Page 43 of Spark

RUBY

A week later

“ T hanks for coming to my place for the writing sesh, everyone,” Kendrick says. He and our bandmates are seated in his living room, while I stand at the nearby kitchen counter, arranging a pretty charcuterie board for the festivities.

These days, whenever we get together to write music, we do it either at Savage and Laila’s gorgeous place in Malibu or Kendrick’s comfortable house here in North Hollywood, since those are the only two homes with full-blown recording studios in case we come up with something in record speed and want to lay down a demo.

This time, since I’m staying here, Kendrick’s place won out as the most convenient option.

The agenda for today’s writing session is a singular one: coming up with the future mega-hit we’re going to unveil during the finale of Sing Your Heart Out in six weeks.

Luckily, that’s plenty of time for us to write and record a single song.

But still, given the once-in-a-lifetime launching pad, it needs to be amazing , not merely good enough.

Not to mention, we not only need to write the song, but we also need to record it, get it mixed and mastered, and rehearse it into the ground so we’re foolproof and dialed in when the time comes to perform it on live TV.

All things considered, I’m actually a bit stressed about the timeline.

My charcuterie board assembled, I carry it into the living room, doing my best not to hobble like a woman who’s been fucked, expertly and often, over the past week.

I’ve never had so much sex in my life, let alone sex that curled my toes so violently, they might actually be permanently deformed at this point.

It’s been worth it, of course. This is the best soreness of my existence, but my band doesn’t need to know about that.

Not when Kendrick and I have agreed that everything will go back to normal after our secret fling has run its course.

“Big ups to Savage for making it,” Titus says, as I place my tray onto the coffee table and sit next to my brother. “The rest of us have had time to decompress from tour by now. I can’t imagine how exhausted you must feel after shooting the show every day this week.”

That’s how it goes with the shooting schedule. For the judges, anyway. The first week or so involves long days that capture all the fan-favorite audition episodes, followed by the Draft Day and Guest Mentor episodes that will be shooting tomorrow.

“It was in my best interest to get out of the house today,” Savage says with a chuckle. “When I left, Laila was sitting at her baby grand, obsessively writing a song like a madwoman. If I’d stuck around, I’d be dead by now for breathing or eating too loudly.”

We all crack up. At one time or another, we’ve all been Laila—a songwriter in the zone who doesn’t tolerate distractions .

“That’s best part of being married to another songwriter,” Savage muses. “We both understand the madness.” He grins wistfully. “I can’t even imagine trying to do life with someone who doesn’t get what it feels like to create amazing art out of nothing.”

The rest of us share a smile and encouraging comments about our friend’s happy life. Savage has undergone an unbelievable transformation over the past few years, and we couldn’t be happier for him.

In the midst of the back and forth, Kendrick’s eyes meet mine. I flash him a secret little smile, and he returns the gesture, followed by a smolder that makes me blush and start pulsing between my legs .

I look away, not wanting our bandmates to notice him eyeball-fucking me.

They still think that kiss at Reed’s party was a performance for the hidden cameras we knew about, since that’s what I told them in the group chat.

A conscious decision to get ourselves the bonuses up for grabs.

I’m determined to let them keep thinking that way.

God help me, when this fling ends, the last thing I need is for any of these people to know what we did.

Titus, especially, can never know. Not because he’d be mad at either of us.

Titus loves Kendrick like a brother, and I’m an adult with ownership of my own body, thank you very much.

But because, honestly, I’ve always had a feeling Titus wishes Kendrick and I would get together one day, and I don’t want to deal with his disappointment, on top of mine, when that doesn’t happen.

“Wow, Ruby,” Titus says, perusing the lavish offerings on my board of snacks. “This is the fanciest thing I’ve ever seen you make. What’s gotten into you?”

I’m not offended. Everyone in the band, including my brother, knows I can’t cook for shit. “Kendrick’s kitchen is so pretty, it inspired me to become the next Martha Stewart.”

Titus scoffs. “This is cool, but I’m pretty sure Martha Stewart makes stuff that’s more complicated than a bunch of snacks on a tray.”

“Actually,” Kendrick says, “I’m pretty sure Martha Stewart is the one who invented charcuterie boards.”

“See?” I say to my brother. “Don’t yuck my yum, dude.”

