Page 47 of Dirty Lyrics
I want to shrink. To vanish. To run.
But then I remember Rico’s hand gripping mine outside, the way he kissed me in front of the cameras like he didn’t give a damn who saw.
I remember his voice, fierce and raw.
You’re mine, Maya. Always were, always will be.
And I lift my chin.
If they think they can cut me down, they’re wrong. Because I may not look like their version of perfect—but I’m the one he came here with, and I’m the one he’s leaving with.
The one he married.
The one carrying his child.
Still, the sting lingers, sharp and ugly, worming its way inside.
I push it all away—the flashing cameras, the screaming questions, the sting of those awful headlines. I have to. Otherwise, I’ll crumble right here.
Instead, I stand on the side of the big stage, shifting from foot to foot, wondering if this is even where I’m supposed to be.
Stagehands weave around me like a hive in motion, barking into headsets, dragging cords, adjusting lights that blind me every few seconds.
The air smells like hot wires, sweat, and the faint tang of smoke machines. Everyone seems to know exactly what they’re doing. Everyone belongs.
Except me.
I fold my arms, trying to make myself smaller, out of the way. I turn my head left, then right, searching for Rico, for Chuy, for anyone I might recognize.
But all I see are strangers in black shirts and tool belts, moving too fast to notice me.
My palms are starting to sweat. My stomach twists.
I don’t want to be the girl lost in the wings, looking like a tagalong. I don’t want to embarrass Rico by sticking out.
I promised him I’d be strong, but God, I feel so out of place here.
The sound of the crowd swells on the other side of the curtain, their chants and screams pounding in my chest like a second heartbeat.
I clutch my water bottle tighter, focusing on the condensation beading against my fingers. Anything to keep myself grounded.
And then—he’s there.
Rico bursts into the area where I’m standing out like a sore thumb.
He’s all black fire and golden heat, like the heavens themselves just spat him out.
He commands the space without even trying—jaw hard, eyes burning, his body vibrating with energy that feels too big for these walls.
The stagehands pause when he passes.
People look up. Everyone feels it.
And me?
My breath catches. My chest aches with so much pride and want, I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it from spilling out.
Because this man—this rockstar—is mine.
