When I don’t answer, he narrows his eyes. “You are Ms. North, aren’t you?”
When Palatine wanted to work with me, I got an email from Striker’s PA. Striker Jones didn’t personally show up at the dance studio to offer me a job. If he had, maybe I would have fangirled and fluttered at him. I probably did when I came face to face with him the first time. Looking at Rush Osman, I just feel nauseated.
“Yes, I’m Dree North. But I’m not looking for work.”
I move toward the stereo to get my things, but Rush steps in front of me. “Sorry, Ms. North.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sorry. “I just want to talk. You did an amazing job with Itch Scratch. Can I at least tell you more about this project?”
The track I was dancing to finishes, and we’re smothered in silence. I can’t look at those unsettling eyes of his, so I focus on a spot over his shoulder. “I said I’m not looking for work. I’m too busy.”
In my peripheral vision, I see his jaw flex with irritation. I wonder what his face would look like if I told him the truth. That I’d rather poke out my eyes with hot needles than work with another man like him.
“I know there’s a scandal surrounding you, and your privacy is important to you right now. I don’t give a fuck about that drama. I need a choreographer who knows their stuff.”
My nails dig into my palms. I imagine them piercing my flesh and blood dripping between my fingers to pool on the floor. While I’m lost in this soothing image, Rush keeps talking.
“I imagine we’ll need a dozen backup dancers, but I’ll leave the details to the choreographer. I’m the one who’ll need the most instruction, because the boys have flat-out refused to dance.” He smiles, and I suppose it’s meant to be disarming. “I’m going to need whipping into shape.”
The boys. I guess he means his bandmates. It sounds like he wants to dance in his own clip, and I jump on that. “Sorry, I only work with trained dancers.”
“I can dance,” he insists.
Sure, he can jump up and down on stage. I’m talking about professional moves that take years to master, plus a little something extra that’s deep in your core that every dancer has.
Talent.
“Sorry, I don’t think you could keep up.”
Rush holds up a forefinger, and then digs his phone out of his pocket. He goes over to the sound system and exchanges my phone with his at the audio jack.
“What are you doing?”
He takes his jacket off and lays it over the barre, and then heads to the center of the room.
Rush Osman is going to dance. For me. I feel like I’m in a fever dream.
A moment later, the Itch Scratch track fills the air. My Itch Scratch track. The one I choreographed for two highly trained dancers. This is going to be a disaster. I prop my back against the wall, ready to enjoy him making an idiot of himself.
Rush starts to dance, and he doesn’t hold back. He keeps up with the hip-hop moves, and then spins in a near perfect pirouette. I bite the inside of my cheek.
When he finishes, he’s breathing hard. He looks at me with one eyebrow raised expectantly. “So?”
I cover my face with my hand, shaking my head. I shouldn’t have assumed anything. He’s classically trained.
When I look up, Rush is rubbing the back of his neck. “Was I really that bad?”
“No, no.” I may as well speak my mind. Shutting up hasn’t done me much good lately. “It’s just bizarre seeing the front man of Saint Cyprian dance the choreography I created for two young women.”
Not many aggressively heterosexual men would contemplate learning such a dance, let alone perfecting it. I look at him, standing there in his artfully grungy designer T-shirt, all careless hair and defined muscle. “You danced like a girl. And I mean that as a compliment.”
He smiles at me. I bet he gets anything he wants because of that smile. Before I fall prey to the sickening amount of charisma he’s oozing, I need to nip this in the bud. “It’s flattering that you did that, but I can’t take the job, sorry. Itch Scratch was a special case.”
“But I can dance?”
The charm I felt a moment ago transforms into irritation. He has tens of thousands of fans. Is he really so starved for praise that he needs it from me, too? “I’m too busy to stroke your ego. Excuse me.”
With one long step, he cuts me off again, and I find myself with a face full of his chest. “Cut it out!”
“I’ll cut it out when you take that chip off your shoulder,” he growls. “You’re not busy, and my ego is thriving without your help, thank you. I happen to know that doing the Itch Scratch video was the first time you’ve worked in eight months. Get over yourself and consider this job.”