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

by B. Celeste

  It isn’t like being separated from each other is foreign. Out of the six years we’ve been together, and the five and a half spent married, we’ve seen each other in a spattering of weeks at a time. Not months. Weeks.

  My eyes drift closed as she removes the sheet, leaving me bare to the cool air. She quickly warms it with the friction of her hand, playing with the sensitive nerves under the tip.

  “We shouldn’t…” I’m cut off when her hot mouth wraps around the engorged head of my cock, drawing my entire length in her mouth like she’s far too experienced at doing. My fingers absentmindedly go to the back of her head, but instead of guiding her to the perfect rhythm, I pull her away with a pop of her lips.

  “Please stop,” I rasp, throwing the sheets off me and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. Reaching for a pair of discarded boxer briefs from the floor, I slip them on before standing and turning to face her.

  Her arms cross on her chest. “And you say you’re not angry with me,” she scoffs, sliding off the mattress. “It’s been months since you visited me and my family, and this is how you treat me?”

  I sigh, knowing I’m being a giant asshole. Walking over to her, I reach out and rub her upper arms that are toned from the workout schedule she obsesses over daily. “I’m sorry, Len. I don’t mean to be a dick. I just haven’t been feeling well the past couple of days.”

  Her eyes soften. “You’re sick?”

  Clearing my throat, I step away. “I’m not sure. I think I might just be run down from shooting. Ever since we finished filming, I’ve been a little off. It’s nothing.”

  Cringing over the absolute bullshit I’m spewing, I walk into the bathroom to get ready for my day. When Lena appears in the corner of my eye, she studies me with narrow eyes. “Yes, how did the movie go?”

  She isn’t really asking about the movie though. She rarely asks about work, just when I’ll be done with whatever I’m filming at the time. I learned a long time ago that she only asks questions that benefit her. Nothing more.

  “Fine.” I flush the toilet and walk over to turn on the shower. “Buchannan seems happy and told us he’d call when he got it pieced together for an early viewing.”

  She moves to the sink, playing with her hair and adjusting the loose waves she always spends hours styling to perfection. “And what about the author… What is her name again? Kelsey? Kerry?”

  Though I’m not proud of the features Kinley and I have had in tabloids, there’s no way Lena or her parents haven’t seen it. They have copies of everything I’m in, especially if I fuck up. Her father never liked me, her mother simply tolerates me, and everyone else only cares about the fame.

  “What about her?” I ask, not wanting to feed the fire that I know is sparking in her eyes. I’ve seen Lena angry and don’t want that wrath to come out.

  You deserve it.

  The shower begins steaming the room, causing the mirror to fog over. She moves away from her reflection and turns to me. “How does she think the movie turned out?”

  “I couldn’t be sure.” I grab a towel and place it on the hook near the shower. “She left early. Work or some other reason.”

  She hums out a reply, not quite believing me with good reason. “I’m sure she’s a very busy woman. Hopefully she wasn’t too star stuck. I hear people like her tend to attach themselves too easily to celebrities. They get hurt that way.”

  Celebrities like us, is what she fails to say. It’s woven between her words, and I suddenly realize why Kinley was so pissed off at me for implying the same thing once upon a time. It makes us sound like entitled assholes.

  “Kinley isn’t like that.”

  Her blue eyes flash with victory. “Ah, that’s right. Kinley. Very unique name, no? It seems fitting for her.”

  Something tells me that isn’t a compliment but defending Kinley won’t make this conversation end any quicker. “I’ve got a lot to do today, Lena. Do you mind?”

  When she sees me gesturing toward the door, her lips part. “I’ve seen you naked more times than I can count. You want me to leave?”

  I don’t want to point out that she spends what little time she has in California at her house, not mine. That tidbit obviously seems lost on her since she let herself in without telling me she was coming.

  “I’d hate for you to get sick.”

  Her eyes pin me.

