Free Whisper (New Adult Romance) by Ava Claire

time in the world. “Don’t cheat yourself. You’re not washed up, you’re growing up. People might think that they watched you grow, but there’s no such thing when you’re in the public eye. You’re not allowed to screw up and make mistakes because you’re publicly flogged if you show any sign that you’re too human to live up to the standards fame puts on you. You’re not washed up, Mia. You’re beautifully flawed, just like the rest of us.”
    Heat stabbed my cheeks. I could count the number of times I saw a therapist on one hand, and she'd said a variation of the same thing. I was acting out because I never got to as a kid. There were always people watching. Expectations. I let her words go in one ear and out the other, mostly because she spent eighty percent of our appointment looking at the clock. I didn't feel her words or that she cared about me. But Liam...his words washed over me and dove into my chest, clutching my heart tight. He cared...and he meant every word.
    I shied away from the moment, gesturing at the machine. “I'd throw your stuff in before the cycle locks the door.”
    He tossed the load in and leaned against the machine, a curious look on his face. “You do a lot of clothes at the Laundromat?”
    I didn't do any clothes, period, but with his surprised reaction, I didn't want to state the obvious – that I hadn't washed or folded my own laundry in years. Instead, I vaulted up onto the folding table. “I wasn't always Mia Kent.” I made a sweeping gesture. “Once upon a time, I was just a kid stuffed into the back of my mom's van and driven across the country, starving for my big break.” I remembered nasty McDonald's salads and cups of ice water, staying at low budget motels and washing clothes in the bathtub unless we were lucky enough to grab a hotel not too far from a Laundromat. We'd lug our clothes over and Mom would grill me on everything from my lines to my smile. Maybe that's why I hated doing the laundry now, because there was some psychological link between washing and drying and my mother berating me. 
    I shrugged away the memory and focused on Liam. Focused on keeping my mother out of this. “You're not getting off that easy.”
    He chuckled. “Well, shit.” He pushed away from the machine, stretching his arms above his head. Twisting his waist to the left, then the right. Was he going to tell me about himself or run a marathon?
    “I grew up in the Bay Area,” he said finally. “Nothing too exciting. Dad worked in the financial district. Mom stayed home to raise me.”
    I swung my legs, picturing the Golden Gate Bridge, the biting chill of the cold. “I went to a couple of auditions in San Fran. I remember the city being...” I searched for the right word. “Colorful.” Another word popped in my head. “And expensive.”
    “Yep.” One syllable, and he was suddenly avoiding my gaze. I guess I wasn't the only one who didn't look upon my childhood with fondness. 
    His biceps flexed as he crossed his arms against his chest.  “If my dad had it his way, I'd be working at his firm as we speak. He didn't mind the 'singing thing' when it was a hobby, but when I dropped out of college and packed up my Volvo with dreams of making it big in LA—” He winced, like he was reliving the memories in bitter, vivid clarity.
    I knew there was rarely a happy medium. There was my mother who forced voice, piano, and dance lessons that we couldn’t afford down my throat. She was going to make me a star by any means necessary. And then there was the other side of the spectrum, parents so violently against their children’s dreams that they threatened to disown and cut off their children when they needed their support the most.
    “He went through every stage of grief before my very eyes.” Liam raked a hand through his dark locks, holding it at bay as he recounted his father’s meltdown. “Denial – he laughed in my face, like I’d just told him some gut-breaking joke.