Page 2 of Nerdelicious
Maybe I should let Slobber Man kiss and grope and have his way with me, just to get it over with. I mean, he sucks, but I’ll be moving on from Jack. Which is what I wanted, right? Isn’t that why I came here?
Slobber Man. More the moniker of a villain than a superhero. His power is drowning people in spit.
I snort a laugh while his hands move up my waist, going for the goods with all the finesse of an off-balance T. rex.
He claws at my breast, and all thoughts of giving in and just letting it happen flee. Nope. Can’t do this. I shove him away, taking two giant steps back and coming up against the side of the house.
He lunges forward faster than I thought possible, considering his current state of sobriety. He sets an arm on either side of my head, his hips pushing into mine, trapping me.
I can’t believe this is happening. My life has become a hackneyed script, like the writers’ room has run out of ideas and decided,Yes, it would be a great idea to make the Mother of Dragons go abruptly Mad Queen in the last five minutes, sure sure sure.
He moves in to kiss me and my arms pop up, shoving at his chest. “Back up or my knee will be meeting your ball sack.”
I’ll have to remember to thank my parents for forcing me into self-defense classes before they allowed me to take the subway.
“You’re feisty.” He remains unconcerned, crowding me again.
“I’m serious.” I raise my voice, jerking my head away from his sodden seduction. “Back. Up.” I’m nearly yelling now.
My whole life, I’ve been prepared to defend myself from muggers on the streets of New York City. But it’s here, in small town Texas, where everyone leaves their doors unlocked and children skip around unattended and safe, that I get cornered by a drunken asshat.
As I raise my knee in preparation for an instep stomp, the pinballs in my brain finally come to a stop on one question.
How did it come to this?
Three hours earlier...
“Fred, girl, you get on down here and let that no-good ninny die!” Granny hollers up at me.
I grit my teeth and pull myself farther along the plank, inching toward my goal. “No.”
“It’s just a dumb bird.”
I glance down at her from my precarious position, arms and legs wrapped around an eight-inch beam, clutching it with both arms and legs like it’s all that hangs between me and death. And it sort of is. The rope around my waist for “security” is tethered to a hook on the wall and anchored by a fourteen-year-old girl. The only thing between me and certain death is a teenager and a rope.
As someone born and raised in Brooklyn, I never imagined I would find myself rescuing a chicken who’d somehow gotten herself stuck up on a crossbeam inside of a barn. But here we are, hovering over a mishmash of moonshine-making stills and accoutrements.
I scooch closer to the fowl. She stares at me, amber feathers twitching, head jerking, copper eyes flashing.
She’s just out of reach. I grit my teeth. “Kylo Hen is not dying on my watch.” I don’t know if I’m talking to Granny, the fowl, or myself.
“Youmight die on your watch, though,” Grace calls up. You wouldn’t know it to look at her, pale hair, pixie face, innocent expression, but she’s a tenth-level genius with the attitude to match.
“We got eight more in the coop with less attitude,” Granny says.
“She’s not just a bird to me.”
Kylo Hen cocks her head, like she hears and understands me. And maybe she does. I bonded with the terrible creature my first week here. I cried. She pecked at my shoelaces. It was magical.
If anything happens to her, my life will cease to have meaning. Maybe that’s a little dramatic, but my whole life has been upended over the last six months and I’m entitled to some theatrics.
Not that your life ever had meaning to begin with, a shrill voice quips in my head, one that sounds exactly like Dolores Umbridge. Evil bitch.
Gripping the board with already shaking thighs, I shoot forward and seize Kylo Hen’s feathered body, clutching her close to my chest with one arm. I wobble and tighten my legs to avoid a death plunge.
“Got her.” Triumphant, I glance down at Granny and Grace. Surely they are impressed with my amazing chicken-rescuing abilities.
Granny is pacing back and forth, her long grey braids swinging behind her. She’s muttering something about supper getting burnt while she’s in here dealing with fools.
