Page 132 of Spark

“Fitzy?” Savage asks his wife sitting at his feet. “Do you want to do a dare, baby?”

“Yes, but not here, my love. Dare me tonight, when we’re all alone, and I promise I’ll doanythingyou want, Birthday Boy.”

The party whoops at that, and Savage plays up the moment for a long beat, making everyone laugh and cheer even louder. Finally, however, the birthday boy returns to the task at hand by selecting his next victim down the line:Ruby. The woman who’s got no idea she’s about to become my fiancée. My future wife. God willing, anyway.

“Ruby Duby,” Savage says solemnly, leveling her with every ounce of his world-famous charisma. “Would you like toperform an original poem, song, or interpretative dance for the party?”

“A song.”

The crowd cheers.

“That is, if Laila is okay with me borrowing her beautiful piano for a few minutes?”

“Please, do.”

As the rowdy crowd titters and claps, Savage and Laila both vacate the piano bench, and Ruby gets herself situated. Like Laila before her, Ruby stretches out her fingers like a virtuoso preparing to play at Carnegie Hall, and a moment later, Ruby begins playing a dramatic, foreboding introduction that could easily be something fromPhantom of the Opera.

The crowd is transfixed, holding their collective breath in anticipation of whatever lyrics Ruby’s going to pair with this dramatic instrumentation. But when Ruby knows she’s got everyone here in the palm of her hand, she pauses in her playing, ever so briefly, with her head slung back and her eyes closed, before lifting her head, hunching over, and launching into a two-chord, up-and-down banger that’s straight out of a circus.

Everyone guffaws at the sudden shift in tone, and a moment later, Ruby sings, “Savage sangLaila, tried to sell it as la-la. We all knew the truth, though, our rockstar was a gone-ah. And now, a soon-to-be daddaaa!”

The crowd cheers.

“Ooooh, nothing makes me gladda, than a fuckboy breaking freeeeeeeee! And finding the soulmate that makes him so happyyyyyyyy!”

Again, the party cheers, while Savage and Laila snuggle and laugh their asses off.

Ruby continues singing, “Oh, Mister Savage, do you know the old adage? Happy wife, happy life. Happy man, happy band. We’re all so happy for you, Adri-an. So happy, Ican’t make a joke about that. Now, to your future kiddo: Oh, the places you’ll go! And wherever that is, always know, you’ll have your Auntie Ruby in tow to love you like her ooooooown!” Ruby plays a chord and lets the sound reverberate for a beat through the room—long enough to signal the ending to her masterpiece and elicit hoots and applause. But just as the applause starts in earnest, Ruby belts out her final line with enthusiasm, drawing out every syllable for emphasis: “Happy birthday, Savage!” Finally, with her song officially completed, she throws back her head dramatically and plays a rumble on the piano, while the crowd applauds loudly and raucously.

As the crowd continues expressing its approval, Ruby gets up from the piano bench and takes a demure bow, before accepting a hug from both Savage and Laila.

But when our hosts are done loving up on my future wife, I pull her to me and gush about how awesome that was, almost forgetting . . .

“Okay, KC,” Savage says. “You’re up.”

That.

Shit.

Fuck.

The moment I’ve been waiting for has finally arrived, and I’m equal parts ecstatic and terrified.

“Original poem, song, or interpretative dance?” Savage asks.

My heart feels lodged in my throat. “Poem.”

Next to me, Ruby cheers, along with the rest of the party. And it’s easy to surmise she, and everyone else, are excited to witness Savage’s third option being selected for the first time in his silly game.

My heart stampeding, I climb to standing on the piano bench vacated by Ruby, and Laila, who knows what’s comingnext, helps me out by pulling her to a spot that’s a few feet away from me in perfect view of everyone.

“Savage,” I bellow. “Happy twenty-eighth birthday, my brother. In your honor, I will be performing an original poem, written by me—a dramatic and erotic poem that’s going to take your breath away with its honesty, vulnerability, humanity, and pure filthiness.”

“I’d expect nothing less from such a wordsmith,” Savage says, making everyone chuckle.

I hang my head down and clasp my hands in front of my crotch for a long moment. And when I finally raise my head, I lock eyes with Ruby and announce, “Behold, this poem called . . . ‘Spank.’”

Predictably, Ruby loses it, along with our other bandmates and Laila, all of whom know the backstory behind the joke. Everyone else at the party is laughing, too. Just as hard as Ruby, actually. But, obviously, they’re all busting up, simply because the title of my piece is a titillating word that’s not at all what they expected, given my dramatic wind-up.

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