The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  An abrasive tapping sound intrudes on my recollections, followed shortly by an impatient cough. I open my eyes to find the stony-faced PA staring down at me, her clipboard clutched so tightly it’s a wonder her acrylic fingernails don’t pop off with the force of her grip. When our stares meet, her lip curls in a hint of disdain.

  “Katharine Firestone?”

  I blink. “Guilty.”

  “You’re up,” she says coolly, turning on a heel and marching toward the double doors without another word. I push to my feet and follow her at a leisurely pace, feeling the heat of glares from the rest of the girls in the room burning into me from all sides, an inferno of female contempt. Just before I reach the doors, I turn and blow them a goodbye kiss.

  “They’re waiting,” the PA informs me testily, tapping her pencil again.

  I push down the urge to reach out and break it in half. Denying her a snappy retort will spoil her dramatic little power trip, so I simply arch my brows and wait patiently, a small smile playing on my lips, until she shoves open the doors and ushers me inside.

  There’s a table set up across the room, about twenty feet from where I’m standing, its surface littered with empty iced coffee cups and stacks of notes. Sitting behind it are three people, none of whom bother to glance up when the door closes behind me with a resounding click. I hear the PA take a seat somewhere out of sight.

  “Stand on the X in the middle of the floor, please,” one of the women says in a tired voice.

  I walk soundlessly to the spot marked with masking tape.

  “Name?”

  The woman at the center of the table is speaking again. She seems to be in charge. There’s something insectile about the way she moves that reminds me of a large praying mantis — too thin, too jerky, highly inclined to bite your head off. Every strand of hair in her bleached blonde bob stays perfectly in place when she tilts her head to scan the sheet in front of her.

  “Katharine,” I say, my voice parched and cracking. Cynthia always says I have a voice made for radio, but my hangover has made me sound even huskier than usual. I clear my throat and try again. “Katharine Firestone. But I go by Kat.”

  The man on the right looks up when I speak, interest written plainly on his angular features. He’s in his early thirties and strikingly handsome — tall with an athletic build, his blondish-brown hair pulled back in a man-bun. I usually hate that look, but he somehow pulls it off effortlessly. I suppose, if you’re attractive enough, it doesn’t much matter what you do with your hair.

  He looks like a Viking. Or maybe an Instagram model.

  His eyes rake me from my messy pony-tail down to my battered Doc Martin boots. Surprise flickers in his dark blue irises as he takes me in.

  “You’re here to read for the part of Beth?”

  There’s an unmistakable note of incredulity in the question, fired at me from the other woman at the table — a middle-aged brunette with an air of superiority wrapped around her like an afghan. It’s clear she’s wondering what a girl like me, who sounds like a sex-line operator and dresses like a punk rocker, is doing here.

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” She glances down at the sheet in front of her and I see a flash of comprehension on her face. “Oh. Firestone . You’re Cynthia’s client.”

  “I am,” I agree, forcing myself not to fidget under their unwavering stares. I’m not sure what’s more humiliating — the implication that my mother had to make a call to get me this audition, or that she is so eager to be seen as my manager instead of the woman who physically pushed me from her womb twenty-two years ago.

  The brunette murmurs something under her breath. It sounds suspiciously like I should’ve known.

  “Why do you want this part?”

  This time, the man is speaking. There is none of the brunette’s arrogance or the blonde’s apathy in his tone; he radiates a quiet intensity that commands attention. His voice is crisp and clear — it hits me like a splash of water and trickles down my spine in a sensation that’s not altogether unpleasant.

  I jerk my chin in his direction and hold his gaze. I contemplate mustering up some false enthusiasm, giving a fabricated answer about my passion for the role, but when my mouth opens I find myself answering honestly.

  “My rent is due in two weeks and I currently have seventeen dollars and twenty-three cents left in my checking account.”

  The blonde titters, as though I’ve made an uncouth joke. The brunette pretends I haven’t spoken. But the man shifts in his seat, the curious look in his eyes intensifying.

