The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  “Oh?” He sounds doubtful. “How do you see me, then?”

  “Why do you even care what I think? I’m nobody. My opinion shouldn’t matter to you.”

  “And yet… it does.”

  I hesitate. “If you really want to know…”

  “I do.”

  “I think you’re a faker.”

  He blinks. “What?”

  “You’re a faker. A bullshit-artist. You complain about not being able to buy a latte without the cameras on you, but I don’t think you even know who you are without them. The truth is, I think you’re terrified of dropping that shiny celebrity front you put up, even for a moment, because you’d have to stop being Grayson Dunn the action-movie hero and actually be yourself.”

  I bite my tongue to keep the rest of my words in, worried I’ve gone too far.

  “Don’t stop now, Kat,” he growls, stepping closer. “Get it all out. You’re the expert on me, apparently.”

  “I’m not an expert.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “You asked for my opinion,” I snap. “I gave it.”

  “Yeah.” He snorts. “And you think I’m some kind of massive con artist. That’s great to hear. Thanks.”

  “You’re a chameleon. You adjust your personality to fit whoever you’re sharing space with — for the fans, you’re a sweetheart; for the ladies, you’re a charmer; for your friends, you’re a drugged out partier; for Sloan, you’re a serious actor. Regardless of the situation, you’re always careful to be the best, most likable version of yourself.”

  “And that’s so terrible in the eyes of high and mighty Katharine Firestone, I suppose — wanting to be liked.”

  “There’s a difference between being liked for you who are, and being liked for who you pretend to be.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You want me to stop looking at you like a faker? Stop being one. Drop that front you’re constantly putting up, to please the crowds and the cameras. You want me to like you? I can’t do that unless I know you. The real you. Not some act you’re putting on because you think it’ll impress me, or Sloan, or the damn paparazzi. Be yourself. Be genuine. Let me see that guy you claim to be, beneath all the bullshit. Otherwise there’s not a chance in hell of us ever getting through this movie without killing each other.”

  My passionate words finally die out. I blink, startled to find I’ve moved alarmingly close to him during my tirade. My chest is heaving, my breaths are coming too fast, and one slight push up onto the balls of my feet would crush my mouth against his. Anyone walking past would sooner think we were lovers sharing a stolen moment behind this pillar than a pair of feuding co-stars spitting harsh truths at each other.

  He’s glaring down at me through slitted eyes, his own breaths labored. I see the moment our proximity registers, see the exact second he realizes my chest is practically pressed against his, that merely an inch of space separates our bodies from aligning perfectly in the mimicry of an embrace.

  “Anything else to add?” he whispers, his voice full of grit. “Any more offenses to lay against me tonight, Kat?”

  “No.” I lick parched lips; his eyes follow the sweep of my tongue. “That about covers it.”

  “Great. Let me know if you think of anything else I’ve done to personally offend you.”

  “I will.”

  With that, I push past him and stalk away before he can say something else. Before his honeyed words, his little jokes, his sidelong glances, his gorgeous looks all start to sink under my skin and invade my senses like the most intoxicating perfume, poisoning me before I’ve even realized what’s happening.

  Men like Grayson Dunn are game-players. They’re experts at manipulation. They’ve spent so many cumulative hours of life messing with the minds of the women unfortunate enough to cross their paths, it’s no wonder they’re able to disarm even the bitchiest of us with a few calculated words, a strategic graze of calloused fingers against the sensitive flesh inside your elbow, a husky whisper against the lobe of your ear.

  I’ve played this game before, too many times to count, and I’ve lost every time.

  I’m not playing this round. Not again. Not with him.

  Even if it means being a colossal bitch.

  I’d rather be hard as nails than a heartbroken mess.

  * * *

  B y the time the bouncers clear the last stragglers off the dance floor downstairs, it’s nearly three in the morning and my feet feel like anvils. I wipe down the high-top tables as Kylie clears empty glasses and the twins restock the bar. We work in exhausted silence, all eager to finish up so we can get the hell home.

  If only the VIPs in the corner would leave.

