Page 46 of Dirty Lyrics
We don’t even look at them. His hand slides around the back of my neck, firm and protective, anchoring me to him as we move forward together, step by step.
Proud.
Untouchable.
A force to be reckoned with.
Right here, right now, we’re making it known.
El Tigre isn’t owned by anybody. He’s his own man.
And me? I’m his wife. His partner. His everything.
But all that bravado goes flying right out the door the second we step inside.
The noise inside the club hits me like a wave—bass shaking the walls, voices shouting over one another, the air thick with sweat, alcohol, and smoke.
Private venue or not, it’s chaos, the kind rockstars and celebrities thrive on.
Me? I’m still learning how to breathe in it.
The cameras outside fade as soon as we cross the threshold, but the whispers don’t.
They follow us in, darting through the air like knives.
Gold heiress. Publicity stunt. A ruse to entice Diablita.
Rico doesn’t let go of my hand until one of the promoters pulls him away, clapping him on the shoulder, dragging him into a circle of artists and industry people.
Friends, allies. People he knows. People who gave him a chance before anyone else did—he already told me that at home.
And I get it.
But it still makes my stomach clench when his heat, his steady presence, disappears from my side.
“El Tigre wants you backstage,” someone tells me, guiding me toward the narrow corridor that leads behind the stage.
The club’s lighting shifts back here, dimmer, shadows pooling in the corners. I perch on a cracked vinyl couch, clutching a bottle of water, trying to look like I belong.
That’s when I hear them.
A trio of women slink past, all curves and long legs and skin-tight dresses, their eyes sharp as razors.
Professional fans, groupies, industry hangers-on, maybe both.
The kind of women who live to orbit stars like El Tigre. Who measure their worth in nights spent in dressing rooms.
One of them smirks when her gaze lands on me.
“So that’s her?” she stage-whispers, loud enough to echo off the walls. “That’s the Gold Records heiress who came here with El Tigre?”
Another snickers.
“Please. We all know what he really needs, and it’s not some fat bitch sitting pretty on daddy’s money.”
The words hit like a slap.
My cheeks burn, my throat closes, and for one horrible second, I’m seventeen again in boarding school, listening to the mean girls cackle about my size, about how I didn’t belong.