  I try not to let it bother me. Men have been giving me that look for as long as I can remember. Like I was bred for sex and sin — a creature who exists only in the hours between midnight and dawn, when proper girls are sleeping. I’m not sure what makes them see me in that light, have never quite been able to pinpoint what part of me screams out to be degraded and deconstructed down to my basest parts.

  Daddy issues?

  Lack of self-esteem?

  Fear of commitment?

  Some other bullshit psychological diagnosis that reaffirms my deep-seated emotional damage?

  Oh, who the hell knows.

  Back in my elementary school days, boys used to tease me about the natural rasp in my vocal cords, about my too-large lips and masculine jawline. Funnily enough, when they hit puberty and started imagining how that rasp might sound if I were breathing out their names in the back seat of their cars, how my bee-stung lips might feel pressed against their own, the teasing came to an abrupt end.

  There’s a moment when they just sit there, the three of them, blinking at me. It’s quite clear whoever they were expecting, it was not me. Likely another cog in the wheel of sweater-set wearers who came before. Pearls and pumps and well-practiced introductory speeches.

  “Well, then… I’ll prompt you with Angelica’s lines,” the praying-mantis woman says in a voice that sounds like air hissing from a balloon.

  I nod and say nothing.

  Sure, I should probably spend a bit of time trying to convince them why I’m suited for this part, but frankly… I’m not. I know it; they know it. Hell, even the bitchy PA knows it.

  “Okay.” The brunette woman slides her glasses down the bridge of her nose and stares at me like a pigeon who’s just crapped on the hood of her freshly-waxed Mercedes. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”

  It’s clear before I ever open my mouth that there’s very little point in even trying. There’s a greater chance of this woman asking me to go tandem bicycle riding with her this afternoon than actually giving me the part. But I wasted a quarter tank of gas getting here, and then there’s the small matter that Cynthia knows everyone in this industry; if I walk out without reading a single line, she’ll hear about it — and I’ll never hear the end of it.

  Clearing my throat once more, I glance at the lines on my script as the blonde starts to speak.

  “Oh, Beth! You’ll never believe it… Stefano…” Her hand flutters to her heart and I try desperately to bury a laugh. “He’s… he’s…”

  “What is it, Angelica?” I croak in a strangled voice. “I’m your best friend. You know you can tell me anything.”

  “But this …Oh!” The blond is quivering with passion. “This is not my secret to tell. I cannot betray the trust of the man I love…”

  I gasp in an unconvincing show of surprise. “You love him?”

  “Yes! I do!”

  “But you barely know him,” I choke out, gripping the script so hard my fingertips turn white. “How is that possible?”

  “Beth, anything is possible when it’s true love! Stefano is my soulmate…”

  A snort of laughter slips out. I can’t help it — this is cheesier than fettuccine alfredo. I try to cover it with a coughing fit, to maintain a serious tone as we make our way through the rest of the lines… but, judging by the cold glare darkening the brunette’s face, I don’t think I convince anyone in the room that I’m taking this seriously. My suspi
cions are confirmed a few moments later, when she cuts the audition short.

  “That’ll do.” The brunette’s eyes slide to the PA, who leaps to her feet and appears at my side, more than eager to escort me out. “Thank you for coming in. We’ll reach out if we’re interested in a call-back.”

  “Right.” I grin ruefully. “I’ll wait by the phone, night and day.”

  The women have already tuned me out, fixing their attention back on the papers in front of them, but the man shifts in his seat as his eyes scan me again. I swear his lips are twitching as he watches me turn and stride toward the exit, a jaunty bounce in my step because, as shitty as the audition was, it’s done . Even the prospect of walking through the gauntlet of bitchy girls outside the door is not enough to dampen my spirits.

  Now I can go get tacos.

