Chapter 2-Rico
Music is my life.
I always hear it.
The melody comes from some place deep inside me.
Where exactly?
Hell if I know.
My mother used to say I was either gifted or cursed with this need to make music—depending on the day of the week and whether we had enough for rent.
When money was tight, it was a curse.
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.
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.
He sold it to me like business, like branding, like an investment in my future.
I hated every fucking second of it.
But Maya.
Fuck. I am such an asshole.
I didn’t tell her. I didn’t get to explain. But she must’ve seen the pictures.
The headlines .
She must’ve believed the story the press spun—that Rico Véliz, El Tigre, had found his muse, his next conquest.
She must have fucking hated me when she saw the song we wrote together, Fuego Lento , announced as my tribute to Lucy fucking Volkov.
I didn’t authorize that. But I also waited to explain.
I fucked up. And Maya? She ran.
No goodbye. No explanation. Not even a text.
Not that I deserved any of that.
Still, it irks that she thinks I’m just some two-timing punk who can’t keep his dick in his pants.
Yeah, I’ve had women—plenty—but Maya wasn’t part of that game.
She was different.
And I didn’t want anyone else.
I still don’t.
Not any of the women Matheson sends me to “inspire” my songwriting.
Not the groupies hanging around after every fucking show and concert.
And not Lucy fucking Volkov.
See, now? Now, I’m a mess without her.
And Matheson’s on my ass for a follow-up to Fuego Lento.
Says the fans are waiting. He says that Voce Records, the label I signed my shitty contract with, is ready to cash in.
But here’s the thing— I didn’t write those lyrics.
She did. The woman who wrecked my whole fucking life by waltzing in, changing everything, and then leaving me like a bad fucking habit.
It was always Maya’s voice wrapped in my melody.
Her heartbeat buried under mine.
The past few months? I’ve tried working with other writers.
I’ve tried to force the magic.
But it’s all bullshit.
Empty words, hollow rhymes.
The fans will hear it—they always do.
I need her back.
Fuck if she hates me.
I need her for the music.
That’s what I tell Matheson.
Even if he’s preoccupied these days—which honestly, is like a fucking favor from God. Whatever loyalty I think I feel for the man, it dried up weeks ago. Now, I can’t wait for our contract to be up.
And it’s what I tell the guys in the band. Maya is not just some ex I want to hunt down. This is business.
Yeah, Right. The truth?
I need her. That’s it. I. Need. Her.
Why? Because she’s herself. Because she made me feel like more than just El Tigre—the stage persona, the brand, the icon.
With her, I can be myself.
Just Rico.
Just a man.
And I’m not sure I know how to be me anymore. Not without her.
I don’t care if she’s angry.
I don’t care if she spits in my face.
I just want to hear it from her lips—why she left.
Why didn’t she trust me enough to stay?
Because the not knowing? That’s the part that’s killing me.
Anyway, I’m half-asleep on the leather couch in my home studio when my phone buzzes across the coffee table.
I ignore it at first, thinking it’s another message from Matheson, but then I see the name flash across the screen.
Chuy. One of my oldest friends from the neighborhood.
“Wassup, hermano ?” I answer.
“You’re still looking for that girl, right?” His voice is low, like he’s calling from some place he shouldn’t be.
My heart kicks up. “Maya?”
“I think I found her.”
I sit up so fast I almost drop the phone.
“Where?”
He hesitates, like maybe he’s second-guessing telling me.
“Small town in Jersey. Real quiet. Not too far from the city. I saw her at this farmers' market buying some fresh peaches like she didn’t have a care in the world.”
The image slams into me— her hair loose, her smile soft, her hand reaching for fruit —and my chest aches.
“Text me the address,” I say.
“Rico, think this through?—”
“Send it,” I cut him off.
Because if she thinks she can hide from me forever, she’s wrong.
I’m going to find her.
And this time, she’s not going anywhere until I say so.
Oh no. My little Songbird isn’t leaving my sight.
Not until I’m ready to cut her loose— if that day ever comes .