Page 50 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Then I improvised: “Golden and crisp, the treat never lies—Step in the bag and up you’ll rise!”
Rimbaud blinked. Tilted his head. Studied me. But didn’t move.
So I upped the ante: “Salty, crunchy, too good to miss—Hop in the bag, embrace the bliss!”
He side-shuffled along the perch like a seasoned tightrope walker, inching toward my bag. Sniffed the air. Croaked: “Rimbaud, beware the sugar-sweet treat… it hides the cage, the cunning deceit!”
I bit my lip. My impromptu rhyme bank was running dangerously low. “One bite, one crunch, no need to fight—Get in the tote and say goodnight!”
That one landed.
With a half-flap and a dramatic swoop, he dove into my bag like it was a golden vortex. He landed with a thump and instantly started crunching the cracker like a bird possessed.
I zipped the bag shut in one swift motion. And I swear I heard, muffled but proud: “Zane Ryder got fooled by a dazzling glance… I fell for a cracker… and a rhyming romance!”
As soon as I zipped up the bag, Rimbaud went full banshee—screeching, flapping, feathers everywhere. He looked like a miniature demonic parrot, fully possessed and dead set on escape.That’s when it hit me: if I strolled back to Tess and Lucas playing the part of the sweet, clueless journalist, there was no way Lucas would miss the tropical storm trying to claw its way out of my purse.
Option two? Run. Bolt now and leave Tess alone with Lucas. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be too distracted wrangling Christopher to notice my sudden absence. But all it would take was one sober minute for him to connect the dots: bird as decoy, Tess as lookout, me as thief. Within hours, we’d be blacklisted from every high-society invite in Manhattan.
That’s when inspiration struck.
I slipped out of the aviary and left the curtain wide open. Then I sprinted through every “ecosystem” in the Animal Club with a single mission. I opened the cat salon, where spoiled Persians lazily rolled off velvet cushions; the dog suite, where bulldogs and poodles burst out like furry cannonballs, their matching leashes cracking like whips; even the dim-lit nook with a raccoon napping on a goose-feather pillow—he stretched out like he already knew what was up. Doors, latches, glass panels—I flung them all open. Total jailbreak.
At first, just a ripple of curiosity. Then chaos bloomed. A living, breathing rainbow of fur and feathers surged into the hallway. “You’re free!” Ideclared as a dachshund darted past me like a furry bullet. “Free from your gilded cages!”
I re-entered the vet room just as the parade followed me in: cats weaving between legs, dogs panting like they’d won the lottery, and the raccoon already eyeing a silver serving tray like it owed him money. I raised a fist and shouted, “No cages, no masters—freedom is a feeling!”
The epic moment lasted all of half a second. Tess took one look, clocked the entire situation, and without exchanging a word, we bolted for the exit—me clutching a bag that kicked like a live grenade, the chaos of barks, meows, and indignant squawks erupting behind us in the heart of the Vellum Animal Club.
25
On the subway, thank God, the screech of steel wheels on the tracks drowned out most of Rimbaud’s squawks from inside my bag.
Most.
“Zane Ryder never gets played… but if he does, he’ll get paid!”
“If love feels sweet, it’s a trap… you’ll end up stuffed in a handbag flap!”
“If he whispers soft and low… check your wallet before you go!”
Each rhyme came with a little shake of the bag, like I was lugging around a feather-filled cocktail shaker. The nearest passengers gave me side-eye, but between headphones, smartphones, and the faint smell of burnt pretzels wafting in from the next car, no one was motivated enough to actually ask questions.
I prayed the plan had worked. In my head, Lucas was currently thinking we were just a pair of rogue animal activists on some rescue mission. And evenwhen he realized the most famous parrot in the world was missing, he’d assume the bird had simply slipped out in the middle of the chaos along with the rest of the stampede.
The second we stepped into our apartment, I unzipped the bag. Rimbaud shot out like a crimson missile, crossed the living room on a perfect trajectory, and landed on top of the kitchen hood—the highest, most unreachable spot in the room.
From his perch, he fixed us with a mix of suspicion and contempt, head jerking side to side like a judge searching for the right charge. “One day I’ll sing… hot mic on… you two in the front row… stretch pants gone wrong!”
Tess stepped forward, her voice sugar-sweet, like she was coaxing a sulky toddler. “Come on, Rimbaud… you’ll have way more fun here with us than with boring old Lucas.”
She tried bribing him with snacks, but the bird had already demolished an entire sleeve of Ritz and wore the blissed-out look of someone too stuffed to even glance at a sunflower seed. So Tess shifted to Plan B: her tried-and-true seduction routine. Half-lidded eyes, soft smile, words dripping honey as she crept toward the hood, every step slow and deliberate, posture on point.
Rimbaud let her get away with it… for three whole seconds. Then he launched at her like a paratrooper in freefall, claws tangled in her hair, wings thrashing like a tropical storm. Feathers flew, Tess fought to hang on to her scalp, and the living room spun into a cyclone of shrieks, flapping, and muffled profanity.
Finally, the parrot released her and glided to the shelf above the TV, pecking the remote like it was a war trophy. “Sing of love, cry of pain… I’ll scream louder, that’s my game!”
Tess stared him down, took one deep breath, and smoothed herself back into the kind of stage calm only possessed by someone who will never—ever—admit to being humiliated by a bird. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll let him cool off, then call the hotel and say we found him perched in Central Park.”
