Page 48 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
“So what? He’s injured. He’s urban. He’s realistic.”
“We are not walking into the Vellum with a rat. They’d toss us out before I could say ‘animal welfare.’ I want something tragic—but photogenic.”
She threw an arm in front of me, bodyguard-style. Beneath a scaffolding, between a forgotten paint bucket and a mound of construction dust, a gray-blue pigeon wobbled in search of crumbs. One wing drooped at a grotesque angle, like the snapped handle of an umbrella.
Tess’s eyes lit up with triumph. “Bea, look. That’s him. The chosen one.”
“Well, perfect. What do we call him?”
“Christopher. Christopher Columbus.”
She lowered her voice, flashing me a conspiratorial glance. “Now hand me the bag.”
“What? I’m not handing over my bag just so you can stuff a pigeon inside. That thing’s probably riddled with diseases.”
“The only disease would be staying stuck in the mediocrity of our lives. Christopher is our golden ticket to Rimbaud. My purse is too small. Yours is perfect…”
I passed her the bag with the same resignation as a movie sidekick handing over a loaded gun, fully aware it would end badly. I was drunk, and in a way, even the Vivienne Blaze inside my head was telling me to go along: the plot wasn’t going to write itself. I transferred my phone, wallet, and notebook into my coat pockets like I was evacuating valuables before a hurricane.
Tess crouched under the scaffolding, moving slowly. The pigeon, without even turning his head, felt her presence. He lurched forward, flapping his one good wing like a busted oar. Not fast enough. Tess lunged once—missed. Tried again—missed again. On the third go, she scooped him tight against her chest.
“It’s okay, Christopher,” she whispered. “We’re saving your life. And you’re taking us straight to the heart of the system.”
I held the bag open, tilting my head back as if trying to avoid witnessing the moment my favorite accessory got downgraded into a birdcage. Tess slid him in. I zipped it shut halfway, too squeamish to seal it all the way.
“Now you carry it,” I said.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
I rolled my eyes. “Lord of the Animals, forgive us.”
And off we went toward the Vellum Hotel: Tess, eyes locked on the prize, and me—lugging a limping pigeon flapping inside my bag like a secret too big to hold.
24
Lucas waspolishing a stainless-steel bowl with a silk cloth, the way someone might polish a family heirloom trophy. The light caught his immaculate apron, illuminating that professional smile—ready to welcome a client… or dismiss them gracefully.
“Good afternoon,” he began, melodious. “How may I—” Then he froze. His voice dropped an octave when a pigeon’s head poked out of my bag, wearing the shell-shocked expression of a war veteran. “…Oh. No.”
Tess didn’t flinch. Not half an inch. “He’s mine. His name is Christopher. Yes, Christopher. He has a broken wing and a shattered soul. He just fell from the seventh floor while attempting the seagull dance. He’s part of my family. I need your help.”
Lucas leaned forward, cautious, like a doctor who didn’t want to wake the patient but couldn’t resist peeking. Inside the bag, the pigeon went full method actor—rolling his good eye, twitching his busted wing, and letting out a sound halfwaybetween a sigh and a dying intercom.
“Didn’t you say you had a cat named Mr. Darcy, miss?” Lucas asked, each word precise, like an investigator who already knew the answer.
“Of course. But I also have a Columbus named Christopher! Actually, it was Mr. Darcy who knocked him out the window.”
Lucas studied her, as if mentally scrolling through a database of improbable excuses. Then, professionally: “Very well. I’ll see he gets the care he deserves. But first, I need to register him. May I have your room number, miss?”
“I don’t have one anymore. I just checked out.”
“…Didn’t you just arrive?”
“No, you must have misheard. I was just about to leave…”
Lucas exhaled, long and weary, like a man who had seen this ending coming five minutes ago. “In that case, I’m sorry, miss… you’re no longer on the list. The Animal Club is a strictly exclusive service. For current guests only.”
Tess’s eyes flew wide, as if he’d just suggested roasting Christopher with rosemary potatoes. “So you’re saying you’ll let him die? What is this place, an animal hospice or a concentration camp?!”
