Page 44 of Dirty Lyrics
Camera flashes explode like fucking gunfire—white-hot bursts strobing against the night sky, searing my vision.
The velvet ropes groan under the weight of bodies pressing in, people shouting, jostling, waving cameras and cell phones.
Security lines the walkway, trying to hold the chaos back, but it’s like trying to dam a flood with bare hands.
The noise is deafening. Voices clash together in an ugly chorus—my name, her name, shouted questions, insults, demands.
It feels like stepping into a battlefield.
And Maya’s right beside me.
Fuck.
The paparazzi descend like wolves, rabid, their cameras snapping so fast the sound is indistinguishable from machine gun fire.
Shutters click, lights burn, microphones shove forward like weapons.
I hear it in an instant.
The way they call her name. Her real name.
They know. Somehow these vultures know she’s Alberto Gold’s daughter.
“Maya Gold!”
“El Tigre out on the town with a record exec’s daughter! Career move?”
“Did Rico throw over Diablita for the Gold Records heiress?”
“Is that a baby bump already? What about Lucy, Rico?”
Every word is a bullet.
My blood runs cold.
Because me? I can take the hits. I’ve been taking them since day one—scraps on the streets, backroom deals, contracts designed to bleed me dry.
I can fight. I can survive.
But my sweet Songbird? My Maya?
She doesn’t deserve this. She didn’t sign up for this slaughter.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a star. I don’t feel untouchable.
I feel like a man who just put the woman he loves in front of a fucking firing squad.
And it sucks. It fucking guts me.
My instincts go feral. I want to grab her, throw her back in the SUV, tell Chuy to floor it and take us anywhere but here.
I want to burn every camera to the ground and tear the world apart until it shuts the fuck up about her.
But then—her hand.
Soft. Steady. Resting against my elbow.
I look down, and she’s smiling. Smiling.
