CHAPTER 8 #2
Becker immediately makes a gagging sound. "Oh, god. Oh, fuck. That was—"
"Yep. Gonna puke." Groover's got his hand over his mouth, face twisted in horror.
"That was like kissing my brother."
"I don't even have a brother and I know that's what it would feel like."
They're both physically recoiling from each other, making exaggerated disgusted faces, and everyone's losing it. Jinx is on the floor. Petrov's crying. Even Washington's cracking up.
Hendrix, satisfied with the chaos he's created, ruffles his feathers and struts away like a tiny feathered god. I'm laughing too, so hard my sides hurt, and this bird is officially the best thing that's ever happened to this bar.
Until.
Hendrix's eyes land on me.
And he's fucking determined.
I avert my gaze momentarily and focus on the glass I'm holding, hoping that if I don't look at him, he can't see me.
My peripheral catches him waddling in my direction with that same determined march, and my stomach drops somewhere around my feet.
"Kiss kiss."
"Nope." I take a step back, holding up my hands. "On the clock. Sorry. Find someone else."
"KISS KISS." He's at the bar now, staring up at me with those soulless demon eyes.
Devon's next to me, and I see the exact moment he realizes what's about to happen. "Hendrix. My guy. No."
"KISS KISS!"
Devon sighs, perching his elbow on the bar and resting his chin on his palm. He reaches out with his other hand to give Hendrix what I'm assuming is a placating pet, but Hendrix is not having it, pecking his finger.
"Kiss kiss!"
"I wouldn't dream of it, Hendrix. He's not into that sort of thing." Devon rolls his eyes. "Tragically." And now they're gossiping. A man and a bird. "Besides, he's just not that type of person. Again, tragically. Boring and all that."
I cross my arms. "Did you just call me boring?"
"KISS KISS!"
"No. I called you tragically boring."
"Because I'm straight?" The words come out before I can stop them, because there's this small part of me that needs to get the message across loud and clear.
Between Devon and the Reddit guy, I can't exactly tell what's going on lately. Do I… give off a vibe or something? I don't really mind if I do, I just… don't want to be misleading.
Devon snorts. "What? No. Because you're a prude."
My eyebrows shoot up. "I'm not a prude."
"Oh, really? I must have hallucinated you blushing for fifteen minutes when I said you were hot."
I inhale sharply, waiting for my brain to come up with some witty comeback. It doesn't. "That's… different."
"How is it different?"
"It just is!"
Hendrix is getting impatient. "KISS KISS!"
The team's noticed now, Becker's face lighting up with evil glee. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" he starts chanting.
Jinx joins in immediately. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"
Then Snooze, then Groover, then Petrov, until the entire fucking bar is chanting, and I'm going to die right here behind this bar and they'll write on my tombstone "Murdered by Peer Pressure and a Parrot."
Devon holds up his hands, trying to talk over the noise. "Guys, come on. This is—"
"KISS KISS!" Hendrix is screeching at full volume now, flapping his wings aggressively, and I'm pretty sure if we don't do this he's going to start biting.
The chanting gets louder.
I look at Devon. He looks at me.
"Fine." I turn to glare at Hendrix. "You win. You happy? But you really are a bully. The worst kind of bully. A tiny feathered dictator."
"Kiss kiss," Hendrix says, somewhat calmer now, victorious.
Devon runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up. "Oh, well. The things you do for charity."
"This isn't charity, this is blackmail."
"Just—" He gestures vaguely. "Let's get it over with."
The bar's gone quiet now, everyone watching, waiting. My entire team. Random patrons. Mama Paws is probably filming this from somewhere.
This is fine. Everything's fine. It's just a kiss. Just a stupid, utterly awkward, utterly performative kiss because a bird is holding us hostage, which is probably the dumbest thought I've ever had, but somehow it describes reality.
I step closer. Devon steps closer.
We're standing maybe a foot apart now, and I can smell his aftershave. He's at least six inches shorter than me. I have to look down to meet his eyes, and he has to tilt his head up.
"Ready?" he asks.
Absolutely not, but I nod anyway.
We lean in.
His lips touch mine, and my first thought is: This is weird.
Not, like, awful-weird. Just... weird.
I'm kissing a guy.
That's a thing that's happening right now. In front of approximately fifty people.
Because a parrot told us to.
