Page 129 of Spark

Miraculously, we’re both able to share a smile about the whole thing. Cooper’s smile looks rueful to me. Tinged with sadness, unlike mine. But you know what? I’ll take it. I glance over at Kendrick across the room. Not surprisingly, he’s watching Cooper and me intently. Which means his blasé, nonchalant reaction from earlier was an act, God bless him. I flash him a thumbs-up, and my boyfriend winks and goes back to his conversation.

“Is Kendrick furious he’s in the song?” Cooper whispers. “Do I need to avoid him for the rest of my life, or maybe bring bodyguards with me whenever we’re going to be at the same place?”

“Nah, you’re good. My man’s a lover, not a fighter.”

“My man,” he mutters. “No need to rub it in, Ruby.”

“I just meant we’re both ready to move on. You’ll be fine.”

Cooper cocks his head. “So, I can stop worrying the song you’re about to debut tonight is gonna trash me?”

During rehearsal earlier today, we didn’t perform “Spark” at our soundcheck. We performed “Hate Sex High,” specifically to keep the live debut of our new single under wraps.

“I didn’t say that,” I say coyly. “You’ll just have to wait to find out, like everyone else.”

A PA pokes his head into the room and calls out, “APM! You’re up. Come with me.”

“Break a leg,” I murmur. Cooper tosses me a snarky look as he walks away, like he’s wondering if I’m wishing him luck or being literal.

It’s a little bit of both, if I’m being honest. Yes, I’ve apologized. And, yes, I’m now putting him soundly in my rearview mirror. But I can’t deny a part of me hopes Cooper will forget his lyrics or sing off-key during his imminent performance . . . or even better, fall and break a leg. Or at least sprain an ankleor toe or otherwise suffer some indignity or slight injury as one final, karmic consequence for him so frequently being a total and complete dick.

[Click here to listen to Savage and Laila’s duet of “Savage Love”]

35

RUBY

“Put your hands together for Fugitive Summer!” Sunshine shouts with gusto.

The lights go up. The little red lights on all the cameras pointed at us turn on. And off the five of us go, like we’ve done many times before in rehearsal, only this time for the live studio audience, and it’s plain to see we’re all thoroughly pumped about it.

Indeed, as the band rocks out, and Savage does his thing out front, giving voice to Kendrick’s words about me, I can’t stop making giddy, joyful eye contact with the writer of those lyrics. My man. My boyfriend. My love. I’m officially a muse, bitches! A part of musical history now. And lucky for me, I’ll get to relive this feeling every single time Fugitive Summer performs this song, forevermore.

Thank goodness, our performance is going off without a hitch, the same way Cooper’s performance did before ours (unfortunately). Not only that, but the audience is also thoroughly into it, which only energizes us all the more. In fact, I think it’s fair to say we’re now performing this song better than we did in any rehearsal.

When we reach the final bars, as we’re just about to hit the outro, Kendrick does something we’ve never rehearsed. Something that’s not on the recorded track and not in the plan for tonight. After banging out his final drumbeats, he leans into his mic and snarls out, “Hey, dickhead, you’re the last person she’d call, anyway. Don’t callyou? Don’t callher, you whiny little bitch, or you’ll have to answer to me.”

As the audience roars its approval of Kendrick’s unexpected smackdown, there’s a commotion behind the cameras. Surely, the director and whoever else are frantically trying to figure out how to deal with this unexpected gift they’ve been given during the next segment. Most likely, they’re also trying to figure out how to quickly bleep out Kendrick’s bad language during the slight delay imposed on live broadcasts.

Laughing and barely holding it together behind my keyboard, I meet Kendrick’s gaze and raise my hand to my mouth to blow him a giddy, euphoric kiss, but before I complete my gesture, the lights go out and we’re consumed by blinding darkness.

Several PAs arrive to escort us off the stage, and we’re led to a new holding area in the wings—a spot where we’re told to wait for a few minutes before storming the stage after the winner’s name is imminently announced.

When we reach our waiting spot—the second we come to a stop there, in fact—I throw myself into Kendrick’s waiting arms and devour his lips with an enthusiastic, adrenaline-fueled kiss that practically knocks him over.

“You’re not pissed at me for that?” he whispers against my lips.

“Pissed? That wasamazing! Swoony. Hot!”

Kendrick laughs. “You said you didn’t want to dignify Cooper’s song with a response.”

I snort. “I didn’t and I still don’t. But myboyfrienddoing itfor me because he simply couldn’t help himself—because he’s a protective, sexy hottie who doesn’t let anyone disrespect his woman? Baby, I’ve never wanted to give you a blowjob more than right now!”

A shocked PA shushes me, and I cover my mouth with my palm and squeal with laughter behind it, while Kendrick hoots and kisses my forehead with glee.

When we break apart, our other bandmates give Kendrick high-fives, kudos, and hugs, with everyone agreeing he’s a king for that unexpected smackdown. And a moment after that, guess who arrives but Reed, dressed like a billion bucks, with Nadine at his side.

Both of them congratulate us on our “killer” performance, and, thankfully, nobody chastises Kendrick for his impromptu speech at the end.

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