“If you come with me, I’ll make it worth your while,” I say.
“How?”
“You’ll have to come and find out.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounded much like, “I better come.”
13
Colt
I tilt my head back and squint my eyes, blocking out the sun blazing down on us, wishing I was anywhere but a damn farmers’ market.
Why she figured a farmers’ market would be a fun way to spend a Saturday morning, I have no idea. I should have stayed at the park and kept playing ball. Or gone for a swim.
“Smell these.” Em turns around and shoves two oranges in my face.
I frown. “Why?”
“They smell so sweet and fresh. I think I might make an orange cake.”
I shrug and wander around aimlessly. So many people like to shop for fruits and vegetables. It’s weird. Why don’t they go to the grocery store?
“And do you want…” I tune out the rest of what she’s saying because I spot a stand selling chickens.
Not raw ones, or barbecued ones. Live chickens. They’re squawking, and clucking, and fighting to get out of the small cage they’re trapped in. Clearly, they hate being trapped in small spaces.
I know that feeling too well.
There are too many people wandering around. Crowds make me nervous. Sweat drips down my forehead, and I check the time on my phone, ready to get the hell out of here, but I can’t escape until Em has finished picking fruit and whatever else she wants.
Claustrophobia is a bitch.
I twist my neck, trying to stretch and relax the tight muscles, bounce on the balls of my feet. Rolling my shoulders, I try to loosen up. Em’s distracted and I don’t have my ball so I wander over to the chickens and lean down to play with them. There must be fifty of them crammed in this small cage. Definitely not cruelty-free.
A sign pinned to the front of the cage shows the dude is selling them for twenty dollars each. Kind of expensive for how skinny they are. They’re fighting with each other and clawing each other, trying to break free.
The farmer selling them is deep in conversation with a woman in short shorts. His eyes are on her tits and I smirk. Pervert. Can’t blame him though, her pink checkered shirt is tied around her waist, showing off her tanned stomach as she plays with the braids in her hair. She’s asking about the welfare of the chickens, if they’re being well looked after, and the pervert farmer assures her they have free range of his farm and are well loved, because well-loved chickens produce the best eggs.
I scoff. These little guys are not well loved and I’m sure Daisy Duke doesn’t believe him because she’s talking about animal cruelty, and how the cage is a form of chicken torture.
Biting my lips, I suppress a chuckle. Chicken torture. She’s not wrong though. The chickens are miserable, and some look diseased. I wouldn’t be expecting any well-loved eggs from them.
Without thinking about it, while the farmer is defending his farming practices to the cowgirl, I lift the latch on the cage and pull the door open as I rush away. The chickens cluck, and their wings flap as they make a break for it.
Freedom!
Charging through the crowd before I’m seen, the farmer is yelling and swearing behind me. Looking over my shoulder, I chuckle at him chasing chickens through the throngs of people. Each time he dives for one, it escapes his grasp.
By the time I get to Em, I’m laughing hysterically. “We have to go,” I whisper in her ear as I take the vegetables out of her hand and place them back on the table.
Linking my arm through hers, I pull her away as fast as I can before anyone realizes it was me who let the chickens loose.
“What’s going on?” Em whips around to see the commotion I caused.
I hurry her forward, pushing her through the crowds “Nothing, hurry.”
“What did you do?”
“Liberated some chickens.”
“Like that one?” She pointed to a chicken that was standing at the edge of the parking lot. Little guy will get run over by a car if he isn’t careful.
I snort.
“What?” The impatience in Em’s voice is clear.
“Why did the chicken cross the road?” I ask as I swoop down and pick up the stray egg machine.
I don’t have to look at Em to know she’s rolling her eyes. “Why?”
“Because he’s coming home with us.” I tuck him under my arm and drag Em through the parking lot toward the car.
“We can’t keep a chicken.”
“We can and we will.”
“What are we going to do with it?”
“Shh. You’ll hurt his feelings. She’s not an it. Her name is Jordan.”
“Jordan?”
I grin and raise my eyebrows waiting for her to get it.
“Right. Michael Jordan.” She nods. “Best shooting guard of all time. Five-time MVP. Hall of fame. Six championships. Fourteen-time All-Star. Am I missing anything else?”
“A lot, but I’m impressed. You’ve been paying attention.”
“Well when the only two things you talk about are porn or basketball stats, I have little choice.”
I hold out my hand for the keys and Em throws them over the roof of the car to me. Unlocking the doors, we both get in and I pass Jordan over to her to hold. She screws up her face and shakes her head.
“What am I supposed do with it?”
“Her. She’s a chicken. Not an it; we’ve discussed this.”
“You called her Jordan. I thought it was a male chicken.”
“Male chickens don’t lay eggs. Now hold her while I google ‘how to raise chickens in an apartment’.”
“No, even google can’t help with that.”
I ignore her and search for supply shops nearby. I locate a store about thirty minutes away that should have everything we need.
As I’m pulling out of the parking lot, Em screams, “Stop!”
I slam on the brakes, and the car jerks to a stop. Em throws Jordan in my lap and launches herself out of the car. She runs across the parking lot, bends down, picks something up and rushes back over. Climbing back in, she smiles and holds up another chicken.
I lift an eyebrow and Em shrugs. “Figured Jordan could use a friend.”
“What are you going to call her?” I’m baiting Em. Testing her to see how much she pays attention when I talk.
“Clyde.”
I grin and hold out my hand for a fist bump. “Clyde. I like it.”
“Did I pass?”
“Pass what?”
“Your test.” She smirks.
“You did well.”
With Em in the passenger seat holding two chickens on her lap, we head off to go shopping for supplies.
Three hours later we return home with two large bags of feed, a small chicken coop, and straw to line the coop and keep Jordan and Clyde comfortable.
And a snack.
“I can’t believe you bought fried chicken!” Em complains once we’ve finished lugging all the supplies up to our apartment, depositing the box of fried chicken on the kitchen counter.
“I have to build the chicken coop. You know hard work makes me hungry.”