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  • Writer's pictureJabe Stafford

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"Unlimited dancing videos online do not satisfy me,” Lexi whined through the speaker.

“And I want to know who’s a better hook-up than me,” Cadence June told the smartphone, squeezing it like it was her ex’s testicles.

Leather sofas heavy with absurdly mismatched outfits filled the dressing room backstage. Thousands of fans screeched and stomped for CJ.

An insatiable demand.

Right behind that wall and down one brick stadium hallway.

CJ’s feet only shook because the best fans in the universe did that to ground she was about to dance on. They could wait five more minutes while she tech-wrecked her ex’s life.

“Lexi,” she commanded the phone. “Switch us for five minutes.”

“Oh, I have got to dance,” Lexi moaned, “Programs never get the chance. Let us boogie.”

An eyeblink an it was done.

The A.I. Lexi was now in her brain. CJ’s mind stopped registering the goosebumps and the excited anxiety. It contained the whole of the cell carrier’s data rather easily. She’d memorized the coordinates of each music video location, every designer boutique, and every measurement of each performer she’d worked with. The better to help them get shit done faster.

She sought her ex’s location.

There he was. The dancer was with the skank.

CJ turned every webcam, console, and cell phone camera in his loft on. Nothing changed in the soft-lit room. Hungry groans arose for the cams to hear. Sweat-slicked backs pumped along with hips and adrenaline. CJ copied the tabloids’ inboxes with the links.

“Lexi, let me back in,” she commanded.


“Lexi, are those boos I hear?”

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