Page 42 of Dirty Lyrics
When we’re not wrapped around each other, we’re wrapped up in the music, in the lyrics, in the work.
It’s all flowing, building, the kind of magic people wait their whole lives for.
Fuck, I wish we could just stay here forever.
But we can’t. And we both know it.
Still, I’m afraid. Afraid this is all too new, too fragile.
Our love.
The trust we’re rebuilding.
It’s still soft in the middle, not hardened yet against the world.
Once Maya sees me out there with the public, with the flashing lights and hungry eyes, I don’t want her to forget.
That’s just a role I play.
That’s El Tigre.
The real me? The real Rico? He only exists with her.
But there’s a concert tonight. A private showcase at a small club in the heart of Manhattan.
The guy hosting has clout, and some of the other artists on the bill are friends—guys who gave me chances when I was nothing.
I can’t let them down.
So, we get ready. In silence.
I pull on the usual—black on black, some designer set dropped off by a fashion house desperate for their name in the paper.
It fits. It feels good. So, I don’t question it.
Boots.
A thin gold chain.
A chunky leather belt with a fat gold buckle.
My prescription sunglasses tucked into my jacket pocket. Armor.
I’m adjusting the buckle when I hear the bathroom door click open.
And then my mouth fucking drops open.
Maya steps out, and she’s—Christ.
She’s wearing this frothy, sheer confection of a dress that makes her tits look insane—high, full, begging for my hands, full cleavage on display.
The bodice hugs her curves, tight and perfect, then the fabric flows loose over the gentle swell of her belly, dropping to the floor in sheer swatches that flash her legs up to mid-thigh with every step.
I swear I forget how to breathe when she steps out of that bathroom.
Maya freezes me in my tracks.
Every single time.
