Page 18 of Hopeless Romantic
“You get back here,” she called as his feathery butt disappeared down the hallway.
Beckett followed him to the front room. After a quick search, she decided that Gregory was either hiding or MIA. It was hard to tell with the detritus of the day scattered throughout the room.
Clean clothes were strewn over every piece of furniture, as if expecting a visit from the laundry fairy. An army of empty Red Bull cans lined the coffee table. And someone must have fed the pile of tightly wadded paper balls, because they had multiplied to cover most of the north side of the room and were quickly gaining territory in the east.
And situated in the middle of the room, blocking all paths to freedom, sat Jeffery and his drum set. Number two pencil between his front teeth and oblivious to the chaos, he played as if headlining at the Greek. His face glistened with perspiration, his shirt sweaty and stretched out of shape. His art deco dinner jacket was rolled at the sleeves and hung open, as if buttons were too much of a commitment. A pair of studio-grade headphones in place, his hair swaying with every beat played, he banged away.
He looked like a missing member of the Rolling Stones.
On a rare patch of bare hardwood flooring sat Diesel, looking distressed and out of sorts. And walking around him was an agitated and overstimulated Thomas, with his hands pressed against his ears.
“It is loud. Very loud,” Thomas explained, as if Beckett had somehow missed the jam session in progress. “The noise has exceeded the ambient level by ten decibels for more than five consecutive minutes. That is a violation of Noise Ordinance 2014-b, which states—”
“I know what it states.” Thomas quoted it so often, she could recite it word-for-word. Not that anyone would be able to hear her if she did. The music was so loud, every beat vibrated against her sternum. “Dad, plug in your headset.”
Jeffery didn’t budge. Thomas’s pacing became more frantic.
Tired of shouting, she crossed the room and pulled back Jeffery’s right earpiece. “Dad, you need to plug this in for it to work.” He didn’t even slow down as she inserted the plug in the corresponding hole on the drums, and the room plunged into immediate and blessed silence.
“I don’t like drums,” Thomas simply said, then sat on the couch. Diesel plopped on top of Thomas’s shoes and released an exhausted snort.
“I know you don’t.”
A light tap sounded from the front door, and Beckett turned to find her friend Annie on the other side of the screen. Dressed in suede boots and matching skirt, with a winter-white sweater, and carrying a pink box that made Beckett’s mouth water, she stood with her knuckles poised to knock again.
Annie gave an uncertain smile. “I wasn’t sure if I should knock again or come back later.”
“And eat whatever’s in that box all by yourself?” She ushered her friend in.
Annie barely had one foot in the door when Gregory decided to come out of hiding from behind the curtain. Eyes on Annie, he made a direct line for the swinging white string that dangled from the box.
Feathers out, head bobbing, he released a battle cry and, as if she were to blame for the offending noise—he rushed the door.
With a squeak, Annie lifted the box and stepped back outside, barricading herself behind the screen. Undeterred, he flapped, flapped, flapped . . .
And went airborne.
Like Michael Jordan, Pecker sailed through the room—only to collide with Diesel’s rump.
There was an uncharacteristic yelp, and Diesel’s little potato legs moved at alarming speed as he retreated under the end table on the other side of the couch. A moment later, he bounded out of hiding, with Pecker hot on his stub of a tail.
“We don’t chase in this house,” Thomas informed Pecker, who didn’t give two shits about the rules. “We pet and snuggle and respect boundaries. We don’t corner, yell, or chase.”
Gregory kept chasing. Thomas started yelling. Annie took another step back. A tornado of feathers and angry clucking whirled around Beckett, over the couch, and between the drums.
Jeffery lifted his left leg to grant passage, then took a moment to pencil in a few notes on his music sheet.
On the third lap, Beckett scooped up the chicken, his alien-looking legs still moving as if trying to gain traction in midair, and tucked him under her arm. With a few cooing sounds, she calmed Gregory. Aware that the danger was over, Diesel skidded to a stop beside Thomas, sniffing to make sure he wasn’t in distress. Then he plopped down on his big belly, panting and snorting, his disdainful eyes locked on Gregory.
“I can totally come back,” Annie assured all of them, but her attention was directed at Gregory.
“He’s just had a day; plus, he knows something’s going on,” Beckett said. “Let me put him in the kitchen.”
“The rule says no chasing,” Thomas informed Annie as Beckett disappeared into the kitchen. Even through the closed door, she could hear him. “Diesel isn’t a pet, he’s a working companion. Never chase, distract, or touch an emotional support animal when they’re working.”
Beckett lifted Gregory so she could kiss his beak. “You’re just scared and letting me know. Don’t worry, you’re going to love Katie. She needs a friend and loves to cuddle. A perfect pairing, if you ask me.”
“Cluuuck cluckcluckcluck,”Gregory cooed softly, his bug eyes sliding closed when Beckett held him tight against her chest.