  Wetting my lips, I say, “Why don’t we go out for breakfast after I’m finished getting ready? We still have a lot to talk about. Neither one of us can avoid the conversation much longer.”

  For a long moment, she just watches me. Based on the distance in her eyes, I can tell my offer isn’t welcome. “As you said, I’d hate to get sick. I’ll call you later, Callum.”

  Callum. Not Corbin.

  When was the last time my wife called me by my first name? She’s always used the same title the world chose for me. Callum. Hollywood heartbreaker. If only the press knew how right they are. Other than my mother, only one other person uses my actual name and she hasn’t gotten any of my messages.

  The door slamming closed behind her has me cussing into the steam-filled room. Peeling off my boxers, I step into the shower and let the water drown out my thoughts. Like always, Kinley finds her way back in.

  With my breakfast shake in hand, I settle at my kitchen table and scroll through the undelivered emails saved in my inbox. Each one is addressed to the same person, as if one will magically get through the outdated email address provided on her website.

  To: Kinley.thomas@authorkinleythomas.com

  From: Jack.Pennywise@gmail.com

  Subject: Little Bird

  Little Bird –

  You haven’t used my number which means you either didn’t get the notebook or haven’t wanted to give me another shot. I can’t say I blame you if it’s the latter, but we should talk.

  Call me.

  To: Kinley.thomas@authorkinleythomas.com

  From: Jack.Pennywise@gmail.com

  Subject: Little Bird

  Little Bird –

  You might have noticed the email address. Knowing you, you rolled your eyes. I watched the remake and liked it better than the original. I remember your reaction when I put on IT and still laugh. I’m pretty sure you asked me if Stephen King was known to smoke crack before writing his novels. I still don’t know the answer to that, but I’m guessing no.

  I need to know you’re okay.

  I love you, Kinley.

  To: Kinley.thomas@authorkinleythomas.com

  From: Jack.Pennywise@gmail.com

  Subject: Little Bird

  Little Bird –

  Remember what I said before I left the hotel that night. This isn’t goodbye. Not again.

  Call. Me.

  Brushing a hand through my hair, I don’t bother reading the rest of them because the lack of response will just batter me more. I want to believe the post office lost my gift, but I have a feeling she received it. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth wondering if she made the final decision about us without me.

  Grazing the keys of my cell, I exhale a heavy breath and type out one last email before resorting to new measures. Our history is a record of cycles that bring us back to the same outcome.

  Corbin and Kinley.

  Actor and author.

  Two dreamers.

  I’m not ready to break that cycle, but to form a new one. One without pain. One without heartache. One where there’s nobody but ourselves to stop us from finding that feeling that kept us soaring in the past.

  To: Kinley.thomas@authorkinleythomas.com

  From: Jack.Pennywise@gmail.com

  Subject: Little Bird

  Fly with me, Little Bird.

  Sending the email unsuccessfully, I switch to social media and track down one person who might be able to help without asking too many questions. That is, if I didn’t burn that bridge too.

  When I click Zach Russo’s name, I hold my breath and type out a quick message hoping not everyone from
Lincoln hates me.

  To my surprise, he replies. It gives me hope that it’s not too late for me to patch up old relationships no matter how many years have passed. There’s only one I want to focus on, and I’m staring at her phone number and a message from the very friend I thought I’d lost her to.

  Don’t fuck it up this time, asshole.

  Chapter Three

  Kinley / Past

  Staring up at the large skyscraper, I swallow back the nerves that ground my feet to the pavement. The sun’s reflection on glass and steel has me wincing as I trail my eyes over to the sign of offices within the huge building.

  An elbow nudges my arm. “You look constipated, quit making that face.”

  Glaring at my brother, I loosen my shoulders and heft out a sigh. “I’m nervous, Gavin. You would be too if you were in my shoes.”

  His smile turns from teasing to serious. “I know you are, but we came all this way. You’ll be fine. You’re just meeting with the woman, right? What’s the worst that can happen?”

