Page 34 of Dirty Lyrics
She heard. Every word.
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing once before I force myself to face her.
“Maya—” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “I’ve gotta be straight with you. I’m fucked when it comes to my contract. Matheson’s got me tied six ways from Sunday. I’ve been working on breaking it, but I don’t have enough power yet. Not enough leverage.”
Her brows knit, worry in her eyes, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“I didn’t want you to get dragged into this shit. I never wanted it to ruin us. Having that woman in the Fuego Lento video was all Matheson. He said it would boost my numbers, and I went with it because I’m trying to get away from him. But I should have told you?—”
“I-I thought you were into her,” she whispers.
“No. Never. And I swear to you—I don’t even know Lucy Volkov other than a few meetings at very public places and the video shoot. But that was all Matheson’s circus, not mine. Never mine.”
Her breath hitches. Unshed tears glisten in her eyes.
Fuck. My heart squeezes.
I cross the room, sit on the edge of the bed, and take her hands, pressing them to my chest so she can feel the pounding truth of my heart.
“You’re not ready to hear this yet, but I can’t keep it locked up anymore, Maya.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I love you.”
“Rico—”
“Just listen, Mami. I did a lot of stupid shit. A lot of posturing. Wanted you to think I was a big man. But all I ever wanted was to get big enough to break free from these shitty contracts Matheson had me sign years ago.”
“What do you mean? Your agent, he-he’s been controlling it all?”
“Controlling it all. Reaping the rewards. Lots of artists get screwed that way, you know? And I was ashamed to tell you. I just wanted to build something of my own. To give you the life you deserve. Because you are everything to me, Maya. My love. My life. My true muse.”
The words tear out of me, raw and desperate.
She’s sobbing now, and I feel crushed.
Panicked.
“I don’t want Lucy Volkov. Fuck, I don’t want anyone else. Not since I laid eyes on you.”
I pause. I reach for her face and cradle it between my palms, crushing her against me as I hold her gaze steady, needing her to believe me.
“But she’s beautiful?—”
“You’re beautiful. Don’t you know I just want you? Only you.”
And fuck, I mean it.
I mean it so fucking much it hurts.
“You’re the only thing that matters. Not the fame, or the fortune, or the fucking crowds of fans. Just you, Songbird. You and the baby are everything to me.”
The words scrape raw out of me, torn from the center of my chest, because she has to know.
I need her to know.
She has to understand. She has to.