“I wasn’t. I just meant?—”

“Don’t bother. I just moved you one space higher on my kill list.” I turn to Kendrick. “Thank you for defending my honor, KC. Just for that, I’m going to make you a sandwich worthy of Martha Stewart tomorrow.”

“Awesome. You know how much I love me a big, fat Ruby Deluxe.”

“How much longer are you staying here?” Titus asks me. “I could have sworn you were supposed to be back in your place by now.”

“I was, but unforeseen problems keep popping up. Yesterday, my building manager texted me with yet another delay.”

Out the corner of my eye, Savage shoots Kendrick a smile—one I’m interpreting as a show of sympathy for me being here far longer than originally planned.

“I offered to go to a hotel,” I say to Savage. “But Kendrick won’t hear of it.”

“I like having you here,” Kendrick says. “I’m having fun.”

Blushing, I address the group. “It’s felt like old times.”

As everyone else says, yes, they remember that era, Kai asks with a snicker, “Did Kendrick swallow your face back then, too?” He’s referring to the kiss from Reed’s party, since the show recently released clips of it as part of their marketing blitz.

Our group chat has been rife with clips and teasing about it over the past couple of days.

“No, because we weren’t being paid to pretend to be a couple back then,” I snipe back.

Again, Savage shoots Kendrick that same pointed smile from earlier. Only this time, the gesture makes my stomach tighten. Did Kendrick tell Savage what’s going on between us, despite our agreement to keep mum about the situation?

“So, should we start the writing session now?” I ask with a clap of my palms. It’s a good idea for us to get going, regardless. The damned song’s not going to write itself. But I’m also feeling a strong urge to change the subject.

Everyone agrees we should get started, and Kai instructs everyone who’s got notes of any kind, whether on their phones or in a journal, to share with the group.

It’s our usual process, taught to us by Kai himself years ago, back when he was the older, wiser music student, and the rest of us were excited little sponges.

“I’ve got an idea for a riff that might lead to something cool,” Titus offers.

He grabs his guitar that’s leaning against the end of the couch and plays it, and everyone agrees it’s got potential.

But since Titus never supplies lyrics or melodies, that’s all that happens for now.

Unfortunately, though, only a long, awkward silence ensues after Titus’s guitar goes silent.

“Or maybe not,” Titus jokes.

“Sorry, man,” Savage says with a yawn. “It was cool. I think my brain is depleted right now.”

“No worries, we’ve got you,” Titus says. He looks at Kai. “Do you have anything for us?”

Kai shrugs. “Not really. I wrote a few things in my journal during the tour, but nothing all that great. Sorry, guys. Since we got back, my brain’s been pretty dead. Mostly, I’ve just been sleeping and smoking bowls.”

Our writing sessions don’t normally feel like pulling teeth.

Normally, somebody has something exciting to contribute out of the gate.

But then again, it’s not typical for us to come together this soon after a tour—and it’s certainly not normal for us to try to write a song we’re going to be performing, live, for the first time, in front of millions of people on TV.

“We can’t overthink it, guys,” I say, my heart rate increasing.

“ If we focus on the massiveness of the opportunity, we’ll never be able to write anything.

Treat this like any other writing session.

Throw in whatever ideas you’ve got, even embarrassing ones, because they might lead to something epic.

” I glance at Kendrick, letting him know I’m hoping he might relent and throw “Spank” into the mix, despite his embarrassment about it.

But when he shakes his head, confirming that’s not happening, I return to the group with an exhale.

“Whoever’s got something to share, come on, let’s hear it. ”

With another yawn, Savage pulls out his phone and starts scrolling—presumably to find something in whatever voice memos he might have recorded to himself—while Kai and I throw our physical notebooks into the pot and then start scrolling on our phones, too.

“Where’s your journal, KC?” Kai asks his brother.

“I didn’t write anything in it this time,” Kendrick murmurs. And nobody presses him on it, because, like Titus, it’s more typical for Kendrick to contribute musical ideas, or to add to something someone else has offered.

We spend the next hour or so brainstorming, sharing tepid ideas, riffs, and melodies. But nothing hits any of us like a ton of bricks, which is what we need for an opportunity this big.

When Kai expresses frustration, Titus says, “We could always do what Reed keeps begging us for.” There’s no need to explain; we all know Reed wants a sequel to “Hate Sex High.”