Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121916 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
“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!”
32
KENDRICK
I’m practically skipping as I exit my car in my driveway and start walking the short distance to my front door. Maybe I’m reading into it, but when Ruby called me “baby” in those texts, I felt it in my soul. It felt like a sign—like confirmation she’s going to be open to keeping our relationship going, even after she moves back home.
I swing open my front door, and my stomach instantly growls as the delicious scents hitting me. Home cooking. That’s what it smells like in here. Did Ruby go the extra mile and order some amazing food in time for my arrival?
“What smells so damn good, Ruby Duby?” I bellow. And when I don’t see any sign of her, I call out, “Hey, where are you, baby? I’m hungry for a Ruby Deluxe!”
Ruby emerges slowly from my kitchen, looking shellshocked and pale.
“Hey,” I say, unsettled and confused by her body language. But when I see my journal in her hand, I get it, instantly. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“It was never called ‘Spank,’” Ruby sputters. “It was always called ‘Spark,’ the whole time.”
Fuck.
“I didn’t go looking for it,” Ruby says, holding up the journal. She comes to a stop in front of me, her face still pale and her eyes wide. “I wanted to make you a special meal. A Martha Stewart recipe. And I needed the blender for the pesto sauce.”
I try to take a deep breath, but my lungs feel like they’ve shrunken down to half their capacity. It’s the moment of truth I’ve been avoiding for weeks now. No, for twelve years. Should I deny “Spark” is about her, or is this the moment to confess every feeling I’ve ever had for her?
“Is it about me?” she squeaks quietly. She’s visibly trembling.
Fragments and phrases flicker across my panicked brain.
Can’t have you.
Gem of a friendship
You want him, not me; before that, my big brother.
I’d torpedo the band for you.
Burn at the stake for you.
Burn the world down for you.
And worst of all, If only my gem of a best friend would love me, too.