Page 58 of Spark
RUBY
“ P ut 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 call you ? Don’t call her , 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 was amazing ! 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 my boyfriend doing it for 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.
On the contrary, Reed lays his hand on Kendrick’s shoulder and says, “Thanks to that stunt?—”
“And Ruby’s face when he did it!” Nadine whisper-shouts excitedly.
“Thanks to all that,” Reed continues.
“We got you in close-up, Ruby!” Nadine whisper-shouts again.
Reed laughs. “Thanks to all that, ‘Spark’ will be sitting at number one all over the world by the time we get to Savage’s birthday party.”
We all laugh and high-five; and as we’re doing that, Cooper appears out of nowhere, trailed by a frantic PA. “Cooper, get back here,” the PA hisses. “I’m so sorry, Nadine. I tried.”
“I thought we buried the hatchet,” Cooper stage-whispers at me. “You apologized to me, privately, but then you let Kendrick do that to me in front of the whole world?”
“Ruby had nothing to do with it,” Kendrick says, sliding his arm protectively around my shoulders.
“So, slow your roll.” He smiles like a shark.
“I’m an artist, dude. I felt inspired in the moment, so I went with it.
You know all about that, right, Cooper? When the muse strikes, artists like us have to follow her lead—and to hell with whoever might get their feelings hurt as a result. ”