Page 24 of Where the Little Birds Go (Little Bird Duet 1)

“For the record, you’re my friend too.”

I wave it off. “Whatever. I bet you’re making them watch Stephen King movies and droning on for hours about everything King does in his free time.”

He winks. “But I don’t feed them while doing it. Especially not our favorite candy. You should feel special, Little Bird.”

The annoying part is, I do.

Chapter Ten

Corbin / Present

The dim light from the floor lamp by the leather sectional I’m sitting on is the only thing letting me skim through the script to prepare for tomorrow. My obsession with picking apart every sentence is consuming me, yet I can’t force myself to go to bed until I’ve combed through the lines I’m supposed to deliver like the person who created them isn’t assessing the entire delivery.

My palm scrapes down my tired face as I pick up my phone and glance at the time. I’m usually going through useless emails that my agent sends me thinking I’ll pay attention to them by now, or already in bed. Half the shit littering my inbox and messages are different opportunities for sponsorships and commercials that would line my pockets until my next big job.

The team who represents me also knows that I ignore most of what they send me because I don’t want my name tied to a product or think it’s a complete waste to begin with. There have only been a few times in my past where I settled on doing a quick job for cash when I needed it, but I’m not the young kid starting out anymore.

Dropping my phone on my couch when I see a voicemail from Mom, I lean back and groan loudly into the room. We speak once or twice a month because my schedule is busy. Ever since I signed onto the Through Shattered Glass movie, she’s been asking for updates on how things have been going.

By things, she means Kinley.

My mother’s enthusiasm over Kinley’s movie gets me hounded with questions about how her favorite girl is doing because she hasn’t seen her in so long. Mom always wanted a daughter and treated Kinley like her own. It made having Kinley around easier because the mistakes I made stopped becoming the focus of all our conversations—especially with Dad.

The thought of Mr. Callum sours my mood instantly, causing me to peel myself from the couch and head into my bedroom to change. I would try over and over again to impress my parents only to be criticized and doubted by the man I’m so much alike. Kinley always understood where I came from because her family struggled getting why she went after writing like she needed it to breathe.

Her and I are alike in all the ways that matter, which made us inseparable. Having her in my life made everything easier. My family got along better, we got to root each other on when it came to writing contests and auditions, and when things didn’t work out we were there for one another to vent to.

Slipping into my nylon running shorts, my eyes catch the two little black lines on my left pec. Staring at them in the mirror, I run the pad of my thumb over the ink. Everyone asks about them, but they remain a mystery. Makeup usually covers the simple tattoos for movies, but Buchannan let me keep them visible during my shirtless scenes. It seems symbolic given the history and the woman who started it all.

Two lines. Two strikes. They represent the moments I realized that I loved Kinley Thomas—loved her as a friend and more. Far more. Press always wants the inside scoop on why I bothered with something so plain, so permanent. Most actors stray from marks like this. But I wanted a reminder of the feelings that stuck with me for so long. She’s always been a part of me and always will be.

Covering my chiseled torso with a loose sleeveless tee, I head into my spare room that’s been converted into a makeshift gym. The equipment isn’t as impressive as some of the professional places I’ve been to with my trainer, but it gets the job done when I work myself up and need to release my anger.

Right now, I’m full of it.

Because I can’t change how anyone sees me—the press, my peers, my family. It’s easier to ignore the opinions of people when they’re not related to you, but a different story when your own father is focused on the negative rather than something good. I can’t be the household name the same way Kinley is in Lincoln because the press made me out to be the playboy. The partier. The guy nobody can take seriously.

I was pictured at a party with two former co-stars who were known for substance abuse, so everyone assumed I was into drugs too. Some other asshole at a party a few weeks after that got a video of me smoking a joint with a few people that only sparked the rumors over me upgrading to something heavier. I’ll never forget being asked by my parents if I’m clean, like they expect me to admit I’m not. My father’s distant tone on the phone that day had cemented how I felt about him despite my denial that I’m doing drugs. Our relationship, which was always strained, became nonexistent.

I run faster on the treadmill until I struggle breathing. The images that swirl in the back of my mind range from some of the best and worst moments I’ve had since the day I told Kinley I’d be back. No longer is my resentment trained on my father, but of the girl who I still want.

Nearly tripping when my shoe catches the other, I pull the safety pin and climb off the machine. Hunched over with my palms resting above my slightly bent knees, I curse at myself as I try catching my breath.

I wonder if this is what it feels like for her when she sees me on set. Thinking about you, seeing you, causes me the worst kind of pain. Is the pain like a burn to the lungs every time she sees me going over set notes? Laughing with my co-stars? Living my dream? All I know is that it fucking hurts to think of her too.

Of the times we watched movies.

Of the times we went out on long drives.

We shared a lot—secrets about our families, things nobody else knew because we were afraid how we felt made us bad people. I know the innerworkings of Kinley like nobody else does.

Did. I did know her.

Straightening, I punch the wall as hard as I can as I pass by it. The hole left behind is nothing compared to the anger simmering in my stomach over something I can’t change.

She didn’t want me casted.

She wanted them to pull the fucking plug.

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