27. Superchicken
27
SUPERCHICKEN
FELIX
Mean It By Lauv, LANY
“D o we even really need a bridge?” Dex asks, his face scrunched up like he’s trying to solve a calculus problem.
“For the hundredth time, yes,” I grumble.
“I don’t get it. Isn’t songwriting supposed to be some kind of team-building thing?” Bash gripes from the couch.
“I’m regretting even trying to involve you guys if you’re not gonna take it seriously,” I say.
“We’ve been at this for hours,” Gunner says. “But hey, if you want to be a one-man show again, writing songs all by your lonesome in the dead of night while staring wistfully at the moon, then be my guest.”
I blow out a sharp breath. “You’re right… sorry.”
I set my guitar down next to the couch. Crossing my arms over my chest, I glance around the room. The trailer feels stuffy, and the tension between us has been brewing for weeks. We’ve all fallen into this weird, restless funk, and it’s starting to show.
“Ok is no one going to announce the elephant in the room,” Dex drawls.
Gunner smirks and Bash looks away.
“You’re all pussies!” Dex yells and then turns his attention to me with a raised brow. “Are you gonna explain what’s on your neck?”
I can feel my cheeks heat as I touch the tender skin where I’d recently taken the bandage off.
“Nothing to explain,” I say.
“So it’s gonna be like that?” Dex challenges.
“Maybe you should worry more about the timing on your drum solo than what’s on my neck,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Touchy.” Dex backs off.
“When the fuck did we start getting so pissy with each other?” Bash asks.
“Yeah, it’s like we’re a bunch of middle school girls whose periods have synced up,” Dex chimes in.
“Manstruating,” Gunner says with a snort, and we all crack up, the laughter breaking through the tension like a sudden gust of fresh air.
“You know, my dad told me when he and his bandmates got like this, they’d pull pranks on each other. Said it was therapeutic on their first tour and became this weird tradition to keep things from getting stale.”
All three of my bandmates are staring at me like I just announced I’d found the cure for cancer.
“What?” I grumble, shifting under their collective gaze.
“We should do that,” Dex says, pointing at me with a crooked grin.
“Oh, sure,” Bash says, rolling his eyes. “Let’s go full-on slumber party and freeze each other’s bras. Maybe braid Felix’s beard.”
“I fucking shaved,” I protest.
“A lot of good it would do now, anyway,” Bash adds with a grunt, tossing a throw pillow onto the floor. “Now that the idea’s out in the open, we’ll all be expecting it. Way to ruin the element of surprise, Felix.”
We sit in a broody silence for a few beats. Then, Bash sits forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Wait… who said we had to pull one on each other? Why not someone who’s not in this room?” He raises his eyebrows, a sly grin spreading across his face.
The same idea seems to ignite in all of us, one by one. Dex’s grin goes lopsided, Gunner’s eyes narrow with mischief, and I can’t help the slow smirk that creeps across my own face.
We all exchange sneaky, knowing looks.
* * *
“Is this really necessary?” I stage whisper, gesturing down at my all-black get-up, complete with a ski mask rolled up on my head, as we huddle outside the crew bus.
“Fuck yeah, if you’re going to take this seriously,” Bash says, turning to me with a ridiculous grin. He looks like an idiot with black smudges streaked across his cheekbones.
“Is that shoe polish?” I squint at him.
“Don’t worry about it,” he mutters, waving me off with a gloved hand like I’m the one being unreasonable.
“Alright, we’re in,” Dex whispers, his voice low and conspiratorial as he twists the key in the lock. The faint click sounds louder than it should in the stillness of the night. We all shuffle inside.
The sound of heavy snoring guides us like a beacon. We creep down the narrow aisle, our flashlights cutting through the shadows. Dusty’s bunk is a mess of blankets and limbs, his face half-buried in his pillow. A faint whistle punctuates each exhale.
“Alright. Glue,” Gunner whispers, holding out a gloved hand expectantly.
“Seriously?”
Dex smothers a laugh as he hands Gunner a bottle of preschool-grade Elmer’s glue. “You heard the man. We’re professionals.”
Gunner snorts, unscrewing the cap. Meanwhile, Dex opens the other four bottles, passing one to each of us. Gunner holds open the pillowcase we brought, and I can’t help but roll my eyes as I grab a handful of its contents. Feathers. Of course.
We scatter them around Dusty’s bunk. They stick to the glue like snowflakes on a windshield. By the time we’re done, it looks like a chicken exploded.
Satisfied, we retreat as quietly as we came, slipping off the bus and back toward our trailers.
The next morning, we’re huddled around one of the picnic tables, looking like the walking dead. My coffee is lukewarm and bitter, but it’s doing its job.
“Should be any minute,” Gunner says, glancing at his watch.
Right on cue, muffled voices drift from the crew trailer. They’re low at first, indistinct, but they quickly escalate into a chaotic symphony.
“What the fuck?!”
“Dusty, what happened to you?!”
“Are you back on the ’shrooms?!”
“Holy fuck!”
The trailer rocks slightly, and I clutch my coffee tight, feeling a grin tugging at my lips. Bash ducks his head, his shoulders shaking as he tries—and fails—to keep a straight face.
The commotion inside reaches a crescendo before the door bursts open. Dusty stumbles out, a whirlwind of white feathers trailing behind him. He looks like an avian disaster, his hair sticking up in wild tufts, his shirt smeared with glue, and feathers clinging to every inch of him. One is stuck to his lip, flapping with every angry breath.
