Page 8 of Where the Little Birds Are (Little Bird Duet 2)

“Agencies and publishers are afraid to take a chance on youth because they’re afraid of disappointment.” She shrugs like it’s that simple, but the thought terrifies me. “But I think people like you are our best asset when utilized right.”

“Because of my story?”

“Most people only write what they feel they can do justice. It doesn’t matter if you think it’ll make a difference. It always will to somebody.”

My body loosens with ease. Smiling, I pick up a pen from her jar and click it open. Despite her weariness, Mom signed the contract since I’m under the legal age to sign it on my own. Dad had their lawyers look it over to make sure it’s fair, but I knew I wouldn’t get anything better than this even before the lawyer confirmed as much.

I begin signing my name, thankful for all the times I’ve practiced my signature in classes pretending my notebooks were novels. “I trust my parents’ lawyer and I trust you.”

“Why is that?” she questions.

Pushing the contract to her, I say, “It’s like you said. Everybody else thinks youth is a risk. If people don’t like my book I want it to be because they don’t think it’s for them. Not because I don’t have the experience to tell the story. My story.”

An impressed looks colors her otherwise blanketed features. “Keep up that determination, and you’ll find yourself on every list there is to be on before you’re twenty-five.” Wetting my lips, I glance quickly at the pictures on her walls. She says, “You’ll be up there too one day.”

Emotion grips my chest, leaving my lips wavering in a grateful smile. Telling her how much I need to hear that is impossible. I manage to thank her before thinking about the possibilities this new relationship will bring.

Spread your wings, Little Bird.

I smile to myself and think about Beck and Ryker and what their love will do for me.

I am, Corbin.

Chapter Four

Kinley / Present

The cold tile is welcome against my clammy skin as I curl up on my side hugging the toilet bowl. Closing my eyes, I blow out a shaky breath and ignore the sharp pain in my shoulder from the hard floor. Lying in bed and sweating through my pajamas isn’t an option with the way my stomach churns.

I’m not sure how long I lay there. I think I doze off for a while because I wake up to my cell ringing from where it rests on my nightstand. Not knowing what time it is, I groan to myself as I stiffly sit up. Wincing at the lightheadedness that takes over, I gather my bearings and peel myself off the floor.

The rancid smell of my morning sickness fades as I walk into the bedroom. Swiping at my forehead, I sit on the edge of the mattress and glance at the familiar blue light flashing in the corner of my phone.

“Shit.” My eyes train on the new missed call from my brother. My family agreed to give me space when I asked for it after the second tabloid hit, but I know they want answers. I’ve texted them saying I’m fine, but that’s all I’ve had the energy to mention. The more news that comes out against me, the more restless they become.

Each time a new picture appears of me with Corbin, it becomes front page news. Despite believing it’ll fade from people’s interest, there’s always some new piece of evidence against me. It’s hard to deny what everyone is saying when you have detailed accounts from hotel staff where I stayed that piles onto the guilt I’m already buried under.

The staff was all too happy to give the paparazzi an inside scoop, especially for a good price. I should have known someone would talk. They don’t owe me anything. Maybe I’d even talk too if I were in their shoes.

When Gavin’s name lights up the screen again, fear locks my body. My voicemail is full of unanswered calls, which I’m sure he’s long since figured out. Heart pumping wildly in my chest, I stare until my phone goes black again. Part of me wants to answer and hear his voice, but another knows it won’t be a civil conversation. He’s told me countless times that he’s here for me—both he and his wife Kayla have visited when I’ve been at low points with writer’s block or stressing about deadlines. They’d send me well wishes from Mom and Dad, sometimes even bringing food Mom made because she knows I don’t eat when

my schedule is packed.

I torture myself with isolation from them because there are no words that can form an explanation for all that has happened. I let the tears welling in my eyes roll down my cheeks and accept that I made this bed and have to lay in it. The lightest tap of a teardrop hits my arm, breaking me from the stupor I’m frozen in.

Walking away from the small torture device before it can flash again, I grab fresh clothes from my dresser and head toward the bathroom. Letting the shower run, I strip off my pajamas and walk over to the vanity. My complexion is frail, eyes too dark and skin too pale. I look as sick as I feel.

With anxiety. With stress. With reality.

Running a brush through my tangled hair, I remember strong fingers making the very same strokes. I let my eyes close, memorizing the sensation. My movements slow as silver eyes pierce my thoughts until I can’t bare to look at them any longer.

When I open my eyes, I can’t see my reflection through my blurry gaze. Jaw trembling, I drop my brush and walk toward the steamed glass with billowing water behind it. I step into the hot spray and pretend everything can wash off me.

The memories.

The choices.

The hurt.

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