Page 5 of Dirty Lyrics
When I could pay the bills, it was a gift.
But for me? It’s always been both.
I can’t shut it off. Even in the middle of a crowded club or lying awake at four in the morning staring at the ceiling, I hear it.
A bass line, a hook, a verse—it just lives in me.
Like my heartbeat.
Like the whoosh of air that fills my lungs, then leaves, with every breath I take.
The melody’s never the problem.
It’s the words that kill me.
My manager, Daniel Matheson, is a fucking prick—slick suits, whiter-than-white smile, eyes always calculating the next dollar.
But he was the first guy to sign me when I was nothing but a barrio kid with a demo tape full of rhythms and beats and a voice nobody cared about yet.
I’ve felt this messed-up loyalty to him ever since, like I owe him for getting me out of the grind.
Matheson’s obsessed with pushing me onto the pop charts. Wants all that money and power for himself. He doesn’t give a fuck about me. And the way my contract is right now, he’d be the one to get it, too.
He keeps talking about crossover appeal like it’s the holy grail, but Latin music is in my blood.
Oh, I have no doubt I’ll crossover into the pop charts, but I plan to do it my way. Not his.
My music? It comes from my heart. It’s my mother’s voice singing boleros in the kitchen, my grandfather’s old guitar with the cracked neck, the block parties in the heat where everyone knows the lyrics before the song’s even over.
I can’t just throw that away.
I don’t want to.
And then, a couple of months ago, she walked in.
Maya Blanco.
I didn’t know her name the first time I saw her, but I knew the second she opened her mouth she was trouble—the kind you run toward, not away from.
The kind I always seem to get mixed up in.
She wasn’t heavily made-up or trying to entice me. No silicone tits, fake ass, or flashy, non-existent clothes.
Not like the girls who hang around backstage, prancing around like they were auditioning for the runway, hoping to end up in my bed.
No. Not her.
And I admit, that intrigued me.
Maya has curves for days and a smile that wasn’t begging for attention, which somehow made me want all of hers.
And it made me want to give her all of mine in return.
She makes me want to do things—dirty things—to her sweet body.
My first impression? She’s so good. So clean. I want her filthy. I want her begging.
Her dark hair fell in loose waves. Her lips were soft and unpainted.
