Page 53 of The First Kind of Love
“Lay it on me, Gage. What do I have to do?” I ask.
“You sure about this, buddy?”
A pitchy croak loosens from my chest, and my throat feels sore, like my immune system’s preparing for the beginning of a nasty cold. “I’m sure.”
“Alright then. Your task is to…steal…something,” Gage tells me, steepling his fingers like an evil villain.
Steal something? Like, from the hotel? Psh, that’s easy. I’ll just nab some of the soap bars and call it a day. No incarceration needed. People steal hotel toiletries all the time and get away with it. It’s not even reallyconsideredstealing, seeing as they’re complimentary.
I challenge him with an arrogant look. “Deal. This is gonna be a piece of cake?—”
But of course, it isn’t a Gage-necessitated dare without the catch of the century. And my best friend is infamously known for the worst of humiliation rituals.
“Uh, I’m not finished. You have to steal…a chicken.”
I’m sorry—awhat? As in, aliveanimal? That has to be illegal, right? Or at the very least, my bloodline will be cursed for meddling with the natural balance of things. Like when someone takes sacred rocks from Hawaii and then suffers life-ending repercussions because of it.
Shiloh’s jaw is ajar, and her eyes practically bulge out of her head. The rest of the group is in a similar state.
Doubt rumbles through my belly like fumes through a car engine. “And how do you expect me to do that?”
“Leave the distraction to me,” Gage says.
Gage,Shiloh, and I peek around the corner, surveying the flock of chickens waddling around on the outskirts of the open-plan lobby. They peck at the ground, oblivious to the kidnapping that’s about to take place in the next few minutes.
“Target acquired,” Gage whispers, pointing to a larger rooster closest to us who seems to be lacking in both brain cells and self-preservation instincts.
He doesn’t look bigger than a household lamp, so technically, I should be able to wrangle him with little effort.
“Okay, genius. Now that we’re here, what’s your grand plan?” I inquire.
“I’m going to distract the receptionist with my boyish charm, and you’re gonna snag the walking drumstick.”
Shiloh freaks out. “And do what with it?!”
Gage’s eyes narrow into slits, and his shit-eating smirk darkens, as if her question is completely asinine. “Smuggle it in your jacket or something.”
“This is a terrible idea, even for you,” I hiss under my breath, assessing the factors that could influence the success rate of our mission.
Factor one: the other chickens notice that we’re abducting their leader, and they storm us like an angry winged brigade.
Factor two: the hotel employees catch us in the act and ask us to vacate the premises immediately.
The first one is objectively worse, and the second one might render us homeless for the rest of the trip, but there’s something mortifying about forfeiting a dare as stupid as this.
“We’re gonna put it back. Relax. I’ve been training my entire life for this moment.” Gage licks his palm, smooths the front of his hair back, then does a roll onto the ground as ifhe’s an international spy on his way to infiltrate the White House.
I—I don’t even want to know.
He somehow manages to duck out of the receptionist’s line of view, completing his over-the-top theatrics by hiding behind a large, neatly trimmed hedge. Shiloh and I—the only ones with sensibility in this ménage à trois—opt to sprint for the bushes instead.
Gage carves a little peephole through the condensed leaves. “All you have to do is get it up to the hotel room, and then we’ll return the little guy like nothing happened in the first place. The team needs to witness your bravery, and they need to witness my greatness for believing in you.”
Jesus. I can’t believe I agreed to something like this.
“If I get my eye pecked out, I’ll never forgive you.”
“Oh, dude. An eye patch would look so fucking cool on you.”
