Page 11 of Dirty Lyrics
No one ever comes up here.
I never remember to lock my door—stupid habit I can’t seem to break—but who would even bother with a crummy apartment over a whiskey bar?
A dozen terrible possibilities slam into me at once—my father’s men, a stranger from the bar, some drunk who climbed the wrong stairs.
My pulse hammers in my throat as I move fast, bare feet slapping against the warped wood floor, heart pounding hard enough to make me dizzy.
I reach the door just as the knob turns.
The hinges groan, the door swings open, and I suck in a sharp breath, ready to scream—and there he is.
Rico.
El Tigre.
The man I swore I’d never see again.
He fills the doorway, larger than life even in the dim light spilling from the hallway.
Tattoos creeping up his arms, jaw tight, eyes locked on me like he’s just seen a ghost.
For a second, neither of us moves.
My brain short-circuits, stunned, torn between rage and relief, heartbreak and the bone-deep longing that never really went away.
“Maya,” he breathes, my name soft but ragged, like a prayer and a curse all at once.
And all I can do is stand there, frozen, one hand instinctively pressing against the small swell of my belly, as my entire world tilts on its axis.
“Maya!”
His shout sounds like it’s coming at me from underwater, muffled and distant, even though he’s right in front of me.
My knees buckle before I even realize I’m falling. The linoleum floor rushes up to meet me—but I never hit it.
Instead, I crash against something solid, something hot and alive. Rico.
His arms lock around me, strong and unyielding, like he’s been waiting months for this moment.
The world tilts, and then I’m rising—he’s lifting me, carrying me like I weigh nothing, cradling me against his chest as if I might break.
“Chuy, get the car started!” His voice is sharp, commanding, threaded with panic.
“Wait,” I manage, breathless, clutching at his shirt. “I—I’ll be okay in a second.”
But Rico doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t listen.
This man! He doesn’t ever listen.
His stride is relentless, pounding down the narrow staircase, my body jostling against his as though he’ll never let me out of his grip again.
The cool night air slams into us, and then there’s a flash of headlights. A black SUV, sleek and dangerous, idling at the curb.
Rico yanks open the back door with one hand and slides in with me still clutched tight against him.
I’m deposited gently—too gently—into the leather seat, but his presence doesn’t leave. My head is swimming, breath is shaky. I suddenly have zero ability to move at all.
But he’s right there, hands sure and steady as he fastens the seatbelt across my lap, knuckles brushing my skin. My heart lurches in my chest.
