The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  THE MONDAY GIRL

  The Girl Duet: Part One

  Julie Johnson

  JOHNSON INK, INC

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Julie Johnson

  Copyright © 2016 Julie Johnson

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.

  Cover Design by Julie Johnson

  Subscribe to Julie's newsletter: http://eepurl.com/bnWtHH

  ISBN: 978-0-9965108-7-5

  To every boy who thinks this book is about him.

  “Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want.

  Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.

  Men actually think this girl exists.

  Maybe they’re fooled because so many women are willing to pretend to be this girl.”

  Gillian Flynn

  Prologue

  T o those who would love me — I offer you a warning.

  Do not get too close. You won’t survive.

  There is a dark place inside my mind and a melancholy, masochistic streak running through my heart.

  I am a hedge maze of razor-sharp thorns without a map.

  Unnavigable. Inexplicable.

  A tangled, twisted place with more spikes than a cactus. Prickly and liable to draw blood whenever you draw near.

  There is danger, here.

  There are demons lurking below soft skin and sloping curves, the kind that can never be brushed off or expunged. No exorcism can root them out, no priest with holy water can wash them away.

  That’s all right.

  We’ve grown quite close, my demons and I, after so many years intertwined.

  But I fear you will not find their presence a comfort. You will see the shadows of my soul and falter. Even the bravest of you will quake, shaken to your core, when you realize just how broken I am. That I am not a girl at all, but a collection of shattered pieces slung together with glue made of false confidence. Taped into a shape resembling feminine grace through sheer force of will.

  Get too close to me and I will infect you like the most deadly disease. My misery is contagious. I will kill whatever happiness dwells inside you, extinguish that inner light you’ve always carried like a gust of wind blowing out a candle.

  If you meet me on the street you should hurry on without a backward glance, and later when you climb into bed beside a happy girl with simple thoughts and stroke her perfect hair with fingers that are still shaky from our near-miss, you can whisper that you had a brush with death today, darling, and somehow lived.

  One

  “ I ’m just not looking for anything serious right now.”

  - A guy who’s about to start a long-term relationship… with someone else.

  I sit alone in the darkness, watching bugs fly one by one into the glowing fluorescent zapper machine my neighbors installed to keep the mosquitos away from their balcony. Every few seconds, like clockwork, the pervasive quiet that seems to wrap the world in wool at three in the morning is interspersed by the unsettling buzz of tiny winged kamikaze pilots meeting their maker.

  Zap, zap, zap.

  I am transfixed, entranced by the sudden flare of the bulb each time it claims a new victim. There is something morbidly fascinating about these insects, drawn against all natural instinct to their deaths by the lure of this warm, bright killer. Can’t they see their brothers and sisters before them, incinerated like birds flying too close to the sun? Don’t they recognize danger as they sail straight toward it?

  Zap .

  Apparently not.

  I press the damp surface of my beer bottle against my cheek, closing my eyes at the cool sensation. It’s humid tonight. Sticky heat. The kind that makes you sweat through your clothes just sitting there still as a statue, doing nothing more exerting than pulling breath into your lungs.

  The sprawl of downtown is a distant glow from out here on my narrow cement balcony, which overlooks a parking lot full of crappy old cars and cracked asphalt. This neighborhood is about as far from the glitz and glamour of the Hills as you can get while still calling Los Angeles home. Cynthia, my mother, hates that I live here almost as much as I hated living under the roof she pays for with an overly-generous alimony stipend from her third husband. Moving out last year with nothing but the thin wad of cash in my wallet, my broken-down Honda, and whatever clothes I managed to stuff into a duffle bag in the hour-long interval she vacated her beach-front condo in Manhattan Beach for her yogalates class was the best decision I ever made, even if she refused to speak to me for six months after she realized I’d gone.

  Cynthia — which, for the record, is what she’s asked me to call her since I was in diapers— still hasn’t quite forgiven me for maneuvering my way out from under her thumb, but she can’t shut me out completely. After all, I’m the star on which she has pinned her every hope and dream for fame and financial security. And a trainer doesn’t let their prized racehorse just quit . Not before they’ve won the damn Kentucky Derby — or at the very least been turned into glue for profit. I’ll be auctioned off for parts before she willingly loses her return on investment.

  I did not pay for fifteen years of dance and vocal lessons to have you flush it all down the toilet.

  Bringing the bottle to my lips, I drain the dregs of my beer in one long gulp. I set it beside the six other empties lined up like fallen soldiers at my feet and tilt my head up to look at the faint stars overhead. They swim before my eyes like fireflies in the hazy LA heat.

