Page 15 of Spark
RUBY
I ’m freshly showered, wearing soft clothes that feel as cozy as pajamas.
After we received our latest round of room assignments here in Vancouver, Kendrick and I parted ways to freshen up in our respective rooms. And now, about thirty minutes later, I’m headed to Kendrick’s pad, determined to cuddle that sweet insomniac to the best sleep of his life.
I’m no sleep specialist, obviously, but it’s my strong suspicion Kendrick could use some extra TLC to help combat his quarter-life crisis. Also, selfishly, I sleep better on Kendrick’s shoulder than on any actual pillow, so I feel like this “sleep therapy” idea of mine is a win-win.
I reach Kendrick’s door and double-check the room number, since it’s all a blur at this point, and when I’ve confirmed I’m in the right place, I knock ever so lightly, just in case Kendrick’s asleep in there by some miracle.
Unfortunately for Kendrick, he opens the door, dressed in sweats, his sandy hair damp from his shower and the scents of aftershave and toothpaste wafting off him.
“Hey, cutie,” he says .
“Hey, hot stuff. Are you excited to take the best damned nap of your life?”
Kendrick chuckles. “So excited.” He widens the door, and I step inside the room. Not surprisingly, it’s tidy and neat, as all Kendrick’s living spaces are, whereas my new hotel room down the hall already looks like a bomb went off inside it.
Kendrick claps his palms together. “So, how do you want to do this?”
“What do you mean? We’ll lie down and cuddle, and hopefully you’ll be snoozing in record time.”
“Maybe some chatting first, to help me relax?”
“There’s no need to wine and dine me, babe. This isn’t a date. This is sleep therapy.”
Kendrick flushes. “No, yeah.”
“I’m kidding.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Honestly, this is a little weird for me.”
“I just slept on your shoulder on the plane for hours. It’s no different than that.”
“Isn’t it, though? I always slept on the floor in your dorm room, rather than in the bed with you, for a reason.”
“Yeah, because my bed was the size of a stick of gum. If it had been bigger, I would have gladly scootched over to make room for you.” I was also dating Ryder at the time, and I’m sure sleeping in a tiny bed with a hunk like Kendrick wouldn’t have gone over well with him, no matter how much I explained that Kendrick and I were best friends.
But there’s no need to mention that to Kendrick now, since he never particularly liked Ryder.
Especially on the heels of my breakup with Cooper, I’m not in the mood to remind him of yet another example of my defective picker.
I take off my shoes and leap onto the bed. But when Kendrick doesn’t join me, when he stands frozen and staring at me like I’m covered in plutonium, I pat the mattress and say, “Come on, hot stuff. Stop making this weird.”
“I’m not making it weird. It’s just weird. And maybe don’t call me hot stuff when I’m about to get into bed with you.”
I roll my eyes. “This is no weirder than you sleeping in a bed with Kai for years. Come on.”
With a twist of his lips, Kendrick exhales and slowly lies down next to me on top of the comforter. “Probably good we’re not getting into the bed,” he mutters. “Since it’s just a nap.”
“Yeah, I agree, since they’ll be coming to get us for sound check in a few hours, it’s probably best if we don’t get too comfy. Now, close your eyes, take a few deep breaths, and try to clear your mind.”
“Why do I feel like you’re getting ready to give me a prostate exam?”
I giggle. “If I thought shoving my hand up your ass would get you out of your head long enough to fall sleep, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
A deep rumble of a chuckle escapes Kendrick’s throat. “This is your idea of getting me in the mindset to sleep ? With one eye open, maybe.”
We both laugh. But when our laughter dies down, I turn onto my side, prop myself up on my elbow, and use my free hand to stroke his face.
“Stop fighting sleep. Close your eyes. Take deep breaths.” He follows my instructions, and his broad chest expands and contracts with his breathing.
“Good,” I purr softly. “Clear your mind.”
As he continues breathing deeply, I brush my fingertips over his cheeks and forehead, and then gently through his hair, and it’s plain to see he’s soaking up my touch like dry sponge dunked into a bucket of water.
As Kendrick relaxes under my fingers, I let my eyes drift down his muscular body.
To the large hand that’s now resting idly on his powerful thigh.
Suddenly, the sight of that hand provokes a long-ago memory: the sight of Kendrick’s big hand caressing his then-girlfriend’s soft cheek as he made love to her, enthusiastically, on a raggedy couch in the front room of his student apartment.
I shake my head, trying to banish the unwelcome vision, but it’s no use.
Suddenly, I’m just shy of nineteen again.
Standing on the doorstep of Kendrick’s student apartment.
Getting an unintended eyeful through a crack in his blinds.
I’m feeling the same rush of emotions as I did back then: heartbreak and rejection.
Also, foolishness and embarrassment, since I knew I had zero right to feel either of those emotions.
It was a surprise to me, when I realized my feelings for Kendrick had morphed.
I’d never expected to ache for him the way I did, after we both left for our respective colleges.
I figured I’d miss him, of course. By then, we’d seen each other virtually every day for two years.
But I thought I’d be busy with my new life, and meeting new people, and so would Kendrick.
I figured we’d drift apart, despite our assurances to keep in touch, and that would be that.