  Every few moments, a chorus of drunken giggles erupts from the couches where Grayson and Ryder are still camped out, entertaining the women draped around them like tinsel — decorative and insubstantial. After our confrontation, Grayson proceeded to escalate his status from “a little drunk” to absolutely wasted. Cutting across the floor to deliver drinks to other patrons, I’ve watched him pour shot after shot of whiskey with hands growing shakier by the second.

  There’s no quelling the tide of guilt rising inside me. I’m not blind to the notion that perhaps this newfound dedication to destroying his liver has something to do with the harsh words I spoke.

  I didn’t force the bottle of Jack into his hands, I tell myself over and over. He’s not my problem.

  Still, I can’t stop myself from peeking at him from the corner of my eye as I clear off the final table. Most of their group has dissolved, but two statuesque beauties still cling to Ryder’s sides, pressing kisses into his neck and whispering things that make him smirk. Grayson, on the other hand, is either asleep or passed out on the other end of the couch — eyes closed, head tipped back to the cushions, arms crossed over his chest. He’s going to wind up with a killer neck-ache in the morning, if he stays like that much longer.

  When the house lights start to flicker on and the lower-level DJ lets his table spin into silence, I know it’s time to prod them along.

  “Kylie?” I say hopefully, turning desperate eyes on my co-worker.

  “Nope, sorry.” She shoves a stack of tips at me, pockets the rest of the cash for herself, and starts heading for the door. “All you, babe. My boyfriend is waiting outside and he’s already pissed we’re getting out this late. Again .”

  I sigh as she disappears, fingers curling around the thick wad of bills. Even the cash in hand can’t cure my disappointment when I turn and see the blonde bartender twins have also vanished. I could walk downstairs and find a bouncer to eject Ryder and Grayson, but that’ll just delay me getting home until even later.

  Shoving the cash deep inside my handbag, I slide on my thin jacket so I’m slightly less scantily-clad, steady my shoulders, and force myself to cross toward the couches, trying my damnedest to think of something to say and coming up short every time.

  “Kat!”

  Halfway there, I stop at the sound of my name and glance back to see Vince walking toward me. His large strides eat up the space between us in a flash.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “You clearing them out?” He gestures toward Grayson, Ryder, and their bimbos.

  I nod. “Planning on it.”

  “Thanks.” He winks at me. “You girls tend to use a lighter touch than the boys who work the door.”

  “Maybe you should hire nicer door guys.”

  He laughs. “Having scary bouncers is kind of the whole point. If they aren’t intimidating, no one listens to ‘em.”

  “True,” I concede. “Hey, Vince?”

  “Whatever it is, the answer’s no, sweetheart.”

  “What? I haven’t even asked anything yet!”

  “Yeah, but you’re doing that same cutesy head-tilt thing you did last year, when you told me you couldn’t work on Halloween.” His eyes narrow as I hastily straighten my head to a normal angle. “Don’t tell me you’re busy on New Year’s Eve. That’s a non-negoti
able night, you know that.”

  “No, it’s not about New Year’s. The thing is…I got this part in a movie…”

  “Shit!” His loud curse startles me. I’ve never heard him swear before, let alone at that volume. “This is why I don’t fuckin’ hire wannabe actresses.”

  I swallow and move back a step. “Vince—”

  “…always a damn mess. Inconsistent, drama-filled, vapid little girls with no sense of responsibility…”

  I’m starting to think Vince isn’t the marshmallow I judged before, watching as his expression grows stormy and he mutters nasty things under his breath. I try a final appeal to his sense of logic.

  “Listen, it’s only a short span of work. Three weeks —four tops. I can come back after we’re done filming, if you still have space for me on staff.”

  “Oh, yeah? You’ll come back? How sweet.” He shakes his head. “And when exactly does your big turn playing Dead Hooker Two on Law and Order start filming, huh?”

  I grit my teeth. “It’s a movie. And it starts Monday.”

  “Two fucking days from now?” he explodes. “You’ve gotta be shitting me!”

