Page 6 of Dirty Lyrics
Like she didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about how she looked.
Fuck. She was perfect.
But her words? Dios mío.
The first set of lyrics she handed me hit like a gut punch.
Honest. Sensual. A little dangerous.
She could take a simple phrase and twist it until it hurt in all the right ways.
Her Spanish? Flawless. Classroom, but still good.
The colloquialisms—the stuff kids who grew up like me would say and understand — well, that was easy.
Something I could teach her.
This classy, educated, breathtaking woman.
And I did.
I taught her that and so much more.
She understood rhythm—not just the kind you hear, but the kind you feel under your skin, the kind that makes you want to move.
Working with her was like someone turned the lights on in my head.
I’d been stuck, circling the same half-finished songs for months, and suddenly the words just flowed.
No, not just words—our words.
Every verse we built together was like foreplay.
Every chorus was a kiss we hadn’t stolen yet.
And when we finally crossed that line?
Forget about it.
The first night I touched her, I knew I’d never feel the same about another woman again. She wasn’t just in my bed—she was in my head, my music, my soul.
The things we did together? A fuego!
I didn’t even know I could need someone like that.
It was more than sex.
It was connection.
It was every slow burn love song I’d ever wanted to write but didn’t know how.
I thought we were good.
No—I thought we were it.
Then, she was gone.
One day I’m in the studio, laying down vocals, and the next I’m shoved into a goddamn PR stunt—Matheson’s idea, of course—posing for the cameras with some Manhattan heiress I couldn’t pick out of a lineup before that day.
