Page 167 of Desperate People

The man is a genius behind a lens, and for his directorial debut?

He chose a masterpiece.

Because Lucy?

Lucy is the centerpiece of it all.

El Tigre’s voice breaks through, low and aching.

That deep reggaetón rasp of his wraps around lyrics that are nothing short of poetry.

Not sleazy. Not crude. Not inappropriate.

It’s worshipful.

The lyrics tell a story of seeing a woman too radiant to ignore, of watching her shine from across the room, of knowing she is someone else’s—and loving her all the more for it.

He sings of restraint and respect.

Of desire held back, not because it burns any less, but because what she has with her man is sacred.

It’s not the song that scumbag ex-manager of his tried to push.

That guy—may he rot in the foulest depths of Hell—wanted something dirty. Something to provoke sick minds like his own.

But this?

This is homage.

The video shifts, and now Lucy is dancing.

Slowly. Sensually. Between the spread knees of a man in a crisp black suit.

Her dress clings to every delicious curve, her hips swaying with a grace that could bring gods to their knees.

Her hands glide up her own body like silk.

The camera lingers.

Breathless.

And then—he touches her.

Tattooed hands slide around her hips from her man. A man the audience never sees in full.

But I know who they belong to.

Because they’re mine.

My hands.

Javier insisted the man in the suit needed to be real.

Authentic.

He wanted Lucy to perform with someone she already trusted.

So yeah. That’s me in the shadows.

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