Page 7 of Dirty Lyrics
He sold it to me like business, like branding, like an investment in my future.
I hated every fucking second of it.
But Maya.
Fuck. I am such an asshole.
I didn’t tell her. I didn’t get to explain. But she must’ve seen the pictures.
The headlines.
She must’ve believed the story the press spun—that Rico Véliz, El Tigre, had found his muse, his next conquest.
She must have fucking hated me when she saw the song we wrote together, Fuego Lento, announced as my tribute to Lucy fucking Volkov.
I didn’t authorize that. But I also waited to explain.
I fucked up. And Maya? She ran.
No goodbye. No explanation. Not even a text.
Not that I deserved any of that.
Still, it irks that she thinks I’m just some two-timing punk who can’t keep his dick in his pants.
Yeah, I’ve had women—plenty—but Maya wasn’t part of that game.
She was different.
And I didn’t want anyone else.
I still don’t.
Not any of the women Matheson sends me to “inspire” my songwriting.
Not the groupies hanging around after every fucking show and concert.
And not Lucy fucking Volkov.
See, now? Now, I’m a mess without her.
And Matheson’s on my ass for a follow-up to Fuego Lento.
Says the fans are waiting. He says that Voce Records, the label I signed my shitty contract with, is ready to cash in.
But here’s the thing—I didn’t write those lyrics.
She did. The woman who wrecked my whole fucking life by waltzing in, changing everything, and then leaving me like a bad fucking habit.
It was always Maya’s voice wrapped in my melody.
Her heartbeat buried under mine.
The past few months? I’ve tried working with other writers.
I’ve tried to force the magic.
But it’s all bullshit.