  “Look, Vince, I’m sorry—”

  He takes a rather aggressive step into my space and before I know what’s happening, he’s grabbed hold of my arm and is squeezing so hard I’m sure I’ll have a bruised bicep in the morning. “You’re sorry?” he scoffs. “Leaving me understaffed, no fuckin’ notice—”

  “Get off me, asshole!” I hiss, trying to pull out of his grip. My eyes are watering in pain. “I mean it, let me go!”

  “So sick of girls like you thinkin’ they can walk in and out of this job, no accountability, and I’ll be the nice guy. Guess what? I’m tired of being the nice guy.” He leans so close I can feel spittle fly from between his lips as he speaks. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”

  A cold voice interjects. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to put your hands on a woman?”

  My head whips around just in time to see a fist fly out and clip Vince across the jaw. The man’s a giant, but he still stumbles backward against the bar. I search for the source of the swift blow and am stunned to see Grayson standing there, knuckles bright red, swaying slightly on his feet. His eyes are hazy, but they’re locked on my arm.

  “You okay?”

  My flesh is still smarting. I ignore it. “I’m fine.”

  He nods and aims his attention back at Vince, who’s regained his balance and looks about as happy as a vegan at a steakhouse as he advances on us. Recognizing the scary light in my boss’s eyes, I don’t hesitate another moment. I grab Grayson by the hand and try to tug him toward the exit.

  The oaf is so drunk he doesn’t move an inch, despite my efforts.

  “Grayson, he will kill you ,” I hiss, yanking his arm with all my might. “We have to go. Now.”

  He still doesn’t move, except to jerk his arm from my grip.

  Shit .

  Vince is six-feet-five-inches of pure rage. He makes Grayson, who is by no means a featherweight, look like a scrappy freshman going up against the senior quarterback in every soapy, stereotypical high school movie of all time.

  I hear Ryder coming up behind us and hope he might intervene, but it’s too late — Vince reaches out, grabs Grayson by the lapels of his jacket, and shoves him up against the closest wall with so much force, the light fixture rattles overhead.

  “You’re dead.” Vince sounds absolutely lethal. “You hear me?”

  “Sorry, I don’t speak imbecile,” Grayson growls.

  That’s the final straw — Vince’s hands tighten as he lifts Grayson clean off his feet and hurls him across the room like a discarded rag doll. In his drunken state, Grayson doesn’t stand a chance at keeping his footing. I wince as he hits the floor like dead weight, skidding to a stop against a row of upside-down barstools with a clatter.

  “Stop!” I yell at Vince, who brushes me aside like a fly. “Stop this right now!”

  Grayson’s staggering to his feet, barely conscious but still trying to fight. It’s painful to watch.

  “You fucking asshole,” Ryder growls, moving to help Grayson up. In their first intelligent move of the night, his bimbos have made a break for the exits, but I don’t think he cares. The musician’s bloodshot eyes are fixed on Vince with vengeance.

  I hear the sound of heavy, booted feet coming up the stairs as the bouncers hurry toward us, and have a feeling things are about to turn seriously violent unless someone intervenes.

  I just wish that someone was someone other than me .

  Hoping like hell I don’t catch a rogue fist across the cheek, I push myself into my boss’s path and block his way to Grayson and Ryder.

  “Vince,” I say desperately. “Think about who these guys are. Think about what’ll happen if you hit Grayson Dunn, or give Ryder Woods a black eye. It’s not worth it. Just let us go .”

  Vince seethes in silence for a moment, his massive hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re lucky you’re famous,” he mutters finally, never looking away from Grayson. “Now get the fuck out of my club and don’t ever come back.” His eyes slide to me. “Same goes for you.”

  I nod. “Consider us gone.”

  Scooping my purse off the table, I sling it over one shoulder, then turn and grab Ryder by one hand and Grayson by the other. I thank my lucky stars that this time they don’t resist. With stumbling steps, we begin to move toward the stairs. We pass three bewildered bouncers, never pausing.

  “Come on ,” I hiss, pulling them down the steps as fast as they can manage with this much alcohol in their systems. When we reach the exit, I drop their hands and spin around, mind racing. “Do you have a car here? A chauffeur? Security team? Anything?”