Gunner chokes on his coffee, spraying it across the table as the rest of us lose it. Dex is on the ground, rolling in the dirt, clutching his stomach as tears stream down his face. I’m laughing so hard my ribs ache, and I have to wipe at the moisture pooling in the corners of my eyes.
“Dusty, what happened to you?” I manage to squeak out between fits of laughter.
Dusty stomps around, plucking feathers off his body with jerky, furious movements. “Did you fuckers do this?” he bellows, pointing a feathery fist at us.
Dex wheezes, barely able to sit up. “What gave it away?” he manages between gasps for air.
“You sons of bitches!” Dusty snarls. The feather stuck to his lip flutters dramatically with his words, and I have to bite down hard on my tongue to keep from laughing again.
Bash chortles, pointing at him. “We fucking got you!”
Dusty’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing as his voice drops low. He places his hands on his hips, feathers fluttering the breeze as if he’s Superchicken. “You have no idea what the fuck you’ve unleashed.”
The ominous tone is enough to make our laughter falter. I glance at Gunner, whose grin fades as quickly as it came.
Dusty doesn’t say another word as he stomps back up the steps of his trailer, his feathered form disappearing inside.
“Umm…” Gunner swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “What do you think he meant by that?”
The four of us exchange uneasy glances.
And then there she is—Maggie’s standing near the picnic bench with an amused look on her face, hands tucked into the pockets of her frayed jean shorts, her black high-tops scuffing against the dirt. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, catching the dim light like it’s spun from gold. Those glossy pink lips curve into a smile that’s equal parts sweet and wicked, and my chest tightens, a rush of heat spreading through me like wildfire.
Pretty doesn’t even begin to cover it. She’s magnetic, the kind of beauty that pulls you in and leaves you breathless.
“Stay vigilant,” Gunner says, clapping me on the back with a knowing smirk before following the others out.
“Maggie,” Bash drawls dramatically as he passes her, earning an eye-roll.
She steps forward, her movements light and full of energy, like she’s carrying her own soundtrack. I follow her to the other side of the bus, where we have some privacy.
Before I can say a word, she skips toward me and leaps into my arms, her laughter filling the space like music.
I catch her easily, my hands sliding to her waist as she wraps her arms around my neck. She pulls the sucker from my mouth, her lips finding mine in a kiss that’s slow and deliberate, like she’s savoring every second. Her hair brushes against my arms, soft as silk, and I press my palms against her back, pulling her closer.
“What did you idiots do?” she asks in a teasing tone.
“I think we just unleashed something unholy,” I tease, glancing back toward Dusty’s trailer.
When she pulls back, she sticks the sucker in her mouth and then her eyes drift down to my neck. Her fingers dance across my sensitive skin as a smile spreads across my face.
“Is this?” Her eyes find mine. “What did you do?” She asks.
“You wanted to mark me, baby,” I press a kiss to her forehead as I let her down. “Now it’s permanent.”
She looks at the tattoo, her fingers tracing the intricate letters S A S S in the same spot where she gave me the giant hickey. “You’re such an ass,” she giggles.
I smirk and act wounded.
She pushes against my chest, and the look she gives me does things to my insides. She inspects the still-raw outline. “I can’t believe you did that,” she whispers. “I love it.”
She takes my hand, her smile daring. “You’re coming with me.”
I chuckle, my voice low and teasing. “At least buy me dinner first.”
She narrows her eyes at me, her lips twitching. “In your dreams, rockstar.”
“Every fucking night,” I say, my voice dropping an octave as I raise an eyebrow suggestively. Little does she know how true that is.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, her voice tinged with a soft laugh.
“Like what?” I ask, my grin widening.
“Like you want to take me to bed,” she accuses as if it’s a bad thing, as if it isn’t something she wants too.
We make our way toward the buses, but before we can get very far, I spot the crowd of fans gathered beyond the barriers. Maggie’s steps falter, and I almost bump into her.
That’s when I realize the fans are here for me. She glances at me, her expression unreadable for a moment, before she smirks. “Don’t be the asshole rockstar who ignores his fans.”
I hesitate, torn between her and them, but she nudges me forward with a playful shove. “Go. It’s fine.”
Letting go of her hand feels wrong, like I’m leaving a part of myself behind, but the cheers and eager faces of the fans pull me in.
I sign shirts, posters, even an arm, and it’s a bit overwhelming. Imposter syndrome creeps in, a dark shadow whispering that I don’t deserve this. If it weren’t for Maggie, they’d never even know about us.
When I finally look back, she’s standing off to the side, her camera in hand, capturing the moment. Her presence steadies me, a quiet reminder of what’s real.
As I walk back to her, she lowers the camera, her eyes softening as she takes my hand. “Come on,” she says, her voice gentle but insistent.
We weave through the buses, the noise fading behind us, until she stops abruptly and turns to me. Her hand cups my face, her thumb brushing against my cheek.
“Hey,” she says softly, her voice pulling me back to her, grounding me.
I lean into her touch, my pulse finally slowing. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong—she doesn’t need to. When she’s certain that my attention is fully back on her, she says, “Pack a bag.”
“What?” I ask, a laugh escaping me.
“Just trust me,” she says, her eyes sparkling with that same mischievous glint that always makes my heart race. “Pack an overnight bag.”