Page 4 of Spark
KENDRICK
Present Day
New York City
T hump, thump, thump.
“Yes, yes, yes!”
I open my eyes, yanked from a dream, and spit out, “Fucking hell.” I was having a sex dream, I think. A good one, based on the boner that’s currently poking at my briefs. But maybe not. Maybe I’m confusing the sounds wafting through the shared wall with Kai and whatever I was dreaming about.
Thump, thump, thump.
“Oh, God, Kai! Yes!”
Jesus. Are the walls of this hotel made of cardboard, or is my big brother’s fuck buddy for the night the loudest groupie in the history of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll?
As the offending sounds persist, I glare at the clock on the nightstand.
I don’t judge my brother or anyone else if they want to have sex with a rando.
Before Savage fell ass over feet for his blonde popstar of a wife, Laila, he made a goddamned sport of doing exactly that, and I never once judged him.
Well, maybe once or twice. But not too much, when I’ve certainly played “horny rockstar” more than a few times.
Especially during our first tour. I admit I was a bit unhinged.
But, anyway, me not judging my big brother for rhythmically thumping a woman into our shared wall doesn’t mean I’m not pissed at him for waking me up from my first dead sleep in a long while.
Kai knows we’re sharing a wall tonight; he saw me entering the door next to his earlier, when we got our room assignments.
And he also knows I’ve been uncharacteristically battling insomnia for the past two months.
Not to mention, it’s now, officially, my twenty-eighth birthday.
So, knowing all that, why wouldn’t Kai think to at least shove his hand over his new friend’s mouth to muffle her sounds while he rails her?
With a sigh, I reach for my phone on the nightstand, figuring I’ll scroll for a bit, but when I see my lyrics journal sitting next to it, I grab that, instead.
Throughout my recent sleepless nights, I’ve been scratching out little snippets of lyrics here and there, to pass the time.
I’m not one of the lyricists in our band—that would be Savage or Ruby.
Sometimes, Kai. But you never know what might inspire someone else, so we all keep notes and share them when it’s time for our next songwriting session.
Journal and pen in hand, I flip to the next open page and begin to write:
Lying awake, my body staging a coup
It’s as far as I get before my phone pings on the nightstand. When I grab it, I’ve got a new text:
Ruby: Happy 28th birthday, my darling! Titus and I are in the hotel bar downstairs, enjoying cocktails, so if you see this, come and let Mr. Rivers buy you something ridiculously expensive to celebrate the glorious day of your birth!
I chuckle to myself. Whenever we’re on tour, our label, River Records, founded by Reed Rivers, picks up the tab for our band’s food and drinks, no matter the cost. So, of course, we all exploit that policy to the hilt.
Me: Hey, cutie. I’ll be right down.
Ruby: WAHOO!
I throw my journal onto the bed and start throwing on clothes.
Truth be told, if Ruby’s boyfriend, Cooper, were still tagging along with her on the tour like he’s been doing for the past two months, I’d probably pretend not to have seen her text till morning.
I used to like Cooper a lot, before he started dating Ruby about three months ago. But watching him . . .
I pause what I’m doing, slammed with an idea for some lyrics.
My heart crashing, I grab my journal and pen off the bed, sit on the edge of the mattress, find the spot where I left off a moment ago, and begin furiously scribbling my thoughts down, as fast as my hand can write them.
For the next several minutes, the words barrel out of me, like I’m in a trance.
Like it’s not me writing them at all. Like I’m simply channeling them from someone or somewhere else.
Finally, the words stop flowing. The inspiration has passed.
I glance down at the journal and discover my rushed, chaotic, urgent handwriting is covering two full pages—both the left and right sides of the opened book.
Not only that, I’ve written an entire song, which never happens to me.
Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus.
What the fuck? I’ve heard Savage and Ruby talk about lyrics coming to them in a trance like that, but it’s never happened to me. I can’t wait to tell them about this!
Feeling giddy, I read my words back . . . and quickly realize, no, I can’t tell Savage or Ruby or anyone else about this. Ever. Or they’ll think this flush of words is about Ruby—and that it reflects my actual, current thoughts and feelings about her.
I mean, sure, there are some seeds of truth here, probably. Some long-buried ones. But I’ve mixed them with fantasy. What ifs. And I can’t afford for anyone, least of all her, to read this and think it’s some kind of naked confessional.
Maybe I should rip the pages out and destroy them. Just in case. But then again, I’m awfully proud of this. I’ve never written this long a song or lyrics in my life.
No, it’s too risky. I should definitely destroy it.
It occurs to me the piece deserves to have a title, even if it’s ultimately going into the trashcan. So, I quickly scribble the first word that pops into my head—“Spark”—at the top of the left page.
Ping.
I look at my phone. Another text from Ruby.
Ruby: I’m waiiiiiiiiiiting, my darling! Titus is cranky and wants to go to bed. Are you coming, Birthday Boy? Don’t make me drink alone!
Me: Coming now, cutie!
Hot damn. I never get Ruby all to myself these days.
But with Cooper finally gone and Titus wanting to go to bed, it sounds like I’ll have my cute little bestie all to myself down there.
Excited, I leap up, finish getting dressed, grab my White Sox hoodie and my keycard, and barrel out the door with an extra skip in my step.