It’s the debut single for a girl duo called Itch Scratch. Cute name. The song is minimal electro pop and the video has been filmed in an empty soundstage lit with colored lights. The young women are in denim shorts, white T-shirts and sneakers. Then they start to dance.

These girls can dance.

And what a dance. The cameras cut in and out and move around, but whoever has directed this clip has respected what the choreographer has created. Their moves are fast. Energetic. Expressive. The room switches to black lights and the girls glow neon and then back again. The shot cuts to different boys and girls standing in for the duo, all wearing identical clothes. Then the dancing figures multiply, until everyone’s moving to the choreography.

When the video ends, I watch it again. The song is fantastic, but what makes the video so entrancing is the mix of dance styles. This choreographer knows their stuff.

I feel a buzz of excitement in my chest, and sit up. Whoever did this for Itch Scratch, I need to talk to them. I go straight to the credits and see that the duo are signed to Teenage Wildlife, a London indie label. I happen to know the owner, as she used to be vice president at Saint Cyprian’s label, Ryman.

I find Celeste’s number in my contacts and call her. It’s Friday night, but she answers on the second ring.

“Rush, baby. How are you?”

I can hear the grin in her voice and people talking. “Celeste, hey. Who choreographed that Itch Scratch track? The one that’s all over the internet this afternoon.”

“Oh, that? It’s great, right.”

I can hear the Itch Scratch track playing in the background. She’s probably at a party for the two young women right now.

“Yeah, I already said it was.” I wait for her to go on. She doesn’t. “Is it a secret or what?”

“Yep.”

“What? Why?”

“Obviously I can’t tell you.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. If it’s a secret then I’m definitely going to find out.” No one can keep a secret in this industry. “I want to hire them for our next single.”

“You want a choreographer?”

Instantly, my temper ratchets up to a nine point nine. You want a choreographer? Stay in your lane, Rush.

Fuck that.

“Yeah, I want a choreographer. And I’m going to have this choreographer.”

“Good luck.” She laughs and hangs up.

I glare at my phone. Someone’s got to know. I place calls to our manager, other people at the label and a few industry professionals I can trust, all asking them if they know who the mystery choreographer is. None of them do, but they promise to call me if they find out.

Celeste’s laugh is buzzing around under my skin. Yes, okay, maybe all of Saint Cyprian’s videos so far have been the band either performing the track or walking moodily through some visual story, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try something different. Not many people know or remember, but before the band was signed, I was going to be a dancer. I miss dancing and I’ve kept myself in good shape. I hope. The rest of the band says they’d rather lick a live wire than dance in our video, but they’re more than happy for me to give it a bash.

I pull the Itch Scratch music video up on my TV and kick my shoes and socks off. It’s been some years since I danced properly, but you don’t forget how once you’ve been trained. I watch and rewind parts of the clip, over and over, trying to copy the moves, but it’s a lot more complicated than it first seems.

I push my hand through my hair in frustration. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

I stalk to my laptop and rip the video from YouTube, and then slow it down by fifty percent and cast it to the TV. Now I’m able to follow it.

My curry arrives, but I leave it on the kitchen counter and go back to the living room.

An hour later, I have the first thirty seconds of the music video figured out, and I’m sweating beneath my Rin Landers T-shirt. Whoever’s responsible for this video, they know what they’re doing.

I want them. And I’m going to have them.

3

Dree

Fifty million views on YouTube.

I sit cross-legged on the dance studio floor, watching the Itch Scratch clip for about the thousandth time this week. Jasminta and Cassie flash in the black lights, their dance moves sparkling and precise. Pride bubbles through me. For eight months, it made me physically nauseous to put on my practice pumps, let alone step foot in a studio. I’ll never be a professional choreographer again but doing this one job for an old friend was fun. Jasminta is an amazing dancer and singer, and it’s such a thrill seeing someone so talented dancing to my moves. It was one final job for a good friend. Jasminta and Cassie were so patient with me, like I was their shy child at her first dance recital rather than the professional choreographer I’d once been.

Tags: Brianna Hale Erotic
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