  Everything is a bit fuzzy around the edges.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be drinking by myself, but I live alone and right now not drinking is not an option. I could call Harper, but she’s got work in the morning and dragging her out of bed to deal with my drama in the middle of the night would only make me feel worse. I sure as shit can’t call Cynthia. She’ll never let me hear the end of it.

  Drinking on the night before your big audition? You’ll have bags under your eyes! You’re competing with perfect little seventeen-year-old sluts for this part. We can’t afford mistakes like this, Katharine.

  If my ancient twenty-two-year-old ass can’t land this shitty part because of a few beers, I’m sure my darling mother will still manage to spin it to our advantage. She’s a pro at it. I’ll be enrolled in rehab for a nonexistent drinking problem before I can blink, in some elaborate scheme to rebrand me as a bad girl and “broaden my image” — something she reminds me at least twice a week is in severe need of a makeover if I want to land any kind of steady role during pilot season.

  I snort at the thought and lean back on m
y elbows.

  There’s very little allure in the prospect of securing the lead as a teenage airhead on some vacuous new network television show — a last-gasp effort at appealing to a generation much more inclined to binge-watch on their laptops than tune in every Tuesday at eight for yet another vampire show. That’s not my dream — hell, that stopped being my dream about six years ago, when I realized my stint on a short-lived kids’ show called Busy Bees was not going to impress the casting directors of edgy indie films or big Hollywood blockbusters.

  Frankly, I’d like nothing more than to fade quietly into my mid-twenties, working nights as a bartender at Balthazar, the trendy nightclub downtown where I regularly serve bottles of champagne that cost more than my rent, and slowly scraping together enough money for college tuition.

  Unfortunately, Cynthia is not quite so eager to relinquish her dreams of stardom. Despite my apathy, she remains doggedly determined to make her only daughter into an A-list celebrity, come hell or high water. Hence the audition tomorrow.

  Another role I won’t get, another disappointment she’ll bear with all the grace of a blunt battle axe.

  If you’d just smile more enthusiastically, Katharine…

  If you’d just put in a bit more effort, Katharine…

  If you’d just…

  If you’d just…

  If you’d just…

  A deep sigh rattles out between my teeth as I rise, collect the empty bottles at my feet, and head through the sliding glass door into my dingy kitchen. The glowing green numbers on the microwave panel inform me it’s nearly three thirty. Going to sleep now will probably leave me groggy and exhausted when my alarm blares to life at seven, but with the beer humming in my system I can’t quite work up enough energy to care much.

  If I manage to make it to the audition, it’s sure to be a disaster.

  Cynthia is going to be livid.

  I smile in the dark as I collapse onto my lumpy mattress.

  * * *

  S elf-sabotage is my middle name.

  A psychiatrist would have a field day with me.

  My Honda makes a scary noise as I punch the gas and hurtle toward downtown LA — a death-rattle, of sorts. Fitting, since this will go down in history as the day Kat Firestone finally managed to kill her acting career. Twenty-five minutes late, with last night’s mascara still caked beneath my eyes and hair that hasn’t seen a brush since well before my little balcony-bender last night, I know I’ll probably miss my audition slot and, even if by some miracle I get there in time, I’ll look more like a crack addict than the “fresh faced All-American girl-next-door type” they’re looking for, according to the call sheet.

  I press the gas pedal harder, wincing when the Honda begins to shudder, and pray I don’t hit traffic. Though, not hitting traffic in LA would mean something ghastly has happened.

  The nuclear apocalypse, perhaps.

  Or, worse… rain .

  I am self-aware enough to admit the irony of my race to read for a part I don’t want, my headlong flight to salvage a career I severed all emotional ties with long ago. Yet, here I am. Hurtling down the freeway full-speed toward the demise of something inevitable. Racing toward an ending I don’t necessarily want to reach.

  That’s life though, isn’t it?

  We’re all in such a damn hurry to grow up — to turn eight and strap on a big-kid backpack and declare yourself too old for naps and dolls and dress up; to turn sixteen and get angry because, god , Mother, I’m old enough to stay out until midnight with my friends; to turn twenty-five and squeal yes , honey, of course I’ll marry you and settle down in a suburban house far from the city lights in a marriage I’m not sure I’m ready for because, well… what’s the alternative?

  We move. We rush. We run.

  Sharks in the water: stop swimming and you die.

  And then quite abruptly we are old and wrinkled and frail, lying on our death beds looking back at a life we didn’t even pause to enjoy. We are so busy speeding toward that damn finish line, trying to keep up with everyone sprinting alongside us, we forget sometimes that the finish line is death and the trophy is a coffin six feet beneath the earth.

