Page 20 of Where the Little Birds Go (Little Bird Duet 1)

But I did.

Because the fame has always been my focus, not the town who patted me on the back like they doubted I could make something of myself. I fed my determination until I’d become successful, and by then I had little control over the promises I’d spoken.

I told myself this was all for Kinley.

But I’m selfish son of a bitch.

A liar.

This has always been for me.

Chapter Eight

Kinley / Present

The second note shows up a few days later, slipped under my door sometime during the night. I went to bed after giving up on my writing deadline, too distracted by the events of the week.

When I saw the envelope resting on the carpet, I debated on leaving it there or kicking it under the rug so I wouldn’t be tempted to open it. I’m not that strong though, and that’s probably the hardest part to admit.

Maybe we’re more addicted to the pain than to each other.

-Ryker

Staring at the words for a fourth time, I sigh and set the note down by the empty candy wrapper. Around eleven last night I decided to eat my feelings in the form of red licorice. At some point, my sugared-up brain decided it was a good idea to Google Corbin Callum and torture myself with articles and interviews of the man who’s a complete stranger to me now.

The two hours I spent watching YouTube videos of red-carpet interviews made me remember the few times we joked in the past about making it to black tie events. He never had a doubt that he’d walk the carpet, but me? We were always different in that way. Corbin had a natural confidence to him that I always secretly envied. He carried himself without a care in the world while I let all mine rest on my shoulders so openly for the world to see.

Video clip after video clip, I would study how well he pulled off a tuxedo like I hadn’t seen him in one at winter formal. His body is nothing like it was though. He’s filled out in all the right places, ripples of muscle he’s clearly worked hard on showcased over every inch of him. Even his face—his cut jaw and narrow cheeks—has a new shape that only age and exercise could give him after all this time.

The first time I saw him on set, I considered cutting out sugar because I know under my clothes is a softness that jiggles when I move a certain way. Despite the time spent doing at-home workouts every day, my thick thighs remain. Maybe if I didn’t turn to carbs and sugar in times of stress, I’d finally squeeze into a size four again instead of jumping into a seven.

Blowing out a breath, I move away from the written-on stationary that I folded into a tiny origami bird and get dressed. Buchannan mentioned doing reshoots this morning with some of the smaller roles, so I’m not going in until this afternoon. It gives me time to tour around the city and get away from the world I stepped willingly back into.

As I pass the folded note again, I grab the waste basket and brush everything from the table into it, leaving it by the door in hopes someone will empty it before I’m back. I don’t want to see the handwriting in the paper animal I’ve loved making since he made up that stupid nickname for me.

All I see when I glance down is Ryker’s name staring back at me, and I wonder why I let myself get to this point. We can’t keep playing this game because there’s too much to lose. His name brings the press, and mine brings the backlash. One wrong move, and not only his fans will come after me, but his wife’s fans too.

But I think about his departing words the other day despite trying to bury them.

I’ve always been Beck.

He’s always been Ryker.

And we’re masochists—addicted to the pain.

Chapter Nine

Kinley / 16

Black ink smudges across the side of my palm, leaving traces of unreadable letters on the notebook paper in front of me. Frowning, I wipe my hand on my blue jeans and try making out what I wrote just seconds prior. My mind has been scrambled with a few different story ideas that have distracted me from taking proper notes in class. I’m not even sure what we went over in Geometry today.

Just as I’m about to flip the page and continue where I left off, the subtle scent of fresh soap and French vanilla coffee hits my nose as a chair is pulled back. My lips curve upward when Corbin plants himself next to me, eyeing the notebook.

“Writing again?”

“Yep.”

He eyes the ink stain on my pants. “You know there’s this thing called soap and water. I hear it works wonders when people’s hands are dirty.”

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