Rush

Dree smiles, her face radiant. “I rather like the sound of her.”

I stare down into her pretty face. Yeah, me too. I want to ask her about Striker, and jealousy thunders through me at the thought he saw her first. Now whenever she looks at me, she thinks of him. I know she does.

“What was it you wanted?”

“I’ve forgotten. Bye, then.”

“Bye, Rush.” She turns and walks toward the car, case in hand. I watch the car drive away, taking Dree with it.

I turn and walk back up the steps, smiling, because as much as she doesn’t like people like me, she just can’t say no to the job.

She doesn’t even know me. I’m fucking lovely. I’ll show her.

Later that evening, I have Thomas send Dree the contract that I’m hoping she’ll sign, the schedule for next week and the latest cut of “Not Only” so she can start planning the choreography. If she falls in love with the music and her ideas, then there’ll be no backing out. It’s a big undertaking, but I know she can do it.

I feel immense pride as I listen to the track once more. There’s been so much shit between the last album and this one. Producing other people’s music is rewarding, but it feels incredible to be focused on ours again.

I lean back in my desk chair and stretch my arms over my head. I’ll need to up the number of conditioning sessions I have with my trainer now that the filming is drawing closer. My partner in the video will be a professional dancer, so I’ll have to be able to keep up. I wonder who she’ll be. I hum softly as I imagine dancing, and in my mind, my partner has dark hair and brown eyes, and a smile that tilts the corner of her mouth up just so.

The band and I get through a good chunk of the recording over the next few days, and by Friday we’re all restless. Wes suggests we head up to London for a party he’s been invited to, and we all drive up. I spend Saturday morning with my sister and her kids on Hampstead Heath. Kids are so grounding. They don’t give a damn that I’m Rush Osman of Saint Cyprian. They just want Uncle Rush to play ball with them and convince their mother they need another ice cream.

The party Wes takes us to turns out to be painfully uptight, and at midnight, our friend Eoin suggests we head to a club in Chelsea instead. When we get to Baroque, there’s a line down the street to get in, but we head straight through to the VIP section.

It has a mezzanine overlooking the main dancefloor, and Eoin and I stand there with our drinks, watching the people moving below.

“Haven’t seen you with a woman lately,” Eoin remarks.

Dree’s face flits across my mind. “Guess I haven’t met anyone I like.”

I don’t want just anyone. I want a specific kind of someone, one who lets me be something I haven’t tried before. A pretty someone who’s a tough little thing but knows how to melt into an obedient puddle for me. Just for me. I’ve watched a load of BDSM porn, wondering if that’s what I want, and I think the answer is maybe, but not exactly. I’m not into latex and fetish gear. I like something prettier. Softer. An image of a dancer in ballet pink wanders tantalizingly through my mind. The way Dree looked up at me while we were dancing, there’s something in that vulnerable look that I crave.

No. Need.

I need it.

And I’m done with everyone else. I want that, or nothing.

Eoin begins pointing out women on the dancefloor, asking me what I think of them, all slender brunettes with long, dark hair. He knows my type. I play along, agreeing absently that they’re all lovely, but thinking about other things. I wonder if Dree’s had any more ideas for the music video. She’s due down at my house in Shropshire on Monday and we’re going to start mapping out the choreography. I love having my house full of people, all working together. It’s the reason I wanted a big house. A place where my favorite creative people can gather and stimulate each other’s imaginations. There’s a large, empty room on the ground floor with a high ceiling and a parquet floor. Large windows on two sides drench the room in natural light. It would make a perfect dance studio for rehearsals.

I’m imagining Dree dancing in that room, her slender body clad in tights and a leotard, when I spot her on the dancefloor below. It must be my eyes playing tricks on me under the flashing lights.

I look again, and it’s not a trick. It is Dree. She’s wearing a skimpy black halter-neck dress and dancing. The fabric clings to her petite frame, and the strands of her silky hair move across her bare back. Her movements are sinuous and carefree, and there’s a smile on her lips. I can’t tear my eyes away from her.