tell, honey.”

“No, you don’t get off that easy. You’re clearly driven. KMG doesn’t sign talent if they aren’t going to top the charts. So what’s your story?”

I need some more fucking tequila for that. I pour a shot, throw it back. “I’m from East Heights, about as far from the life you have as you can imagine. Think 8 Mile. I’m doing this to help my mom. She needs the money bad, and more help than I’ve been able to give her. Growing up, though, it was my dad who caused me problems.”

“We have that in common.”

I give a sharp laugh. “I don’t think our daddy issues are the same kind.”

She looks at me steadily, pouring herself a shot. “Probably not, but I’m thinking both our fathers probably shaped our world view a heck of a lot more than we like to admit.” She drinks the clear liquor. Licks her lips. “Thing is, those assholes who messed us up gave us a gift, unknowingly. I’m better for being my father’s daughter. I know what kind of man I don’t want. And I’m guessing you know what kind of man you don’t want to be.”

“Fuck,” I say, shaking my head. “I need a pad of paper when I’m with you, girl.”

“Why’s that?”

“Everything you say makes me feel like I should be writing it down. The way I feel when I’m just next to you belongs in a fucking song. You are lyrics personified, and you don’t even know it.”

“You have a nice vocabulary,” she says, a hint of a smile playing across her mouth. I know she likes my compliments. She could probably use a hell of a lot more.

“I practically memorized a thesaurus. When I write lyrics, it’s all about the words.”

“What kind of music do you make?”

“I rap, solo. I wasn’t messing when I referenced 8 Mile—though, fuck, I didn’t intend to do this, be a rapper or some shit.”

“What did you intend?”

“I wanted to make music. I used to play around with a guitar, thought I’d be a singer-songwriter or whatever.”

“Was this before or after the Slurpee phase?”

“Around the same time, I guess. I mean, I got a guitar when I was, like, thirteen.”

“What happened?” She dips a chip in the salsa, but keeps her eyes on me. I can’t avoid her. She makes that impossible, because even if she wasn’t looking I know she would see me.

“You know my stage name, Cash Flow?” She nods and I continue. “Well my older brother, Chad, he heard me playing, and knew I had chops. Everyone in the neighborhood knew I did. And then when I was nineteen I got in trouble with the law, and didn’t have a guitar for, like, a year. So I was writing a bunch, and started rapping, because what else was I gonna do?”

She leans forward, listening.

“Well, I got out and we needed money, badly. Dad was gone, Mom was drunk, and it was like, this is the one shot. My music was the only thing we had. Chad thought I could pull off the rap thing. He had a vision for me, and he knew the money—the real money—wasn’t in some indie songwriter shit.”

“Well, you must be really talented. Chad must have known you had a gift or you’d never have gotten signed.” She bites her lip. “You don’t like taking about the past, do you?”

“It’s nothing good, Evangeline.”

“Understood,” she says, slowly enough that I know she means it. “So you became Cash Flow because you needed the money?”

“Well that, and my first name is Cassius. People always called me Cash.”

“Cassius? That’s cute.”

“Cute?” I shake my head, knowing I shouldn’t have told her. “Honey, I just told you—I fucking sold out before I even began.”

“Does Chad always tell you what to do?”

“No. He may be my manager, but I’m my own man.” I stand and pull Evie up, too, and kiss her again. This time I don’t wonder when or how I’ll stop. I’m not planning on it.

Her lips are soft and boozy, and melt into mine. She looks up at me with her hooded eyes begging me to take complete control. I like her eyes this way. They’re no longer rimmed in red; now they’re full of desire.

I hold her face in my hands, my palms covering her cheeks, and I kiss her deeply, sliding my tongue into her mouth. My body lights up with anticipation, because Evangeline brings emotions out in me that no one ever has before.

“I don’t need anyone to tell me what to do,” I whisper against her mouth. Her lips are parted and wanton. “I know exactly what I’m going to do right now.”