Cold Hard Cash: Los Angeles Bad Boys (4 page)

O
kay
, so I really, really invited a boy—um, man—to my place. Like, I for reals just did that. Me.
Evangeline
. The girl who never, ever takes a risk, never steps out of line or breaks the rules.

For example, the rule about: Don’t have dinner with my dad’s clients. My dad said it like it was a joke, an improbability. But Cash-freaking-Flow is in my guesthouse, with his tattoos and strong jaw and eyes that slay me.

I don’t even know what’s happening with my life right now, but I needed a breath of fresh air so damn bad, and the moment I voiced that need in the elevator, Cash arrived. Slipped into my day, just like that, and now I want more of this abandon.

Because Cash holds my hand like he’s not going to let go—but not in, like, a creepy way. In an
I’ve got you way.

In a way that makes me melt.

“This is my place.” I wave my hand around, because it isn’t anything special.

“It’s nice,” Cash says, looking around.

“I moved out here when I was a senior in high school, because my mother thought giving me a chance to spread my wings was important before I left for college.”

“Did it?” he asks, playing with my fingers, the ones still laced through his.

“Did it what?”

“Help you spread your wings.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I shake my head. My memories of my mother and me are the root of every story, every choice. Every part of my life. I don’t know how to explain that to a stranger. “The truth is, I think she just needed space. She was one of those people who pushed everyone—pushed them too hard or pushed them away.”

“Was?”

Realizing he caught my past tense, I explain, “Yeah, she died earlier this year.”

Cash’s fingers tighten around mine, and I know this hook-up, or whatever is supposed to happen next, just got really heavy.

“But now she’s gone,” I tell him, shrugging even though I don’t want to, even though it hurts to let my shoulders fall. I don’t want to dismiss the memory of her.

And, for the first time since she died, I don’t feel like someone is asking me to. I don’t think
Cash
is asking me to. He’s just watching me with these soulful eyes that seem to hear every word I say.

“And now you’re back home,” he says thoughtfully.

“Yeah, except nothing about this property feels like home without her. She was never a safe place, but she was my mom, my rock. “

“How does that work, Evie, not having an anchor?”

“I’m floundering, big time,” I admit, letting go of his hand, not knowing why I’m opening up to this guy so candidly. “Why am I telling you this?”

“I know exactly why.”

“Which is?”

He smiles, his eyebrows raised. “You’re terrified to kiss me, so you’re telling me everything that might push me away.”

I don’t know if Cash is right. Maybe he
is
a therapist, because I’m sure opening up to him more this afternoon than I have in three years with mine back in New York.

“Who’s your anchor, Cash?”

He gives me a sad smile, and I’m reminded that we all have nerves, pressure points that mess with our minds.

“I don’t have one either.” He takes my other hand, laces our fingers, and pulls me to him.

“Did you ever?”

“I thought so.” He wraps our hands behind my back; my body is against his, and I don’t pull away. I always, always pull away.

“And then what happened?” I ask, forgetting, again, how to breathe.

“I was wrong, Evie. Really wrong.” He whispers this in my ear. His smell is so unfamiliar to me. It’s gritty and deep and broken.

“I’m not terrified to kiss you,” I tell him. “That’s not why I’m telling you all this.”

He raises an eyebrow, leans his forehead against mine. “No?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t know why I’m telling you ... but I know for certain it isn’t because I’m scared.”

And I’m not. I want him to kiss me. That’s why I brought him here.

“I don’t scare you even a little?” He lets go of my fingers, runs a hand up my spine, over the back of my neck. My hair falls through his fingers as he reaches my chin, tilts it ever so slightly, looking straight at me.

“No.”

I always thought the magic word was
please
or
thank you
—not
no
. But with Cash, it is.

Me saying no causes him to cup my face with his hands; his mouth brushes against mine, softly at first, before pressing tight against my lips. He doesn’t waste any time, and for that I’m glad—because I’ve wasted too much time in my life already. I’ve wasted
all
the time.

I’m not wasting anymore.

I find myself sinking into him. I wrap my hands around his waist, pulling him still closer to me. His fingers on my face are tender and gentle, which is not at all how I expected him to kiss. I expected something dirty, hard. Something worn. But I was wrong about Cash. I was wrong about everything.

His tongue slides into my mouth, entwines with mine in seconds. I let out the softest groan—a groan that causes his kiss to intensify, and I don’t know how that is even possible. But it is. He’s deepening the kiss, his hands still cupping my face, and my back arches in response, as if I want to offer him more.

Offer him everything.

He pulls away from the kiss after he has completely devoured my mouth, both of us catching our breath as he kisses my neck, and moves back up, all the way to my ear.

“Oh, girl,” he whispers in my ear, causing my entire body to tingle in delight. His hands wrap around my waist, and I feel so small in his grasp. I want to be pressed against him deeper still.

“Will you have sex with me, Cash?”

He pulls back, fast, like I’ve just requested something he hasn’t considered—which I know isn’t true, because he’s been pressed against me long enough for me to know that he wants this to happen as much as I do.

“What?” I ask, tugging him closer. “You don’t want to?”

“Damn, girl.” He’s smiling softly; I see one dimple, and that’s enough.

“What?” I ask, unable to resist kissing his cheek, because that dimple is so damn sexy.

“I didn’t realize you were such a player, is all,” Cash tells me.

“I’m not a player. I just crush a lot.”

“Are you for reals, right now?” he asks, giving me a full-on grin.

“Oh, Cash, I’m too legit to quit.” I step away from him, and for a moment we watch one another. I’ve never hooked up like this, so I don’t know if the feelings surging through me are from the adrenaline rush of doing something so un-Evie, or if it’s because there’s something deeper going on between Cash and me.

I don’t want to be naive and think this is something that it isn’t. And Cash has
player
written all over him.

Reminding myself that I invited him here for fun, not for anything serious, I plaster a smile on my face, forcing myself to be as chill as ice. “How about you think about my request while I get you some food.” Feeling bold, I add, “I have a feeling you’ll need the sustenance.” I laugh, warmth spreading through my belly, because I can’t remember feeling so silly since before Mom died.

“Who are you?” he asks as I move toward the kitchen.

I feel his eyes on me, and I like it. “I don’t know, Cash. I honestly don’t know.” I open the freezer, for no reason besides needing the cold air to wash over me.

Cash has gotten me hot all over.

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.”