But as it turned out, when I got to Northwestern, I ached like was missing a limb—a limb called Kendrick Cook.
And with each passing day at my new school, the ache only got worse and worse, despite all the new people—and boys—I was meeting.
And so, after Kendrick invited me to come visit him “sometime” in a text exchange, I made the fateful decision to take a four-hour train ride to his college for his birthday.
My mission? To find out if Kendrick had even the slightest interest in exploring something physical with me.
If so, I planned to jump right in and ask him to take my virginity that very night.
Best-laid plans.
Rather than making Kendrick my first, as hoped, I got an unwitting eyeful of Kendrick’s naked, muscular backside, as he passionately kissed and made love to a beautiful blonde on a couch, his hips gyrating enthusiastically and his palm placed tenderly on her cheek.
I don’t even remember how I got back to the train station after seeing that.
All I remember is sobbing on the train ride back to school, even though I knew I had no right to feel that way.
How can a person grieve the loss of something that was never theirs to begin with, right?
But that’s how I felt, so I cried my eyes out and resolved never to tell another living soul about what I’d stupidly done.
When I got back to my dorm, my first-year roommate was shocked to see me so soon.
“I thought you went to visit Kendrick,” she said.
“I got the dates screwed up,” I lied. “Kendrick wasn’t there. He had an away game this week.”
Thankfully, she accepted my story and never asked any follow-up questions, since she didn’t know me well enough to detect that I was brazenly lying. Which means, to this day, nobody in the world knows the truth.
To add insult to injury, Kendrick brought that gorgeous blonde home during Christmas break that year and introduced her around as his girlfriend.
Florence . That was her name. I didn’t like her.
I’d tried to like her, but it was obvious she only liked Kendrick the Football Star, not Kendrick the Goofball Sweetheart, and I didn’t like that.
But since it was none of my business, and he obviously liked her a lot, I went back to school and hooked up with a boy in my dorm.
Ryder. And acted like that unfortunate incident on Kendrick’s doorstep never happened.
My phone vibrates on the mattress, drawing my attention to a text from my good friend, Miranda Baumgarten, who works in PR for River Records.
Miranda: I’ve got some bad news, babe. Just found out APM is releasing a surprise single, and you’re not going to like it. It’s dropping at 6:00 Pacific time, but I’m sending it to you now so you can get your game face on in case anyone asks you about it, which I’m sure they will. So sorry, love.
“APM” is Cooper’s band, Alexa Play Music; and the link supplied by Miranda is for a song called, “Don’t Call Me.
” So, naturally, I’m figuring it must be about our breakup.
Bastard. If so, this could be bad. Cooper isn’t the kind of guy to hold back in his lyrics, and he didn’t take our breakup well.
My stomach churning with anxiety, I glance at Kendrick next to me on the bed and discover he’s fast asleep. Shoot. I don’t have my earbuds with me, so I dart into the bathroom with my phone.
After closing the door, I put the toilet lid down and take a seat. And with a shaking hand, click on the link.
There’s a short musical intro to kick things off, during which I tell myself not to panic; it won’t be that bad. But when Cooper begins to sing, it’s instantly clear this song is going to rip me a new one:
“Don’t Call Me”
The Stones got Ruby Tuesday
I got some hell to pay
My only goal is letting you know
I don’t want you anymore, anyway
You told me you loved me,
And I believe d
So why is he starring
In your sex dreams?
Bye bye, baby
See ya, adieu
Don’t call me, won’t call you
Ooooh
I’m done feeling sapphire blue
The Stones got Ruby Tuesday
Gimme diamonds, emeralds, jade
Any gem that’s not you, don’t care who
As long as she’s not red
As long as I’m not seeing red
Cuz now I’m seeing red
Bye bye, baby
See ya, adieu
Don’t call me, won’t call you
Don’t call me, won’t call you
Don’t call me, won’t call you
Ooooh
I’m done feeling sapphire blue
“He’s like a brother to me.”
That’s what you said, remember?
Remember?
If that’s true, Ruby Tuesday:
Why do ya wanna fuck your brother ?
Bye bye, baby
See ya, adieu
Don’t call me, won’t call you
Don’t call me, won’t call you
Oooooh
Won’t see you around
Don’t wish you the best
Your loss, not mine
Take you out with the trash
This hasn’t been “nice”
Curse your name at night
Won’t catch you on the flipside
You said his name twice!
When regret comes
Makes you wish you stayed
Don’t call me babe,
Don’t call me to beg
I don’t want you anymore anyway
No!
Don’t call me,won’t call you
Don’t call me, won’t call you
Don’t call me, won’t call you
Oooh
Gonna get me somebody new
As Cooper’s song reaches its final notes and chords, I scream bloody murder, feeling like I’m going to explode from homicidal rage. In a fury, I fling open the bathroom door and discover Kendrick sitting up, bleary-eyed and panicky.
“What happened?” he gasps out, clutching his broad chest. “Are you okay? ”
“I need to commit a murder,” I choke out, my voice raspy and tight as I march to him on the bed. “A grisly one. And I need your help figuring out how I’m gonna get away with it.”
[ Click here to listen to “Don’t Call Me” by Alexa Play Music ]