His lips are soft, which is my second thought. Softer than I expected, though I'm not sure what I expected. I'm not sure I expected anything because I wasn't planning on kissing a guy today. Or ever.
We're just... pressed together. Lips on lips. No movement.
Like two mannequins someone posed.
Devon shifts slightly, adjusting the angle, and somehow that makes it less awkward. His lips move against mine—just a little, testing—and without thinking, I respond.
Oh, this isn't so bad.
I was genuinely afraid I'd feel nauseous. That my body would reject this on some fundamental level because men don't kiss men, or at least I don't kiss men. Except apparently I do now.
But there's no nausea. No revulsion. It just feels like... a kiss.
Not different from any other kiss I've had, and yeah, it doesn't hurt that Devon's compact-sized, because if a bird ordered me to kiss someone my size, I'd just flip him off and run.
Devon's hand comes up to my chest—just resting there, palm flat over my sternum—and the warmth of it seeps through my shirt.
My hand moves on its own, sliding to the back of his neck. His hair is soft between my fingers. His skin is warm.
We're still kissing.
We should stop kissing.
But I'm not stopping and he's not stopping, and now his lips are parting slightly, and—
Oh, fuck, tongue.
Devon's tongue traces my bottom lip, and my mouth opens before I can consciously stop it. His tongue slides against mine, and I'm kissing him back, properly, like this is something I know how to do.
Which apparently I do.
With a guy.
Huh.
But it's fine, still I'm fine. Everything's fine.
His fingers curl into my shirt, gripping the fabric, and my hand on his neck tightens in his hair—when did I grab his hair?—and we're making out now. Full-on making out. In the middle of the bar. Because of a bird.
This is insane.
This is—
Umm.
Wait.
Now there's this feeling.
I know this feeling.
Oh, God, please, please tell me I'm fucking hallucinating right now and that damn feeling isn't what I think it is, or what I know it is but I’m currently trying to negotiate away.
But nope. I am very much lucid.
Kissing Devon.
While getting hard.
Not a little bit hard. Not maybe-this-could-be-nothing hard. Unmistakably, undeniably, my-dick-is-now-fully-alert hard.
Panic floods my system. I need to stop. I need to pull back right now before anyone notices, before this gets even weirder, before—
Devon breaks the kiss.
He pulls back, and I'm still leaning forward slightly, like my body hasn't gotten the memo that we're done.
Our breaths come out uneven. His face is flushed, lips red and slightly swollen, and his eyes are darker than before.
What the hell just happened?
Around me, the bar erupts—cheering, whistling, someone's screaming—and I jerk back like I've been electrocuted, putting distance between us.
Devon's staring at me. I'm staring at him. Neither of us is saying anything.
But then, he grins, back to his usual self, leaning over the bar sideways. "Well, then." He waggles his eyebrows. "Not bad for a—"
"What the puuuuck?" Hendrix screams, cutting out the rest of the sentence.
The team's losing their minds. Becker's on his feet, hands in the air like his team just won the Stanley Cup. Petrov's laughing so hard he's bent over. Even Washington's grinning.
I should probably say something, or at least roll my eyes and flip them off, but my brain is all static, panic, and the growing realization that I'm still half-hard and need to stay behind this bar for the foreseeable future.
I risk a glance at Devon. He's already turned away, grabbing a bottle from the shelf, back to bartending like nothing happened.
Like we didn't just make out in front of fifty people.
Like I didn't get hard from kissing him.
Well, it's not like he knows that part. I hope.
The front door opens and Marcus and Parker walk in, taking in the chaos.
My eyes automatically find Hendrix, who's already looking their way.
I am scared of that bird.
"Kiss kiss."
His wings are already spread, and he's flying before he lands on the table closest to the door, dipping the tip of his wing into some poor sap's drink.
He looks at Marcus. "KISS KISS!"
Marcus and Parker exchange looks. Then, Marcus crouches down, gets eye-level with Hendrix, and plants a kiss directly on the bird's beak.
The bar goes silent.
Hendrix blinks. Once. Twice.
Then he ruffles his feathers, makes this pleased clicking sound, and waddles away looking satisfied.
"WHY DIDN'T WE THINK OF THAT?" Becker yells.
"Because we're idiots," Groover yells back.
That we are.
And I'm the biggest idiot of us all.