  I press the pedal a little harder and the Honda groans precariously. A strange smell has begun to emanate from the vents in my dashboard. By the time I screech to a stop in the parking lot of the talent agency holding the casting call, it’s a quarter-past eight and my head is aching from the fumes. At a run, I drag my fingertips through my dark tangled mane and scrape it up into a pony-tail at the back of my skull. The weight of it tugs at my temples, exacerbating a headache from a hangover that hasn’t even properly hit me yet.

  I skid to a halt just inside the doors. They slam shut at my back with a bang loud enough to make me flinch, drawing the gazes of nearly everyone in the starkly decorated waiting room.

  There are a few dozen girls scattered along the aluminum seats lining the wide hallway, waiting for their turn inside the thick double doors — biding time until they get their shot to read lines they’ve likely memorized and rehearsed a thousand different ways, for a character with the emotional complexity of a hamster. They all look nearly identical — glossy blondes in sweater sets and heels. A few of them are wearing pearls for god’s sake, which says something about the role we’re reading for. Between my mussed, chocolate brown waves, thready jean cut-off shorts, and faded Ramones t-shirt, I don’t exactly blend with the crowd.

  Damn Cynthia to hell for signing me up for this.

  A wave of smug condescension crashes over me as sets of eyes coated with two perfect swipes of mascara scan my disheveled appearance from top to toe. Immaculately-lined lips purse in amusement and self-affirmation. Their thoughts are thinly-veiled as they examine me like a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of a Manolo Blahnik slingback.

  I may not get the part, but at least I don’t look like her.

  Grabbing a script off the stack on a table by the door, I sigh heavily and collapse into the closest aluminum chair.

  I probably should’ve read the call sheet Cynthia emailed me last week, accompanied by a terse note reminding me that I am not getting any younger and haven’t had a steady role since I was wearing training bras a full decade ago. As is the case more often than not, her admonitions fell on deaf ears. I haven’t exactly bothered to prep — unlike the perfect, pretty, petty girls littering the room around me like mannequins in a store window. Heads buried in cue cards and hand mirrors, they run through last minute lines and check their makeup.

  My eyes drop to the phone clutched between my fingers. I scroll through a week’s worth of backlogged spam emails until I find my mother’s message. I pick absently at my chipping black nail polish as my gaze sweeps the casting call. It’s a recurring guest role on a new pilot set during high school, featuring vampires or fallen angels or some other incomprehensible shit. Beth or Becky or some equally non-threatening name suited for a sidekick. A best friend.

  Not the lead. Those were cast weeks ago.

  I snort and the girl in the chair closest to mine makes a deliberate show of scooting away from me, as though my unkempt state is contagious and I’m liable to lessen her chances by sheer proximity. Twin spots of color appear on her high cheekbones when I waggle my fingers at her in a teasing wave.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie,” I confide in a whisper. “I don’t want the part. But if you do, I think we both know what kind of qualities the casting director is really looking for.”

  I make a crude pumping gesture with my hand and push out the inside of my cheek with the tip of my tongue.

  With an indignant huff and a resolute shake of her slim shoulders, she turns her attention to the phone in her hands and attempts to ignore my existence.

  That suits me fine.

  The double doors at the opposite end of the room swing open and every head pivots to watch, faces etched in various expressions of critique, as a production assistant wielding a clipboard steps out, trailed closely by a girl who’s just auditi
oned. Looking a bit green around the gills, the girl makes her slow march through the gauntlet of aluminum chairs on which her competition sits, her eyes never wavering from the exit. Judging from the way her hands are shaking and the thoroughly bored look on the PA’s face, it’s clear she won’t be playing Becky.

  A new name is called. A girl clamors to her feet and vanishes into the inner sanctum. I read through the script sheet briefly, grimacing at the cheesy lines. It’s even worse than I imagined, and not just because my headache has evolved into a migraine. This is bad writing, even by network television standards.

  After a few moments of painful study, I close my eyes and lean back in my seat, wishing I’d had time to grab a bagel in my mad rush to get here. The thought of composing myself enough to walk through those doors and say the words, “What do you mean, Stefano is a… a… a vampire ?” in a tone of breathy incredulity is almost more than I can bear without any carbs in my system.

  Every few minutes, I hear the sound of the doors swinging open, of girls exchanging places, of heels clicking against tile floors as those who have failed to impress the producers escape eagerly into the parking lot where they will sit in their cars and cry until their perfect mascara is smudged beyond recognition. The hopefuls — those who still cling to this impossible dream of “making it” — always take rejection the hardest.

  I should know. I used to be like them. I used to give a shit.

  Slumping down so my neck is braced against the curved back of my aluminum chair, I fight the waves of nausea coursing through my veins. God, I’m hungover. I haven’t felt this crappy since last April, when Harper and I did mushrooms at Coachella. Fun at the time; not so fun the next morning, when I woke up naked in a stranger’s tent covered in glitter, missing both my panties and my dignity.