Page 4 of Dirty Lyrics
And I’m not going to tell him either.
Not yet.
Not until my baby is born and I can guarantee his safety.
Because the music industry has its own shadows—backroom deals, dangerous players who will do anything for control.
My father is guilty of plenty of those. I don’t trust him to act in my best interest if he finds out the star he didn’t sign is his grandson’s father.
Yeah, I found out my baby’s sex earlier this month, and I am still reeling from it.
A little boy.
I’m growing a sweet little boy inside my womb, and really, it’s a miracle. Or something. See, I have polycystic ovarian syndrome, and I’d been diagnosed before I started college, so over a decade ago.
I just turned thirty this year, and I’m not stupid or naïve about sex.
Yes, I fooled around with Rico without condoms, but only a few times.
My cycle? Well, it’s never been regular. I’d been on and off birth control for years, and I admit I’d always been bad at taking the pill. Still, pregnancy was not even on my radar.
I’d been told by my gynecologist plenty of times that the odds of my conceiving without the help of a fertility clinic were almost nil. And it’s not like I had a constant slew of men in my bed.
Before Rico, it’d been years since my last sexual encounter.
Anyway, as for needing the fertility specialist? Guess that gynecologist was wrong.
Just as wrong as I was about Rico’s feelings for me.
I need help. Or I will in about five and a half more months. But I won’t go back to my father’s house.
Truth is, I just don’t trust Dad to not use me or my son for leverage.
So I’ll stay hidden. Or rather, I’ll hide in plain sight.
In all honesty, it’s ridiculous how close I am.
But I need good medical care, and I refuse to leave the tri-state area. My father is so wrapped up in himself he won’t bother looking for me.
And while I may be carrying El Tigre’s baby, he doesn’t know it.
And I don’t plan to tell him.
chapter 2-rico
Music is my life.
I always hear it.
The melody comes from some place deep inside me.
Where exactly?
Hell if I know.
My mother used to say I was either gifted or cursed with this need to make music—depending on the day of the week and whether we had enough for rent.
When money was tight, it was a curse.
