Page 20 of Dirty Lyrics
Heartbreaking, sad, raw—my next hit, I can feel it already.
And this time, unlike the twenty half-finished tracks I’ve been circling for months, I know the words will come.
Because my wife will write them.
chapter 7-maya
The moon is bright, hanging over the glittering skyline as we pull up in front of the glass-and-steel tower.
Exclusive. Intimidating.
The kind of place you pass by on your way to somewhere else and wonder what it would be like to live there.
Rico doesn’t wonder because he lives there, and he owns his place.
I know because I overheard him mention it once, gruff and proud in that way he tries to hide.
He bought it recently, in the last year, tired of living in apartments that technically belonged to the studio—or worse, to Matheson.
He wanted something that was his.
My gut twists.
We ride the private elevator in silence. Rico, me, Chuy, and two enormous roller suitcases, plus the smaller duffle Rico insisted on carrying himself.
I’m left with nothing but my purse because, apparently, my husband won’t allow me to carry more.
That’s who Rico is.
Old-fashioned.
Over-the-top.
An alpha male straight out of a movie—or a romance novel.
And I hate that some foolish, girlish part of me wants to think it means I’m special.
I’m not. He’d do that for any woman. That’s just who he is.
And here it comes. The part I hate. The part where my doubts crawl up my throat, where all my ugly insecurities line up to remind me what I am.
A poor, fat little rich girl.
A daughter no one wanted.
People don’t care about problems like mine. They think fat people deserve what they get because, hey, you can’t get fat without being greedy, and greed is a sin.
At least, that’s the way it was explained to me when I was young by one of my nannies. But fat isn’t my only sin. Money is next.
See, by the time I was born my father already had money, more than most could ever dream of.
My mother—what little I knew of her—was gone before I was old enough to ask the right questions.
So it was nannies. Tutors. Boarding school. Don’t feel bad, I loved living at school.
My father’s rare attention was worse than his absence.
Because when he did look at me? I was never enough.