  “Ditched ‘em,” Grayson mutters, eyes drooping closed. He looks like he’s about to keel over, so I grab his arm and sling it over my shoulders. He leans on me just like the other day, when we rehearsed our first scene together, and I can’t help but think of Violet and Beck.

  “I’ll have to call you a car… I’d drive you home in mine, but I don’t think it’ll make the trip…” Straining under Grayson’s weight, I glance at Ryder. “My phone is in my purse, can you get it out for me?”

  Ryder ignores my instructions, reaches into his pocket, and fishes out a red valet tag. “Car’s out back.”

  “You’re wasted,” I say flatly.

  “Very,” he agrees.

  “You can’t drive.”

  He grins crookedly at me. “You know how to drive a stick, Kit-Kat?”

  I sigh and snatch the valet tag from his grip. “Let’s just get him to the car. We’ll take it one step at a time from there. Okay?”

  Ryder salutes me.

  Grayson shoots me a smile so dopey, it’s almost enough to make me forget that it’s three in the morning, I’ve just lost my job, my feet are on fire, and, oh yeah, I loathe him.

  “Come on, drunky,” I chide, securing his arm more firmly around my shoulders. “Let’s get you home.”

  Ryder pulls open the doors with a chivalrous sweep and bows. “After you.”

  I step out onto the sidewalk, expecting fresh air and the dimly lit streets of early-morning LA… and instead find myself blinded as camera flashes explode from all sides. I curse and try to cover my eyes, but I can’t do much without dropping Grayson on his ass. Paparazzi are screaming as they shoot picture after picture, relentless in their pursuit for any morsel of gossip they can sell to the tabloids.

  “RYDER!”

  “Look this way!”

  “GRAYSON!”

  “Sweetheart, what’s your name?”

  “Is it over with Helena?”

  “Does this mean you’re single again, Grayson?”

  “Who’s the new girl?”

  I keep moving, squinting my eyes to keep Ryder in sight as we push our way to the curb. When I catch a glimpse of the valet’s red polo shirt, I shove the ticket in his direction and bark, “Hurry!”
<
br />   He takes off like a shot.

  Ryder is flipping off the paps with both hands to ruin their pictures — much to their annoyance.

  “Yeah! You like that?” He makes another obscene gesture that, under any other circumstance, would make me laugh. “Put this on your front page, asswipe!”

  Even with Ryder running interference, their bombardment of questions and camera flashes never ceases. I don’t give them my name or make eye contact, but I have a distinct feeling that by this time tomorrow they’ll know exactly who I am. My heart starts to pound and my throat constricts so tight, it feels like I’ve swallowed a golf ball.

  There’s a brief moment where I consider dropping Grayson to the pavement, making a beeline for my car in the staff lot, and vanishing into the night… but I can’t quite bring myself to abandon him. After all, the man did practically get pommeled into ground beef by a former WWE star while defending my honor.

  For what seems like an eternity, I stand on that curbside, Grayson draped over my shoulder like a heavy, half-sleeping blanket, wishing adamantly that on the first occasion of my life the members of the press have ever wanted to know my name, I was wearing something besides a bustier corset, pleather micro-mini skirt, and four-inch hooker heels.

  Welcome to fame, Kat Firestone. You look like a goddamn mess.

  My eyes, still watering from the ceaseless flashes, widen when a massive black SUV screeches to a stop beside us on the curb, platinum rims still spinning. It’s been propped up on shocks so tall, I’ll need a crane to lift me into the driver’s seat. I turn to Ryder, mouth agape.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Isn’t she a beauty?” He beams and runs his hand down the flank of the car. “Brand new. Custom everything. Only twenty miles on her. Be gentle, you hear me?”

  Before I can answer, he pulls Grayson off my shoulders, opens the back door, and pushes his friend face-first onto the backseat with a rough shove. There’s a faint moan from Grayson as his face skids across the leather.

  Rounding the hood, I hear the sound of a door slamming as Ryder climbs into the passenger seat. The paparazzi trail me, their giant lenses so close I feel like an exotic zoo animal, and I try to breathe through the sudden claustrophobia enveloping me.