Where the Little Birds Are (Little Bird Duet Book 2) Page 3

  I shift in my seat. “That’s why I’m a little confused as to why you did. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. More than you could ever know. When people find out I want to write for a living, they think I’m joking. I know how much work goes into making a book successful, and understand it takes having someone like you backing me to make it more likely to happen. I just…” My shoulders lift. “It seems like this is too good to be true if I’m being honest.”

  The sound of my heartbeat startles me as I watch her study me. She leans back in her seat again, one of her brows arched. I can’t tell if I offended her or not, but my clammy hands suddenly become worse and I’m too nervous to wipe them off. I don’t want to walk out of here without a signed contract.

  “The stories you’ve posted online are all based on something, aren’t they?” Her inquisitive gaze tells me she already knows the answer. “Let me ask you something. Have you considered combining everything you’ve submitted? You’d be close to the usual requirement for a full-length novel if you did. With some tweaks, extensions, and a little polish, it’d be a unique story about two teenagers who grow together to work toward their dreams. A coming of age, if you will.”

  Swallowing, I think about Beck and Ryker. The two characters are loosely based on Corbin and me, but I haven’t been able to write more because it feels like there’s something blocking me. It’s easy to write about two people who love each other when you feel it. So why is my gut preventing me from finishing their story like I want to?

  Corbin has been busy with the movie for the past couple of months. We still find time for one another, but it’s different. Our talks of dreams and goals are still strong, but they divide us in ways that make it hard to understand him now. He tells me all about his new friends and the opportunities his acting coach has mentioned since the film he shot was completed. His coach even thinks Corbin will get an agent and manager that way he can try getting more roles to broaden his portfolio.

  I love seeing him do what he’s passionate about because it lights up his face. Instead of worrying about his father’s reactions to his success, he celebrates everything he’s accomplished in his own way.

  Still, the warnings my brother gave me about Corbin’s impending departure from Lincoln lingers. Eventually, he’ll graduate and find better places to go. I hope Gavin is wrong about him though. Corbin will come back for me because we’re too alike. We’re driven, determined, and yearning to make something of our lives. And we keep our promises. Always.

  “I never considered it,” I admit. “It’ll be difficult to write more of. I haven’t been feeling very inspired which is why my entries have been on different characters.” I pause when I realize something vital that led me here. “You’ve been following all of my submissions?”

  Her chin dips. “I look out for people I think I can make something of. With the right amount of work that book can become something big, Kinley. Coming of age stories are a hot commodity, and what better storyteller than someone living the journey? I wasn’t going to let you shop anything with somebody else if I could get to you first.”

  My eyes widen. I never expected somebody like her to tell me that. It’s different hearing your writing is good from someone close to you. Corbin insists it’s going to take me places all the time, but he’s obligated to make me feel good about myself.

  “You underestimate yourself,” she states, as if she can read my mind. “When people write because they want to, it changes the game. It isn’t about money or fame, even though those are nice to have too. It’s about making a difference.”

  I press my lips together. “What if I can’t though? It seems like having an impact on people is difficult.”

  “Do you have a story to tell?”

  I look at the contract again, toying with my thumbs. “Don’t we all?”

  “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.

  But no matter how long I let the water cascade over my body, it doesn’t help. The heaviness of my hair sticking to my face matches the weight pounding in my chest. Struggling to breathe, I press my palm to the wall and stare as the water crashes against the floor.

  When the sound of my phone goes off for the millionth time, I slam my fist against the side of the wall and find my way to the floor. Wrapping my arms around my legs, I curl up and drown in my indiscretions.

  Belly hard against my thighs, I rest my forehead on my knees and slowly begin breaking down for the first time since the news.

  “Make it stop,” I whisper.

  My calico cat Penny jumps on the desk in front of me, nudging my hand until the magazine I stare at falls open onto my lap. The image on display has me blowing out a breath, seeing my light brown hair barely covering my face as Corbin and I leave the hotel. It looks like someone took it from a distance the night we’d gone to the drugstore for Motrin because neither of us noticed anyone pointing a camera at us.

  Smaller images of him in his hoodie and sunglasses coat the side of the article. The interior décor of the hotel hallway leading to my room is in the background of each picture. It’s my guess that someone waited for him the last night he showed up.

  Corbin Callum seen sneaking out of Kinley Thomas’s hotel room just days after the two were seen off set together.

  I bite down on the remainder of my thumbnail until it cracks under the pressure. Wincing from the pain, I release my finger and study each printed image. How long did they wait to capture these? I’m sure whoever was assigned to get the inside scoop had a lot to tell.

  Jamie says its defamation since there’s no actual evidence over what the press is saying. It doesn’t matter that Corbin’s touch is intimate, or that he’s at my hotel hiding himself because he knows he’s not supposed to be there. It’s all speculation, and speculation sells copies.

  I wonder if Jamie’s in denial or doesn’t care, but I can’t get myself to think too deeply on it in fear of the answer.

  The problem of the supposed speculation comes from the quotes gathered by people from the movie—quotes that make it hard to deny that something went on while I was in California based on the volume of accusations. Extras talked, and they said all reporters needed to hear to piece together a story.

