Page 45 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
“Listen closely, Ken-with-a-tray,” Tess hissed. “I’ve been dropping a fortune on mediocre cocktails just to get my moment with Ryder. And he hasn’teven deigned to walk through here once. Now you’re gonna tell me where he is… or I’ll grab something else with the same enthusiasm. And trust me—you’ll miss that bow tie.”
The poor guy went pale. His eyes darted left and right like he was trying to spot a secret escape route between the marble columns.
“He’s… he’s in his suite,” he stammered at last. “Apparently… he’s in some kind of creative trance.”
“Creative trance?” Tess repeated, tilting her head like a talk show host who’d just caught someone lying on live TV.
“Y-yes. He’s… writing songs, I think. He never comes out. Not even room service or housekeeping can get in…”
“Mm.”
Tess narrowed her eyes. “And this little gem of intel came from his Armani-clad gorillas, I assume?”
“No… they just guard the door.”
“Then who? Who told you? How do you know he’s writing songs? For all you know, he could be watchingRick & Mortywith a bowl of popcorn or doing sudoku in his underwear! Who talked to you?!”
The waiter went pale again.
He hesitated. Looked left. Looked right.
And then… he said it.
“His parrot told us.”
Silence.
“What?!” I broke into hysterical laughter, drunk and doubled over in my chair.
“Wait, wait… did you just say… his parrot?!”
But Tess didn’t laugh.
She sat frozen. Eyes locked. Pupils blown wide.
Like some hidden switch had just flipped inside her brain.
Like every single piece of intel she’d gathered so far had suddenly clicked into place—forming one massive cosmic puzzle.
Tess had understood.
And somewhere in the shadowy corners of her mind… a brand-new plan was already taking shape.
21
Tess, slurring her words from too much booze and with a streak of mascara down her cheek that made her look like a retired femme fatale, leaned in and began to speak.
Her voice was low, almost solemn.
“Ryder… has a pet. A Caribbean red-fronted Amazon. His name is Rimbaud.” She pronounced it like she was quoting a cursed poet—which, in a way, he was. Only with feathers.
That parrot wasn’t just a pet. He was the one constant in Ryder’s messy, chaotic, and, in many ways, tragically melodramatic life. He’d had him since he was a kid, a gift from his parents during his full-blown “pirates, corsairs, and buccaneers” phase.
Before the spotlights. Before the tours. Before the stadiums.
Rimbaud had been there during the lean years, when Ryder slept in beat-up vans and played half-empty bars. And he was still there now, even withRyder dizzyingly famous.
His father was dead. He didn’t speak to his mother. He’d never had real friends. Wives had come and gone like seasonal guest stars.
