Chapter 6-Rico
I never really allowed myself to wonder what being married would feel like.
But if someone asked me, I don’t think I’d have ever imagined this.
After the brief ceremony at St. Al’s, we went back to Maya’s little apartment above the Whiskey Bar and packed her things.
Not that she had much—some clothes, a few books, notebooks filled with lyrics and scribbles in that looping handwriting of hers.
She looked small, almost embarrassed, shoving her life into two duffel bags while I stood there wanting to pick her up instead.
Her landlord didn’t even blink when I handed him notice.
Hell, the man was amused. Said she was a sweet tenant, always polite, always paid on time.
He waved off the twenty-five grand in cash I tried to leave him as a “sorry for the hassle.”
Didn’t want it.
Said I should come down to the bar sometime for a whiskey on the house.
I don’t drink whiskey, but I agreed.
Nice neighborhood, really. Too nice for a girl like Maya to hide in, thinking nobody would find her.
I made a mental note to have my realtor look into properties nearby.
That’s what I do now that the money’s finally coming in—buy real estate.
Anchor myself in places.
Build what my father never gave me.
A sense of permanence. A foundation.
Everything I want to give to Maya. And to my son.
Because the truth?
They don’t tell you when you’re chasing the dream, when you’re fighting to get out of the barrio with nothing but your voice, that if you get fucked on the first contract— and I did —it’s almost impossible to claw your way back.
Matheson owns too much of me.
The goddamn label does too.
But I’ll break free.
How? By becoming so big, so undeniable, that even he can’t cage me.
And I’ll do it with her.
Maya’s words are the key.
Her fire, her honesty, her soul— I need that. I need her.
But don’t get it twisted.
This isn’t about using her. I don’t want to steal her talent like a thief.
I want her as my partner. My wife. In every fucking way.
Because I don’t just need this woman. I love her.
She is my other half. She completes me in every way. I haven’t been right since she’s been gone.
Honestly? This is the first time I’ve felt like even a shadow of myself in months.
I haven’t said it because she wouldn’t believe me. Not yet.
I can see it in the way her eyes won’t quite meet mine. The way she holds herself stiff, like she’s waiting for me to break her again.
And maybe I deserve that.
But she’s carrying my baby. And now she’s wearing my ring.
It’s nothing fancy, just a small gold cross I inherited from my grandfather when I graduated high school.
It was too small for me, so I kept it on a chain around my neck. Now it’s on her finger.
And, fuck me, if it doesn’t look like it always belonged there.
I’m still feeling raw about how she turned her back on me. How she didn’t believe me.
But now that I have her back, I know I’m not letting her out of my sight.
Still, I have questions.
About her name.
About the sleek black Amex tucked into that little phone wallet.
About the address on her ID—Central Park West.
Maya’s been keeping secrets. Big ones.
And I intend to uncover every single one.
But even with the questions swirling, even with the anger simmering, when I look at her— really look at her —it’s lust that damn near drives me insane.
She’s standing there barefoot in her tiny living room, still wearing her short shorts and an oversized T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, and all I can think about is dragging it over her head.
She’s thick, curvy, sexy as fuck.
I know she thinks she’s too big, that she hides behind self-deprecating little jokes, but not to me. Never to me.
I love every inch of her.
The soft valleys, the lush curves, the parts of her that make a man want to drop to his knees and thank God for the miracle of her body.
She doesn’t get it yet.
She doesn’t know the lengths I’m willing to go for her.
But she will. We’ve got a few months before my son is born.
A son. Mine. Ours.
The words catch in my throat.
For a split second, fear claws at me.
What if I’m not enough? What if I fuck it up, the way my father did?
But then I shove those harmful thoughts away.
Because I already love him.
My son.
I already want him.
That alone makes me a better man than the one who gave me nothing but his absence.
But can I be the husband I want to be?
The man Maya deserves?
The answer isn’t at all complicated. It’s yes.
Plain. Simple. True.
Music starts to swell inside me, a low ache in my chest that builds and builds until I have to close my eyes and let it play.
Heartbreaking, sad, raw—my next hit, I can feel it already.
And this time, unlike the twenty half-finished tracks I’ve been circling for months, I know the words will come.
Because my wife will write them.