Bad idea.

Bad, bad idea.

I take a nap, splash some cold water on my face and go over my emails. The director, Marlena, and I need to cast the dancers for the clip, and I need to nail down the choreography. I’ve been listening to Saint Cyprian’s track as I travel back and forth between Rush’s house and London, mapping out ideas in my head.

There’s an email from Thomas, telling me he has my contract and to come sign it when I get a minute. There’s also that unanswered email from Rush, asking for my number. If I’m staying, then he needs to be able to get in contact with me. If I’m going, then I need to stop dicking about and just go.

So, in or out?

I type an email. A few minutes later, my phone buzzes with a text message. A blue heart from an unknown number. I smile as I see it. I save Rush’s number as a new contact, remembering his mouth on mine.

I pull on leggings, a cropped tee and soft dance shoes, and go in search of the ballroom that the director mentioned in an email. She said it would a perfect place to audition the dancers and rehearse the routine.

I find Thomas first, and sign the contract with a wildly beating heart. Now I really am committed to the job. And to the rest? The things I asked Rush for and that he seems oh so happy to do with me?

I have no idea.

Professional me is at war with the rest of me, and I’m not sure who’s going to win when the man I’ll be working closely with is the same man I want to ram his hand down the front of my jeans and feel how wet I am for him.

The ballroom looks like it used to be the great hall of the medieval part of the manor, and there’s still a gallery overlooking it at one end where the musicians would have played to the lord and lady of the house. There are huge windows along one wall, looking out onto the garden. All the furniture has been moved out of it. The floor is parquet and relatively new. It would have been hellish trying to dance on crooked old floorboards.

I put in my earbuds and play “Not Only” on repeat, trying out the moves I’ve sketched in my head. Rush hired me based on the choreography I did for Itch Scratch and the videos he watched on my YouTube channel, but that was all alternative pop. Saint Cyprian is rock music. Rush wants something iconic. I’ve never been responsible for anything like that. How can you just decide to be iconic? Apparently Rush has. No, he already is. What the hell do I think I’m doing? Crap.

Half an hour later, I’m sweating and breathing hard, and I’m filled with self-doubt. Everything I try feels forced and false, or doesn’t go with the music. I sit down cross-legged on the floor and close my eyes, listening to the track again.

Focus on the music. Forget about everything else. Clutching all my baggage like it’s a lifeline is going to sink me so fast. I need to just listen. Ulf’s drums, Anders’ rhythm guitar, Wes’ bass and Rush’s lead guitar and vocals twine through my mind. It’s a complex, eclectic sound, so the dance should the same. The dancers will be talented. Rush can dance. There’s nothing holding me back except for what I’m afraid of. I’ve already been torn to pieces in an open forum.

And I lived, bitch.

I get to my feet and prop my phone on a window ledge, turning the camera on. I try the choreography again, improvising and mixing up the moves as I dance. I do this four times, dancing it differently each time. Then I stand in the middle of the room, my sweat cooling on my brow, watching the video. I might have something here.

The sun is setting and the band and everyone else on the team is starting to gather in dining room to eat and chat. I grab a bottle of water and a wrap from one of the catering tables and head out after waving to a few people who call out hellos to me.

As I’m squeezing between bodies to get out of the room, Rush is suddenly in front of me. He glances down at my attire.

“Been dancing? Got something for me to see?” He takes a step as if to follow me, but I shake my head as I walk backwards away from him.

“Not yet. It’s not ready to see yet.” I flash him a quick smile and then hurry toward the staircase.

Up in my room, I upload the video to my computer and start to edit it, using the video software that came with the system. I take the best bits from my four attempts and start to cut them together, laying them over the track. Then I watch it through, swapping out the moves until the video is a narrative like the one Rush and I talked about. It’s not every role. I’ve danced the Priestess’ role and some of Rush’s, and some of what the chorus will dance as well. It’s hardly a quality recording, but it’s enough to communicate the style and feel that I’m going for. I think it communicates it, anyway. Usually, I just dance the piece for the person who hired me, face to face in their living room or the studio I use, and it’s no big deal. This time, it’s a big deal.

Tags: Brianna Hale Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net