  My mind conjures a long list of embarrassing things. What if I step into Little’s Literary Agency and vomit? Or sweat through my clothes? Or forget how to talk? The possibilities of things that can go wrong are endless. I get one good chance to make an impression, I hear Jamie Little isn’t an easy woman to impress.

  “Everything,” I mumble.

  “Could be worse,” he states, pushing me along with him to the spinning glass doors. People power walk by, not paying us any attention despite us sticking out like the middle-of-nowhere natives that we are. Gavin is in jeans and a plaid button-up with dirty work boots on that I begged him to change out of. He just rolled his eyes and ignored me. “Mom and Dad could have come with you instead of me.”

  I scrunch my face at the ridiculous statement. “They’d never come to the city, Gav. I’m not even sure why you did. I know you can’t stand this kind of scene.”

  He deadpans. “You’re not even eighteen yet, Kinley. None of us were going to let you come to New York City on your own to talk to a woman you’ve never met. You could get kidnapped or sex trafficked.”

  I blink. “Uh…”

  Shrugging, a slight tilt to his lips appears as we enter the fancy foyer bathed in white with a sleek black desk positioned off to the side. A glass directory hangs on the wall by four sets of elevators. “The more I think about it, the more I realize you’d never get kidnapped. You’re too ugly. Nobody would want you.”

  Smacking his arm, I hit the button for the agency’s floor and watch his shoulders shake from laughing. “Dweeb.”

  “Dickwad,” he returns easily.

  Entering the elevator, I feel my palms get clammy. Wiping them on the fronts of my black jeans, I realize I could have dressed up more. The shin-high brown boots, cream sweater, and red plaid scarf that Mom gave me isn’t very formal. Paired with a burgundy leather jacket that Gavin bought me makes it look a little more put together, but suddenly I’m thinking of any other outfit I could have put on.

  I sent a selfie to Corbin before leaving my room and he told me I looked beautiful as always. I’m realizing now that I should have tried for professional—maybe something to make me look older. A dress, heels, something. Beauty isn’t a part of this industry like it is Corbin’s.

  When the elevator stops at the eighth floor, I swallow hard and glance at my brother. He gives me one little nod that eases some of my worry. As annoying as he is, he supports me.

  “I’ll wait here,” he says, gesturing toward a line of blue chairs by reception. There’s a large fake plant in the corner that he flicks before sitting down, stretching out his legs and making himself comfortable.

  The receptionist is a brown-haired woman who’s probably around Mom’s age with a friendly smile plastered on her face. “Can I help you, dear?”

  Playing with the hem of my sweater, I give her a timid nod. “I’m here to see Jamie. Er, Ms. Little, I mean.”

  Amusement flickers on her face as she holds up her finger and picks up the phone. “I just need your name to confirm you have an appointment.”

  After I tell her, I shoot a quick glance at my brother who’s playing on his phone. He must sense me staring because he looks over and shoots me a thumbs up. Rolling my eyes, I turn my attention back to the receptionist as she hangs up the phone.

  She gestures toward the open space to the side of her desk. “Her office is all the way in the back to the right. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thank you.” My voice is weak, so I clear it and nod my head for good measure like that will somehow help.

  Gavin mouths good luck before I begin my venture past offices lining the walkway. Some doors are open with people behind computers, some are closed with others on phones. It smells like coffee and something floral, a relaxing mixture that I soak up as I see Jamie’s name on the side of a glass wall in the back corner.

  The woman behind it looks exactly like her picture online. Short white hair styled to perfection, a no-nonsense expression on her face, and a navy-blue blazer over a white blouse that screams business. I’ve done my research on my company ever since I got the email from her after she judged a writing contest I’d been in. She’s been successful since opening the doors to the agency over five years ago, signing names that go on to become bestsellers in the industry.

  Jamie is seated behind her desk typing something on the computer when I arrive at her door. Unsure if I should knock or announce myself, I fidget until her head picks up.

