When I come out, Rush is gone.
Downstairs, Rush isn’t there, either. Ten minutes go by, and I get distracted talking to the costume designer about the hairstyles for the dancers. When I turn around, Rush is there and he and the chorus are running through the dance that ends with him being locked up in the wicker man. I study his face and he seems normal and relaxed again.
I’m not needed for this dance, and Marlena handles the direction. I sit to one side, my arms around my knees. Maybe the heat and the stress of the day gave him a headache. We’re done after that, and I go back upstairs for a shower and a change of clothes.
An hour later, hunger drives me back downstairs again. I’m sitting on a sofa wearing a cropped tee and jeans and eating a plate of pasta salad when Rush joins me. He’s holding two bottles of beer along with a plate of food, and he offers me a beer.
“Thanks. Cheers,” I say, taking one, clinking the neck of the bottle against his and taking a sip. The beer is bubbly and refreshing after the long, exhausting day. I search his face for any sign of annoyance or pain, or just anything to explain what happened earlier. But there’s nothing.
Rush eats for a moment, and then glances around before saying in a low voice, “Before. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
I shake my head. I’ll feel the battering he gave me with his cock tomorrow, but that doesn’t bother me. I like when he makes me feel it. What I actually want to know is if he’s okay and what set off that crazed mood that came over him while we were having sex.
“Rush, is everything—”
He speaks quickly. “I’ve been running over a few ideas for the statement we could put out publicly, about you choreographing the video and being in it. What do you think of this?”
He passes me his phone, and I read the paragraphs of text. Saint Cyprian is grateful to have me on the team. New era for the band. Yada yada.
“It’s what I asked for, isn’t it?” I say, passing his phone back.
“It is. There’s so much more I wanted to say, but I thought it best to keep it short.”
“Oh? Like what?”
He shrugs one shoulder as if I’ve put him on the spot. I know I haven’t. I can tell from his expression that he was hoping I’d ask. “Like how everything feels like it’s coming together because you’re here. You took my shaky idea and ran with it, and now it’s turning into one of the best things I’ve ever done.”
A pleased blush steals over my cheeks. Is that how he’s framed my part in this in his head? It’s a lot more prominent than I’ve been imagining it. “It’s your music and your vision. I’m just the choreographer.”
Rush gives me a sidelong glance with catlike eyes. “Anyway. That’s the statement. Want me to send it out?”
I stare at his phone, imagining Striker reading that press release and sneering about me, and about Rush and Saint Cyprian. Then egging on his followers to make a joke out of “Not Only” before it’s even dropped.
I agreed to be in this video. I should just be in it.
“Do you mind if we skip it?” I ask Rush. “The part about me, anyway. I’d rather let my work speak for itself rather than sound defensive about it before anyone’s even seen it. Does that make sense?”
He smiles slowly. “Yeah. It does.”
Rush perks up a little after that and takes a long swallow of beer between mouthfuls of his dinner. Then he picks up his phone again. “What do you think of these?”
He shows me a set of photographs taken earlier today while Rush and I were rehearsing. The tips of our fingers touching. Rush lifting me in his arms. Damn, we look good together. I didn’t realize anyone was taking pictures.
“I thought one of these might make a good teaser if I posted it,” he explains.
“What, online?”
Well, where else, dummy? I scroll through the pictures again and realize my face isn’t fully visible in any. There’s my cheek, my chin, my hair. No one could tell it’s me.
“Pick one, if you like the idea,” Rush says.
I don’t hate the idea. In fact, the more I look at them, the more intrigued I am by what his fans’ reactions will be. They’ve never seen him dance before.
They’re all beautiful pictures, but there’s one that I like the best. I’m stretched up on tiptoe and draped back over his arm until my head’s nearly touching the floor. Rush has his other arm flung out and his body is positioned perfectly, hovering over me. He’s gazing down at me with just the right expression. Focus. Yearning. A touch of heat. I zoom in, and my stomach flip flops.