  I’m halfway to my car when I hear the sound of footsteps trailing close behind me in the long shadows cast by the building. Twenty-two years of possessing ovaries in modern-day America has taught me that, no matter the time of day, there is a fifty percent chance you are about to be raped if you hear someone walking behind you in an empty parking lot, so I reflexively position my keys between my fingers like little blades before whipping around to confront my stalker.

  “Listen, buddy, I don’t know what you—Oh.” The words dry up on my tongue as I recognize the male producer from the casting session. He’s slightly out of breath, as though he’s run to catch up to me. “It’s you,” I finish lamely.

  “It’s me,” he echoes, his eyes crinkling up in amusement. “Were you planning to key me to death?”

  I glance down at my hand and find the keys still clutched tightly in my grasp. “Only if you were planning to rape me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “That’s comforting.”

  His head tilts. “Are you always like this?”

  “I assume by like this you mean charming and delightful.”

  “I was going to say abrasive and caustic, but I’m not one to judge.” He leans in conspiratorially. “My therapist says I’m chronically distant and damaged.”

  “Well, shit, mine says I use humor as a defense mechanism for deep emotional pain.” I shrug. “I told him I don’t have any deep emotional pain. Maybe I’m just a bitch.”

  He laughs. “What are you doing right now?”

  I glance around. “Standing in a parking lot with a stranger, contemplating the possibility that I’m an asshole by nature. Also contemplating the likelihood that my favorite food truck is serving tacos at this time of day.”

  He laughs again. “What are the chances of you putting your taco quest on hold?”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty serious about tacos.” My eyes narrow. “Why?”

  “I want you to come with me somewhere.”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “That ever stopped you before?” he asks.

  I grin in lieu of a reply.

  “It’s Wyatt.” He reaches out a hand and I slowly shake it. “Wyatt Hastings. And yes, I do mean that Hastings.”

  I feel my mouth gape a bit. The Hastings family owns half of Hollywood, controlling majority shares in AXC — one of the largest media conglomerates in the world. Their family fortune makes most A-list celebrities look like paupers.

  “My father runs the network. That’s why I’m here,” Wyatt explains, jerking a finger toward the building behind us. “He likes to have someone from the family supervise casting calls for our newly green-lit shows, make sure everything is running smoothly before they start filming.”

  “Well… shit .” I blink at him, feeling lost for words.

  His grin widens. “Does that look of stunned disbelief mean you’ll come with me?”

  “You’re not going to have me read for that role again, are you? Because, I’m sorry… Hastings or not, I don’t think I’m cut out to play Biffy the best friend on your new vampire show.”

  “I don’t think you are either,” he says, stunning me. “In fact, I don’t think you’re meant for television at all. I’ve got something else in mind.”

  “Oh.”

  “Just get in the car, please.” He turns and walks toward a shiny black Audi convertible parked a few spaces down from my decrepit Honda.

  “Is this, like, a sexual thing?” I tilt my head curiously as I watch his retreating back. “Because, honestly, I’m confused.”

  “Sexually confused?” he calls, clicking a button to unlock the doors.

  “No. Just the regular kind of confused.”

  He pulls open the driver’s side, grinning at me over his shoulder. “No, this is not a sexual thing. I’m old enough to be your… well, not your father. But maybe, like… your cool uncle. The one who buys you a keg after prom and beats up your boyfriends when they cheat on you.”

  “I’m twenty-two,” I point out. “And this is LA.”

  “Your point being?”

  “Most men date women at least two decades younger than them. I’d peg you at thirty-five, tops.”

  He looks affronted. “And here I thought I was passing for thirty-three. My life is a lie.” He pauses. “Actually, it may just be my personal trainer who’s lying.”

  I snort. “My point still holds. Walk into any coffee shop in this city, you’ll spot a loving father-daughter duo having breakfast… until he starts to feel her up beneath the table and you realize he’s just another sugar daddy treating his whore-of-the-week to crepes.”

  “That may be true. But we’re getting off topic.” He pulls his door fully open and pins me with a serious look. “I promise my intentions toward you concern nothing but your career. Now get in the damn car, Katharine, before I decide you aren’t worth the hassle.”

