“I don’t work for people like you.”
That arrogant smile slides over his face again. “You’ve never met anyone like me.”
Oh, like different colored eyes makes him so special. I bet one of them is a contact lens. Poser.
“I have a loose concept for the video but the choreographer will get creative say over the dancing. They’ll work with the director and the costume and set designers. They’ll be paid a metric fuck ton of money. And if you take the job, I’ll do my best to keep your involvement a secret, if that’s what you want.”
So he knows about the nightmare with Palatine, and what? Doesn’t care? Doesn’t believe it? Hope flashes in my belly. Maybe there are people who believe that I never attacked Striker or took drugs on the job, even though I never spoke out and said so.
Itch Scratch was unknown until last week and it was fun working on their project. We filmed it all in a warehouse and Jasminta and Cassie could come and go freely because they weren’t famous. It would be vastly different working for Saint Cyprian as they’re one of the biggest bands in the country. I’ve already proven I don’t know how to work with famous people.
Rush heads over to the sound system. I think he’s going to take his phone and go, but then he taps it a few times, and a guitar riff fills the air. He leans against the wall, arms folded, mismatched eyes fixed on mine.
This is the track, I realize. Saint Cyprian’s new single that’s yet to be released. It starts with a dirty riff that has an electro edge and a dark bassline. Then the lead guitar and Rush’s voice join in, and the song soars. The track has a great beat. It would be amazing to dance to. The lead guitar motif strengthens, the bass grows, and then there’s a long solo followed by Rush’s soaring vocals. He has an amazing voice, one that can fill stadiums and whip audiences into a frenzy.
“What’s the song called?” I ask.
“‘Not Only.’ Actually, the full title is, ‘Not Only Will This Kill You, It Will Hurt The Whole Time You’re Dying.’”
That’s a mouthful. “What’s ‘this’?”
He lifts his heavy shoulders and lets them fall. “Life. Everything.”
Well, he’s not wrong there.
The music ends, and Rush slips his phone into his pocket. Then he just stands there, gazing at me. Waiting for me to say yes, because he knows how good that track is. Maybe I would have been tempted to say yes if it wasn’t for the fact that it would mean saying yes to Saint Cyprian. It would be like saying yes to Palatine all over again. A sick feeling crawls up the back of my throat. I barely survived Palatine, and now Striker Jones’ sworn nemesis is offering me a job. Palatine and Saint Cyprian are always trying to one-up each other in the charts, and there’s personal drama, too. Rush slept with Striker’s girlfriend a few years ago, I think, and Palatine smashed up some of Saint Cyprian’s instruments at a festival.
I imagine Striker Jones’ face if I popped up doing a Saint Cyprian video eight months after he humiliated me. God, that almost makes it tempting to say yes to Rush.
Almost.
I open my mouth to turn Rush down, but my eyes land on the clock above him on the wall. My shift at the restaurant is about to start, and I’m not there. I yelp and run for my bag and phone, calling over my shoulder, “Sorry, I can’t take the job and I’m late for work. Goodbye.”
At least that’s an awkward conversation avoided. I push through the double doors to the outside world and race down the street to the bus stop. I’m still in my practice pumps and leggings, but there’s nothing I can do about that.
“Please, please let there be a number sixty-seven,” I moan under my breath, standing on my tiptoes to look down the street for the bus. It’s fifteen minutes before one appears. There’s nothing I can do about my clothes right now, but I change into my sneakers on the bus.
As soon as I get off, I run for the restaurant. When I get inside, the manager takes in my breathless face and my dance clothes, and her face splits in a nasty, sarcastic smile.
My stomach plummets through the floor. This is all Rush Osman’s fault. Rock stars continue to ruin my life.
4
Rush
I’m sitting on the hood of my car when Dree leaves the restaurant, five minutes after she went inside. I meant to hang around for a bit and then go in and order some food from her, hoping she’d change her mind. Her head is bowed and her shoulders are slumped. In her dance clothes, mismatched leg warmers and her hair falling out of her bun, she looks as shabby as an unloved doll. She passes right by me without noticing I’m there.