Page 40 of Spark

Reed chuckles. “All right, Ruby Tuesday. Have it your way. It was great talking to you, my dear, but I need to take another call now.”

“Tell Georgina hello for me. Tell her I’m sorry she’s married to a man who’s incapable of empathy and compassion.”

Reed laughs. “Will do. But only if you do me a favor in return. When it turns out I’m right about this?—”

“That will never happen.”

“Yes, it will. I don’t know what form it’ll take. All I know is this song will bring you some opportunity and/or financial gain that’s not presently visible on the horizon. And when that happens, whatever form it takes, I want you to shoot me a text that says, ‘You were right, Reed. Cooper’s song was a blessing in disguise. Thank you so much for not pulling it.’”

“I’d rather die than send you a text like that.”

“That’s all the more reason it’s going to delight me when it comes.”

10

KENDRICK

Three days later

This is one hell of a twenty-eighth birthday party.

It’s also the wrap party for our tour, thank God, which probably explains why everyone is letting loose to the extreme. Ruby, especially, has been whooping it up tonight. Surely she’s trying to give herself some fun—and alcohol-induced amnesia about the insane success of Cooper’s song these past three days—even more so than she’s celebrating her bestie’s twenty-eight trips around the sun. Either way, Ruby’s boisterous energy has whipped up everyone here, and the night has been all the more fun and rowdier because of her.

We’re in Savage and Laila’s massive suite, and it’s packed to the gills tonight with dancing, laughing, chatting people. In addition to all my bandmates, the spacious room is filled with all our staffers and most crew members, a few of their plus-ones, and a smattering of celebrities and their guests. WithSavage and Laila enjoying A-list status these days, every famous face with access to a private jet, or who already happened to be shooting a project in Vancouver, seems to be here. It’s kind of wild, honestly. The kid practicing his drums in that basement in the South Side wouldn’t have believed the guest list if he’d been shown this scene in a crystal ball.

We’re about three hours in, so I’m honestly pretty drunk. Presently, I’m sipping on a double whiskey neat while chatting with a pretty actress who’s shooting season three of a hit show on a streaming platform—a show I’ve binged with Ruby, actually.

Speaking of Ruby Tuesday, she’s currently dancing like a maniac with her gaggle of friends from the staff and crew to her favorite pop song. And, man, she’s a sight to see. Thoroughly entertaining. Funny. Sexy. While trying to squeeze upcoming plot points out of the actress I’ve been chatting with, I can’t keep my eyes from constantly drifting to her. She’s on fire out there.

The current tune blaring through the party is Aloha Carmichael’s iconic, girl-power anthem, “Pretty Girl,” and Ruby and her friends, led by Ruby, are doing the famous choreography from the music video. Watching her now brings to mind a vision of her dancing and singing along to this same song with all her high school friends at our senior prom, back when the song was a new release. Man, I was in love with her back then. Desperately. And she had no idea.

Ruby being Ruby, she went to prom with a group of girlfriends rather than trifling with Jake Silva, the football player who’d shocked her—and me—by coming out of the woodwork to ask her to be his date. I wanted to go with friends, honestly, so I could dance with Ruby and her friends all night. But, really, with Ruby.

But since Titus and all my other teammates were taking dates—apparently, that’s what the cool kids and athletes didat St. Francis Academy—I bowed to expectation and asked Celeste Matthews, the head cheerleader, to the dance. I wasn’t particularly feeling anything for Celeste, but several of her friends were already going with some of mine, so it made sense. Once we got to the dance, however, I spent the whole night covertly watching Ruby dancing, much the same way I’m watching her now.

“So, anyhoo,” the actress says, temporarily drawing my eyes from Ruby on the dance floor. “It was a lot of work to learn how to use a sword properly and convincingly, but it’s also been rewarding to hear everyone saying I got it so right, you know?”

My drunk brain registers it’s my turn to speak now. “Cool. What’s your favorite and least favorite things about doing the show?”

“Oh my gosh. That’s such a great question. Let’s see.”

As she launches into her reply, I return my gaze to Ruby, just in time to see her performing the famous ending dance moves with flair. As Ruby and her friends whoop and celebrate, a new song begins, and they all start screaming and jumping around. It’s none other than Fugitive Summer’s biggest hit yet—the song we released a few years ago that changed all our lives forever: “Hate Sex High.”

“Excuse me,” I blurt, cutting off the actress mid-sentence. “Sorry, it’s our tradition. I have to dance to this song with my band.” It’s not a lie. But it feels like one, since I would have said anything at this point to disentangle myself from that flirty actress and join Ruby on the dance floor.

As I make my way toward the makeshift dance floor, I lock eyes with our tour manager, Caden, our DJ across the room. I salute him in thanks, and he winks and returns the gesture. And a moment later, when I reach Ruby, I take her hands in mine, and we jump around like two kangaroos on meth. A few seconds after that, our three other bandmates, plus Laila,arrive and join our huddle, and the six of us start dancing like there’s no tomorrow, even before Savage’s voice starts singing on the track. But of course, when Savage starts singing on the recording, all six of us sing along with him at the top of our lungs:

Saw you with him at the show

I didn’t like it

I played it cold to your face

But I was on fire

He said you were his all along

And I didn’t like it

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