  I arch a brow. “You’re going to help my career?”

  “No.” His eyes gleam. “I’m going to change your life.”

  Two

  “ L et ’s definitely still be friends, though, okay?”

  - A man you will never, ever hear from again.

  W yatt doesn’t speak as we cut a path across LA, changing lanes with an aggressiveness typically reserved for soccer moms and race-car drivers. He shifts with one hand and punches buttons on his steering wheel with another. My fingertips curl around the leather seat edge as we cut off a massive flat-bed truck going sixty miles an hour, our bumper barely clearing his license plate. The roar of his horn is audible for only a moment before we zoom out of earshot. My heart palpitations are drowned out by the sharp ring of Wyatt’s call connecting over the car speakers.

  “Sloan Stanhope’s office, may I help you?”

  “Mary — it’s Wyatt.”

  “Sloan isn’t in. He’s working from home today.”

  “All right.” He downshifts and we hurtle around a particularly sharp corner, leaving my stomach lying on the pavement fifty yards back. “Can you let him know I’m on my way over? And tell him…” He grins and slams us into a different gear, making the engine scream. “Tell him I found her . He’ll know what I mean.”

  “Right away, Mr. Hastings,” Mary says in a composed voice. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Call Dunn, tell him to get over to Sloan’s place. I’d like to get them in the same room for a screen test as soon as possible.”

  “Very well.”

  “Thanks, Mary.” He jabs his thumb against a button to disconnect the call, then glances over at me and grins. “It’s going to be a good day, Katharine. I can feel it in my bones. Can you feel it?”

  I smile weakly in return. I can’t feel anything in my bones except a faintly nauseous sensation, but I keep that to myself as we barrel along toward a destination he still hasn’t bothered to share with me.

  I don’t have to wait long. Not twenty minutes later, we screech to a halt at a gated residence somewhere in the Hills so far out of my socioeconomic bracket, I’m pretty sure my mere presence brings down the average home value. There’s a drought in California, but you’d never know it — here, the lawns gleam green and bright in
the midday sunshine. We roll down a limestone driveway, passing two giant lion statues and a garish fountain where naked cherubs clutch spouting pots of water, finally coming to a halt in front of a sleek, split-level mansion in the boxy, modern design LA architects are so very fond of constructing.

  “Is this your place?” I ask as he turns off the engine.

  “No. Sloan Stanhope lives here.” He glances at me. “My place is much bigger.”

  Without another word of explanation, he throws open his door and climbs from the car. I scramble out my side and hurry down the driveway after him.

  “Sloan Stanhope.” I reach his side, hustling to match his pace. “The director?”

  “The very one.”

  “But…” Maybe it’s the hangover, maybe it’s the fact that he has shared exactly zero details as to why we’re here, but I am suddenly incapable of coherent thought or speech. “But…”

  “Katharine.” Wyatt stops walking as we reach the massive black front doors, their ornate oriental handles glinting bronze in the sunlight. “Relax.”

  “I’d be more relaxed if you told me why we’re at the home of a man who’s directed three Academy Award winners for Best Picture. Stanhope has more Oscars than the de la Renta family.”

  “Cute.”

  “Tell me why we’re here, Hastings.”

  “And spoil the surprise?” Wyatt grins. “What fun would that be?”

  I sigh.

  He reaches out and rings the doorbell. Abruptly, the grin fades from his lips. “Though… you’re right, maybe we should’ve discussed your rate before we got here.”

  “My… my rate?”

  “You know.” He shrugs casually. “For the night.”

  I swallow hard. “What ?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be well compensated for your services.”

  “For my— do you think I’m— what do you—" My voice goes up an octave each time I speak. I can feel my face flaming red as I finally manage to squeak out a full sentence. “I’m not a hooker !”

  Wyatt stares at me for a moment, expression entirely blank, then barks out a laugh that bends him double.