Page 51 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
We tried to ignore him for the rest of the evening. Took showers, ate dinner at the counter, and every so often made accidental eye contact with Rimbaud—perched on his shelf, preening with surgical precision, pausing only to shoot us the kind of side-eye usually reserved for nosy neighbors with binoculars.
We agreed that life would’ve been so much easier with Christopher. Christopher wasn’t a troublemaker: sure, he’d resisted at first—who wouldn’t?—but at least he didn’t fight back. And most importantly, Christopher didn’t talk.
We imagined him living his best new life: an aviary all to himself, his broken wing finallyhealing, regular meals, snuggles on demand. A perfect New York redemption arc: from the streets to the penthouse in one afternoon. Good for him.
After dinner, Tess decided to give Rimbaud another try.
Her dream scenario was Ryder showing up to reclaim his bird and finding him utterly smitten with the mysterious girl who’d tamed him. Too bad Rimbaud was basically the avian version of a street thug: dive-bombing around the apartment to avoid capture and, when cornered, delivering one perfectly placed bite. Favorite target? Tess.
“He doesn’t look like a poor lost bird we rescued in Central Park,” I said. “He looks like we kidnapped him—and he knows it.”
Tess dropped onto the edge of the couch, elbow on knee, chin in hand—the posture of someone brokering a nuclear disarmament treaty. She sat there for a full five minutes, frozen, staring into the distance.
Then she lit up, leaping to her feet like she’d just solved the Sphinx’s riddle. “I’ve got it! We’ll get him drunk!”
“Excuse me?”
“He’ll get thirsty eventually… and we’ll leave him a little glass of rum.”
“Wait. You’re planning to booze up the parrot?”
“Of course! Just like his pirate ancestors.”
Without wasting a second, she swung open theliquor cabinet, grabbed the rum, and poured a splash into the fanciest shot glass she could find. She set it carefully on the counter, then cooed like a cocktail waitress at a Vegas high roller: “Here you go, Rimbaud… whenever you get thirsty!” To sweeten the deal, she even placed a couple of Ritz crackers beside the glass, like a welcome appetizer.
“He’s not gonna fall for that,” I muttered, watching the bird glare down at us with the regal disdain of a Roman emperor weighing the worth of two court jesters.
“He doesn’t have to fall for it,” Tess said, eyes glinting with mad logic. “It’s science. He’ll get thirsty sooner or later…”
26
That night we put on a movie and stretched out on the couch, but it was just background noise. All eyes were on Rimbaud, the undisputed star of the living room. After a dramatic ceiling-level flyover that knocked down a picture frame, a vase, and two knickknacks—clearly satisfied with his captive audience—he finally settled.
He perched on a shelf, tucked his beak under one wing, and dozed off, breathing slow and steady. Half an hour later, he jolted awake—one twitch, a full stretch, a meticulous feather shake. His eyes locked on the counter.
“Looks sweet on the surface, but reeks of a trick… something tells me this drink’s a slick pick!”
He paused, making us hold our breath. Then he made his move: one flap, a soft landing by the Ritz. Peck, peck—crumbs everywhere—then his gaze slid to the shot glass of rum.
This was it.
He leaned over the rim, then jerked back half a step, woozy from thesmell alone. He tilted his head, and I swear I caught a glint of mischief in that shiny eye. “One sip of rum, I’ll be seeing the moon… swap the desert for a tropical lagoon!”
He dipped his beak and took a sip.
When he lifted his head, he staggered sideways—exactly like I had earlier that afternoon at the Vellum. And I swear, his beak curved into something dangerously close to a crooked smile.
He belted: “The barrel was empty, but I’m still alive… just saw a camel catch a wave and dive!”
With a drunken flap, he launched himself straight onto the couch, landing squarely between us, strutting across the cushion like a sailor at the end of shore leave.
Tess scooped him up with gentle hands, perched him on her shoulder, and brushed her cheek against his feathers, instantly transforming into a pirate with her loyal sidekick. For one brief moment, they really did look like the perfect pair.
“You’re diabolical,” I muttered.
“Eeeexactly,” Tess purred, and the smile tugging at her lips was all the proof I needed—she was already plotting her next move.
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