Little Bird: Criminally Yours

Chapter 1

Four YearsLater

Life was lonely here, in a place where you couldn’t trust your cellmate or even the guards, who were supposed to protect you. Just like my foster mother, who turned a blind eye every time he got mad at me and Gray for disobeying his orders.

I learned at a young age that I had to fend for myself. No one was going to protect me. No one was going to have my back. No one cared if I lived or died.

Begrudgingly, I sat down across from my lawyer. The cuffs bit into my skin as they secured me to the table, reminding me that even out of the cell in the presence of someone who believed my innocence, I was still a monster.

Rick, my attorney, crossed his arms over his big beer belly, glaring at the guard through two bushy, gray brows. His mustache moved with his lips, which turned into a scowl. “Is that necessary?” he grunted, and the guard shrugged.

“Protocol,” came the guard’s response before he lazily crossed the room and disappeared behind the door.

“I hate these fuckers,” Rick grumbled, uncrossing his arms to fuss with the papers laid out across the table. “Now, I came with some good news. You’re up for parole.” I sat up, trying to read the mess of words before me.

“How the hell did we manage that?” I eagerly asked. When a frown appeared, furrowing not only his mouth but his brows as well, I leaned back and waited for the other half of the good news.

“Now, don’t jump to conclusions. I ain’t a magician boy.” He put a pamphlet in my awaiting hands. “You will have to join this program to start the process.”

Glancing at the letters in bold, I snorted.

PEN PAL OUTREACH PROGRAM

“This is a joke, right?” Rick shook his head, his double-chin wobbling.

“They want to see you take part in community events. This is for students at the local college. It’s a requirement for them to graduate, and it will be a requirement for you to be released. I suggest you read the fine print. There are some other activities you will have to take part in here, and then, there’s a program they want you to join once you’re released.”

I didn’t care about the fine print. I wanted out.

“Where do I sign?”

Days passedwithout a letter from my pen pal, which was a little frustrating since I was relying on this person to get me out of here. They were supposed to reach out first. Rick assured me this was normal. I was at least assured when Rick informed me that my pen pal would only know my name and age. If I wanted to share my reasons for being arrested it was up to me.

“Looks like someone finally decided to take a chance on you.” My least favorite guard threw the letter at me through the bars. I bit my tongue to keep my mouth shut. I longed for the day I could walk out of here, right past his smug face.

Scanning the envelope with my name written on it in perfect script, my heart leaped. Someone wanted to talk to me. A complete stranger.

A stranger that needed to write to me to graduate.

Shaking the glimpse of happiness from my head, I glanced at the top left corner where the name Harley Cole was scripted with an address.

Who the hell named their child Harley?

Carefully opening the letter, I unfolded the single piece of paper.

August 21st

Dear Easton,

Hi Easton,

Hey there,

Hey,

Sorry for the mess above. They only give us one piece of paper, and I’m wasting it again. Just a heads up, I’m a terrible writer, but you know why I’m here. Ugh, that came off so rude. I’m sorry.

My name’s Harley Cole, in case you didn’t see the front of the envelope. My dad loves Harley Davidson, and my mom loves Harley Quinn, so it was within their mutual interest to give me the worst name possible. I bet you were wondering about that; everyone always asks, even though it’s so rude.

Anyway, they told us to write about our lives, but I spend the majority of my day trying to run from it and stick my nose in a book. So, what do you do to ignore the reality of your life? Did that come off as rude? I didn’t mean to be, I swear. I’ve just never spoken to someone in jail before.

I’m supposed to be a journalism major, but naturally, I can’t think of a damn thing to write now. I don’t care for the typical questions, but I guess I’ll ask them anyway since it’s expected.

Your favorite color?

Your most hated color?

Your favorite childhood movie?

Your favorite TV show theme song?

Your favorite fast food?

Ketchup or mayo?

BMW or Mercedes?

Football or baseball?

Coke or Pepsi?

Chocolate or candy?

Can’t wait to hear back from you. Actually, no—can’t wait to read back from you.

Your pen pal,

Harley

My lips curled into a grin of amusement. On paper, this girl was adorable as hell. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. I liked this crazy girl.

She was so fucking real.

And a damn breath of fresh air.