Page 51 of Spark
“Men,” Laila says with a scoff. “God knows how their brains work with all that testosterone telling them to do stupid shit. ”
I’ve got the barest of grasps on the blender’s base with my fingertips, and I carefully drag it toward me, intending to catch it when it tips toward me off the shelf. But when that moment comes, catastrophe strikes: the base of the thing detaches and falls smack into my upturned face.
I scream loudly, waiting for searing pain to strike from whatever broken bone the fallen object has inflicted upon me. But to my surprise, the pain doesn’t come, and whatever fell caused only a benign clunking sound when it hit the countertop beneath my upturned face.
I open my eyes and discover the blender is still completely intact and sitting on the edge of the shelf—and the thing that fell onto the countertop is a book. And not just any book. It’s Kendrick’s journal. At the realization, I scream again.
“What’s happening?” Laila shouts. “Did you fall? Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine. I got hit by Kendrick’s lyrics notebook!”
“Ruby!”
“Sorry, but this is like winning the lottery, babe.”
Greedily, I get down from the chair and stare at the journal on the counter. Yes, I promised not to open it ever again, and I’ve kept that promise.
Until now.
Because, come on, now that it’s fallen from the sky and hit me in the head, literally, how could Kendrick possibly blame me for flipping it open and finally reading “Spank”?
Okay, yes, that would be a betrayal of his confidence, technically.
But a tiny one, all things considered. Especially now that he’s spanked my ass, fucked my ass, and made me squirt all over his cock.
I mean, come on, I’m only human, after all.
And we’ve come a long, long way since he demanded that promise from me.
Surely it’s expired by now, right? Or at least become obsolete ?
“I have to go,” I choke out, my fingers twitching and my eyes trained on the forbidden book.
“You’re sure you’re okay?”
“I’m great. I just have to go now.”
“My god, you’re a screamer,” Laila mutters with a laugh. “Lucky Kendrick.”
I can’t laugh at Laila’s joke; I’m too wound up by the sight of that notebook sitting on the counter, screaming at me to pick it up right fucking now.
“Thank you for everything, Laila.”
“Anything for you. Keep me posted!”
“I will.”
After saying goodbye, I disconnect the call, grab the journal breathlessly, and furiously begin flipping its pages toward the back.
In record speed, I find the entry for “Spank.” And for a split second, I look up, feeling guilty.
But after a short moment of sainthood, my baser instincts take over again, and I give myself permission to return to Kendrick’s messy, urgent handwriting.
“Spank”
Lying awake
My body staging a coup
Can’t have you, but
These embers are brewing
Can’t have . . . you ? I didn’t see that coming. Who’s you? Also, wait, embers are brewing?
My brain clacking and whirring, I look back up at the hastily written title.
And suddenly, with sober eyes and the word “embers” in my pocket, it dawns on me Kendrick’s rushed, slanted handwriting doesn’t spell out “Spank” at the top of the page.
Holy crap. It’s now clear as a bell to me: that word spells out “Spark.”
Spark .
Wait.
Does that mean Kendrick never wrote anything about spanking his monkey or spanking an ass? Apparently not, if the lyrics he wrote have to do with sparks and embers . . . and “Can’t have . . . you .”
My heart hammering and my brain short-circuiting, I return to the top of the page and start reading again, from the beginning, this time with full knowledge that I’m reading lyrics for a song called “Spark,” written by Kendrick Alan Cook during our tour—lyrics he lied about and adamantly wouldn’t let me see, for some reason.
Spark
Lying awake
My body staging a coup
Can’t have you, but
These embers are brewing
My favorite person
There is no comparison
A gem of a friendship
That’s everything (but not nearly enough)
What’s this riot, this mayhem,
Like a street fight inside me?
Spark to flame, flame to pyre
Ignited but fighting it
Baby, sparks are flying
I’m on fire for you
Why’d she bring him along?
Make me watch them write songs?
I’ve got homicidal tendencies
Hiding behind laughter and smiles
You want him, not me
And before that, my big brother
Now I’m suffocated, reeling
Awake, feeling smothered
What’s this riot, this mayhem,
Like a street fight inside me?
Spark to flame, flame to pyre
Ignited but fighting it
Ooh, baby
Embers are flying inside me
Help me, help me,
Feels like I’m dying
Can’t bare my soul to you
Too much to lose
You wouldn’t choose me, anyway
You’d choose a dirtbag over me
Spark to flame
Flame to pyre
I’m dying inside
I’d set fire to my soul
To make you mine
I can’t speak the truth to you
But baby, here’s what I’d do:
Pull my head out the sand
Torpedo the band
Piss off my brother
Quit being a drummer
I’d burn at the stake for you
Burn the world down for you
Do whatever it takes,
Anything, everything
If only, if only, if only, if only
My gem of a best friend
Would love me, too
Trembling and wide-eyed, I look up from Kendrick’s journal and clutch my heart. And a second later, my phone buzzes with a text from my building manager:
Apologies, Ruby. Looks like we need one more week. Sorry for any inconvenience.
“Holy shit,” I breathe out. Feeling like I’m in a daze, I turn off the burner on the stove just as Kendrick’s front door opens and his happy voice sings out, “What smells so good, Ruby Duby? Hey, where are you, baby? I’m hungry for a Ruby Deluxe!”