Page 49 of Dirty Lyrics
She nods, and Chuy appears like magic, setting a chair down for her.
She giggles, sweet and soft, pressing her hand to my chest like she knows exactly how close I am to combusting.
Fuck, I love that.
I catch her hand, hold it there, and steal a kiss. She tastes like hope, like home.
“Go,” she murmurs against my lips, eyes sparkling. “They announced you already.”
I glare, waiting for her to answer me. I hate to let her go even for a second.
“Yes, I’ll be here, you crazy man. Now go.”
And I relent. Because she said exactly what I needed to hear.
Now I have no choice but to go to work.
For her.
For our baby.
For us.
chapter 20-maya
The bass thunders through the entire stage floor, rattling up my legs and into my chest.
The moment Rico steps onto the stage, the crowd erupts—screams so loud it almost feels like the air is splitting.
“El Tigre! El Tigre!” they chant, over and over, a living, breathing beast hungry for him.
And God, he gives them what they want.
I’ve seen him perform before, of course.
But this is different.
This is the first time I’ve watched him not just as a fan, not just as his lyricist, but as his wife.
And it feels electric.
He prowls the stage with that swagger that’s all his, commanding every eye, every breath.
Black on black, chain gleaming, belt buckle flashing under the lights—he looks every inch the star.
The bass starts. Those notes Rico wrote with every piece of his heart and soul.
And then he opens his mouth—and holy shit—the music just pours out of him.
Raw. Unfiltered. Mesmerizing. Soul lifting.
I swear the whole damn world tilts.
The melodies he wrote. The lyrics we’ve been working on together. Songs born from late nights tangled in sheets and mornings scribbling on napkins. He sings them all. They come alive here—on stage, through him.
His voice is pure fire—rough, guttural, aching with emotion one second, smooth and seductive the next.
The crowd moves with him, bodies swaying, arms lifted, feeding off the rhythm like he’s some kind of prophet.