  “You can come in, Ms. Thomas.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I smile and take a hesitant step into her office. It’s bright from the large windows behind her and inviting with white bookshelves lining the wall that are filled with multi-colored book spines. On the opposite wall are pictures of Jamie with different authors, some on red carpets from movies based on books she represents, others holding awards. It leaves my lips parted as I study some of my favorite authors showcased in the black picture frames.

  “I don’t bite,” she says, leaning back in her chair once I gather the nerve to look at her. There’s humor in her tone, but not her features. It makes me walk further in until she gestures toward two comfortable looking blue armchairs positioned in front of her desk.

  The round clock on the wall indicates it’s 3:05, making me squirm a little as I sit. “I’m sorry for being so early. I expected the commute to take longer.”

  She rests her folded hands in her lap. “Did you take the T?”

  I stare at her for a moment. “I, uh, took the subway?” Cringing at how stupid I sound for making the statement a question, I mentally slap myself.

  The tiniest smile appears on the corner of her lips. “I forgot you’re not from around here. Anyway, I appreciate you being early. A pet peeve of mine is tardiness. So, did you look over the information I sent you? Do you have any questions about the contract or anything else?”

  Giddiness over hearing those words escape her makeup-less lips makes me reach for my bag. The day I got an email from her still makes goosebumps coat my arms with pride. I was in study hall listening to Zach jabber on about some sports game he watched when I saw the email sitting in my inbox. The literary agency’s name had been the subject line. Zach had asked why I was making weird noises, but I ignored him completely as my shaky hands hit the button to read whatever was sent.

  Blowing out a breath, I take out the paperwork. We could have gone over the contract online or spoken on the phone to go over questions. But our email exchange left the option open to come here, and I craved to see the city and talk with her face to face instead. As much as I wanted to put a pen to paper and be part of this company as soon as I found out about it, my brother told me to hold off until after speaking with Jamie. It isn’t often he’s the voice of reason, but it made sense. My parents easily agreed, though they weren’t happy that I’d already told Jamie I’d be open to traveling to see her instead of finding a different way to communicate.

  I fidget with the sleeve of m
y sweater. “I was wondering why you decided to take a chance on me.”

  It’s a bold question in the grand scheme of things. Most people are probably smart enough not to ask it, but I need the answer. I’ve submitted countless stories and only won a few contests, getting published in various magazines online. Sure, I’ve had the chance to talk with an author or two since submitting to the website, but even they told me to hold off getting representation until I have more writing experience under my belt.

  My eyes travel back around the room, focusing on the images of authors I aspire to be like someday. It seems farfetched to even be sitting in this room, but I remind myself anything is possible. And here I am.

  Corbin says the same thing, reminding me that we can do anything if we work hard enough for it. You’ve got to jump from the nest and trust your wings will work, Little Bird.

  Jamie’s hands move from her lap to the edge of her desk, her fingers weaving together as she studies me. “I see the drive you have, Kinley. When I was asked to help judge the first competition you won, I saw promise from your submission. When it comes to talent in writing, I don’t believe in luck. Some people have a natural gift from the start, others don’t.”

  And she thinks I do?

  “You’re young, but you’re not letting anything get in the way of accomplishing something big.” She points toward the contract in front of me. “You could be doing anything right now, but you’re here with me. Why is that?”

  It seems like the answer is obvious. “I want this.” Not wanting to be too simple, I scooch forward and touch the contract. “Every time somebody asks me what I want to do when I’m older, they judge me for my answer.”

  Her head tilts. “And what is it you want to do, Kinley?”

  Without hesitation, I answer, “I want to inspire people.”

  There’s a minor shift in her expression, her dark eyes brightening as if I said exactly what she wants to hear. “That’s why I took a chance on you. You’ll be eighteen next year. Most agencies wouldn’t even think to reach out to anyone before that point. It’s rare they give someone the opportunity they deserve regardless of natural talent.”