  One inside source claims they saw Ms. Thomas walking to Callum’s trailer and didn’t resurface until hours later. “A few of us saw the way they looked at each other on set. It wasn’t hard to figure out something was going on between them even before we saw them disappear together.”

  Scrubbing a palm down my face, I skim over the rest of the article and shake my head. I don’t know how many people were on set when I decided to go to Corbin’s trailer. It wasn’t like I frequented it—I’d been twice, and the second time involved me slapping him across the face like he deserved. But clearly whoever kept tabs on me didn’t care about that because they’d formed their own assumptions.

  Jamie told me not to say anything to the people online who started attacking me once the news broke. Everything with my name on it had been trolled by fans of Corbin and Lena. Names were called. Memes were created. My business email was taken over by somebody else because the threats were too intense to deal with on my own and my physical mail had to be screened because of the amounts of hate I received.

  The whole thing is a mess that I haven’t seen Corbin try to stop. Someone had to take over all my social media pages to get it under control because of the amount of people posting on my threads and reporting my content. Other then the occasional email I get forwarded that’s business related or something sweet my loyal readers send me amidst the drama, I don’t see anything worthwhile anymore.

  Before I could say no again to issuing a press release, Corbin’s people issued a statement saying that the rumors of us are ridiculous—that Corbin and Lena are happily married and don’t need the public trying to tear them apart over unrealistic rumors. Unrealistic. I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a punch to the gut.

  Maybe if I were anybody else, I’d believe that statement. I would doubt the likelihood of someone as famous as Corbin getting involved with someone less than his status like me. I’ve ranted about people trying to make a big deal out of everything before. If this were any other couple, I would have even rooted for them to make it despite the rumors.

  But for obvious reasons, I can’t. I just wonder what Corbin’s expression was when he approved the release. Did he cringe? Nod? Even try to fight against issuing that for the world to see? I’m not sure I want to know the truth.

  As soon as his statement was made, Jamie acted quickly to make ours. I couldn’t even try telling her the truth about the tricky situation before she made the decision for me. I no longer have a voice. Telling her that I’m pregnant after informing the world that Corbin and I are nothing more than a story in a tabloid would just label me a liar.

  Shaking my head from the rabbit hole I’m jumping toward I focus my gaze on the stack of posters still sitting in the cardboard box they were delivered in over a week ago. I’d waited a few days before even opening it despite Jamie seeming to be excited over the concept design. I knew I’d have little say in what is approved for the posters and book cover anyway. More than that, I knew I’d have no control over my feelings once I saw Corbin’s face.

  And when I opened the box and stared at the beautiful couple embracing each other in a mixture of orange and yellow hues, I didn’t know what to do. I cried. I yelled. I slammed the box down on the kitchen counter and walked away from Corbin Callum’s pretty face.

  Not because it isn’t perfect, but because it is. Olivia’s confliction. Corbin’s determination. The way they fit together is exactly how I pictured them. And it hurts because I can’t picture myself saddled next to Corbin the way she is—the way Lena is in the pictures that surface of them amongst the images of us.

  And I know the reason why is because the media have made me out to be the lesser choice. Why would Corbin go for somebody like me when he has an international supermodel as a wife? She’s beautiful in all the ways that count. I see what outlets say about me and could wallpaper an entire room with their descriptions.

  Plain.

  Dull.

  Poor.

  Unworthy.

  Wholly unimpressive.

  It feels like high school round two where the mean girls burn me with their opinions that I cared about too much. But it’s worse than that because I’m on blast for the world to see. And knowing that those girls who told me I’d be nothing are probably reading every comment makes each and every word become branded on my skin for life.

  Startled when my phone buzzes, I force my gaze away from the posters and stare at my brother’s incoming text message.
<
br />   Gavin: I swear to Jesus if you don’t pick up the fucking phone I’m coming to your house.

  Eyes widening as I palm my stomach, I pick up my cell to dial his number. The last thing he needs is to see me like this. He picks up on the first ring, cursing me out before saying hi. I wince and sink into my chair, letting the magazine on my lap fall to the floor.

  “I thought that’d get your attention,” he grumbles coolly.

  “Please don’t say anything. I—”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Gavin—”

  “Mom and Dad have been trying to reach you for weeks, asshole.” My teeth sink into my bottom lip. “You don’t answer our texts, phone calls, Facebook messages—”

  “I’ve been avoiding Facebook,” I explain quickly, rushing to give him a little comfort. “I’m sorry, Gavin. I really am. But … things have been tough for me and you all promised to give me time. I haven’t had the energy to explain anything.”

  He doesn’t relent. “Times up, Kinley. I’m not dealing with the bullshit I keep hearing, seeing, or reading about. I see your name everywhere next to his and I go mad. If one more person brings up the shit being said about you, I’m going to jail for assault. Now tell me what the hell happened.”

  I don’t answer. If there’s one person who sees right through me, it’s my brother. He knows when I’m lying, when I’m hurt, and when I’m struggling to cope. But if I tell him what’s happened, he’ll just tell me he was right all along. That’s the last thing I need to hear right now.

  “I need…” I clear my throat. “I just need you to know that everything will be okay. I’m handling it.”

  “You’re handling it?” he scoffs. Something crashes in the background as he says something away from the receiver. “What is it that you’re handling exactly and why are you keeping us out of it? We can help.”