Page 49 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Lucas kept smiling, but his voice dropped ten degrees colder. “These are the hotel’s policies.”
And that’s when it hit me—like the lightning-bolt moment in a novel, when the protagonist suddenlyfinds the move that flips the scene.
I pulled a notebook and pen from my coat pocket with theatrical slowness, savoring the build-up. Then I began scribbling furiously without even looking at the page.“These are the hotel’s policies,”I repeated in Lucas’s sing-song cadence, each word sharp as ice. “Excellent. Justexcellent!Oh, forgive me, I forgot to introduce myself: Beatrice Moore,New York Times.”
Meanwhile my pen slashed across the page like a pickaxe. “Luxury hotel refuses aid to injured pigeon. Anonymous staff quote: ‘If it isn’t a billionaire’s golden retriever, it doesn’t even deserve water.’”
I gave him a slow smile—the kind that bites without showing teeth. The alcohol in my veins swelled my courage like a balloon ready to burst. “Would you like me to print your full name too? Or shall I just put ‘Insensitive Employee in a Lavender Apron’?”
Lucas stiffened instantly. A sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead like dew in the wrong season. His eyes darted from the security camera to Christopher to Tess.
“Fine,” he muttered at last, sighing like a man signing his own surrender. “But only for treatment and rehabilitation. No photos. And stop calling him ‘family.’ He’s a stray pigeon.”
Tess slung an arm around his shoulders like atriumphant co-conspirator. “Lucas... he’s so much more than a pigeon, trust me. And you’re going to be a hero to this little angel.”
Lucas pulled on a pair of ivory-velvet gloves and reached into my bag like a surgeon prepping for a transplant. With slow, precise movements, he lifted Christopher out of his makeshift carrier and carried him into a sterile, gleaming room, lit by a surreal white light and saturated with the sharp scent of disinfectant.
It was the Animal Club’s vet room: the perfect hybrid between an ER and a luxury spa for pets. He placed Christopher on a sleek steel counter and gave him a couple of slow, soothing strokes, like a promise he wouldn’t end up served with a side of baby potatoes. Then he soaked a cotton ball in some amber solution, picked up a pair of long, delicate tweezers, and started cleaning the feathers around the injured wing.
Christopher let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a whimper, but didn’t move. He looked like he knew—maybe for the first time in his life—that he was finally in the right place.
Tess stepped in front of Lucas like a theater actress reclaiming center stage. One hand behind her back, she gave me a quick, unmistakable signal: it was my turn.
I slipped out of the room, trying to look casual—which was hard considering I was clutching my baglike it held diamonds and classified secrets. I started wandering through the Animal Club, snooping around like a reporter on the hunt for a scoop—or a thief casing the place.
Every room was its own perfectly calibrated little universe. In one, a French bulldog lay sprawled on a champagne-colored velvet sofa, looking like a businessman on forced vacation. In another, Persian cats glared at Japanese ceramic dishes topped with tiny tuna-sashimi portions that wouldn’t look out of place at a Michelin-starred restaurant. At the end of the hallway, a floor-to-ceiling aquarium housed two sea turtles drifting slowly through neon-colored artificial coral.
Everything was designed to make every animal feel like a five-star resort guest of honor.
Then I heard it.
A voice—unexpected, husky, and dramatic, like a retired DJ moonlighting as a pulp-novel narrator: “Ryder doesn’t run, he slips from sight. Strikes like thunder, then takes flight!”
I froze, confused. It was too scratchy to belong to a human.
The voice launched right back in: “Zane Ryder’s sharp, he never fails.
If he stumbles, he hides the trails.”
I followed the sound to a mesh curtain. I pulled it aside and found myself inside an aviary. The air was warm and humid, thick with the scent of ripefruit and polished wood. Towering tropical plants created patches of shade beneath cascades of colorful feeders, knotted ropes, and slow-swaying bamboo swings. There was only one guest: a red-headed parrot with feathers shiny as fresh nail polish and the kind of swagger that screamedI run this joint.And he would not shut up.
“Ryder’s got no fear, just flair. Walks through fire like it’s air.”
I approached slowly, smiling like a harmless tourist and not, in fact, a woman with a plan. “Look at you… even more handsome up close. Come on, big guy, what have you got to lose?”
The parrot was free, perched on a stand about five feet high. He locked eyes with me—black, shiny, unreadable—then, without budging, rasped: “If she creeps in quiet and reeks of sin, Ryder will vanish before you begin!”
I reached out a hand to pet him. He lunged forward, beak out like a warning blade.
“If she wears red lips and struts your way, Trouble’s coming—best not stay!”
I pulled back. Waited. Tried again.
Same reaction: attack beak. Zero trust.
“Ryder remembers, clear and true: Beauty lies, it poisons you.”
But I had an ace up my sleeve: a long-forgotten emergency pack of Ritz crackers buried deep in my purse. They’d survived seasons, apartments, andquestionable humidity like survivors of a snack apocalypse. I pulled them out—puffy, a little wrinkled—and weighed them in my hand.
