Page 58 of Dirty Lyrics
He grins, shark-like. “Okay, scotch and soda.”
I just shake my head and lead him into the living room, where the little mini bar sits gleaming. Ice clinks in the glass as I pour, my back to him, giving myself those few precious seconds to breathe.
I hand him his drink and pour myself a seltzer with a slice of fresh lemon floating in the top.
He eyes it, unimpressed, but takes a sip. Then his gaze sweeps over me, sharp, assessing.
“You look different,” he says finally.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, you were always plump, Maya, but you're bigger than I recall.”
My stomach drops.
My chest tightens.
“Did you come all the way across town to see if I was still fat, Dad? I could’ve sent you a picture,” I reply.
I have no idea where my sass is coming from, but I like it.
“What? No! But the rumors are true, then? That punk sonovabitch knocked you up?”
And there it is.
The real reason he’s here.
I let out a short laugh with no humor in it.
“Always straight to business with you, Dad. Not even a congratulations?”
He waves his hand like the word is beneath him.
“I don’t do congratulations, Maya. I do reality. And reality is, you’ve tied yourself to some hotheaded singer with more temper than brains. But lucky for you,” he says and leans back, flashing his teeth, “I’m willing to bring him into the fold. Gold Records could be good for someone like him. Big sound. Big numbers. Big money.”
The offer hangs heavy in the air.
For a split second, I see the wheels turning in his head—the same way he’s sized up every artist, every contract, every deal in his empire.
He’s not here for me. Or the baby, whom he clearly knows about—his grandson.
He’s here for Rico.
“No,” I say, firm and fast, the word snapping sharp in the quiet of the condo.
My father’s brows shoot up, his mouth twisting like he’s not sure if I’ve lost my mind or grown a spine he can’t snap.
“No? Do you have any idea how many people would kill for a contract with me?!”
“That might be so,” I reply, my voice steady even as my heart pounds, “but you’re asking me about a deal for El Tigre. And the answer is absolutely not.”
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing.
“Let Rico speak for himself, Maya.”
Before I can answer, another voice cuts through the room like a blade.
“Oh, I can do that, Mr. Gold,” Rico growls, deep and sure. “But my wife can, too. See I’m not El Tigre. That’s a stage name. A brand. And me and Maya? We’re partners. In that and everything else we choose to do.”
