The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  I can’t breathe, when he’s looking at me like that. I bite down on the inside of my cheek and my hands fist so tightly around the strap of my bag, I feel my nails cut small crescent moons into my palms.

  “Well, maybe you’re not getting out with the right people,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m a delight. In case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Trust me, I noticed.” He’s still far too serious for my liking. “You’ll probably think this is a line, or a gimmick, or yet another chameleonic attempt at altering myself to suit the situation, but the truth is, I like being with you, Kat. I like that you’re not starstruck, or clingy, or trying to change me into someone I’m not. You already think the worst of me, so there’s no pressure to impress you.”

  I snort.

  “I’m serious,” he says in a tone that confirms it. “I can just be myself with you. I can eat a damn burrito and pay chess and spend all evening staring at a distractingly pretty girl, and not one moment of it feels fake or forced.”

  My heart is pounding. My composure is spread so thin, it’s nearly evaporated.

  “Don’t get all girly on me, Dunn,” I retort. “It was a burrito, not a declaration of marriage.”

  “That’s twice, you’ve bought me dinner.”

  I shrug. “Who’s counting?”

  “I am.” His eyes narrow. “Next time, it’s on me. No exceptions.”

  I open my mouth to say something snarky, but he cuts me off.

  “And yes, there will be a next time, Firestone. Get over yourself.”

  “Fine. But this doesn’t mean we’re friends or anything.”

  “Oh, of course not.” His lips twitch. “That would be terrible, actually getting along with the co-star you’ll be spending every waking hour with for the next three weeks.”

  “God-awful,” I agree, laughing to cover my nerves.

  “Atrocious.”

  “Reprehensible.”

  We both grin. He strokes the slight scruff along his chin in a thoughtful gesture.

  “Though, I feel obligated to point out, I make an excellent friend.”

  My nose wrinkles in doubt. “Really?”

  “Really.” His head tilts. “Admittedly, all my friends are of the male variety. You would be my first ever female friend. But that would make you a trailblazer. A trendsetter, even.”

  “You really think a lot of yourself.”

  “You know me so well. It’s like we’re already friends.” He leans forward into my space a bit, and I feel my heart lurch in response. “Come on, Firestone. I dare you. Be my friend. No more bullshit.”

  “Why are you so determined to make this happen?”

  “Why are you so dead-set against it?” He leans farther across the center armrest, words intent. “You hated me from the first day we met, long before I ever gave you a good reason to. You feel like finally telling me why?”

  Do I feel like telling him that I spent nearly a year in love with him as a pre-teen, penned him a mortifying love-letter describing my deep affection, and ultimately got my heart smashed to bits in front of our entire cast when he and his friends decided to read every flowery, fawning piece of prose out loud? Or that, ten years later, I was still so pissed off at him, I couldn’t see straight when he had the nerve not to remember doing it?

  Hmm, let me think…

  “Not really, no.”

  His arm lifts to brace against the headrest of my seat. He’s frighteningly close, leaning into me until his face is all I can see.

  “Unless…” His eyes flicker down to my mouth for a fraction of a second. My heartbeat kicks into overdrive. “You’re worried you can’t handle being just my friend.”

  “Don’t kid yourself.”

  “Then tell me why we can’t at least try to get along.”

  “Fine!” I throw my hands up in defeat, willing to agree to anything if it’ll stop his invasion of my space. I don’t think my heart can handle any more arrhythmias without giving out. “Fine, we can be friends.”

  “Great!” He pulls back. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  I’m out of the car before he can say another word, pulling in deep gulps of night air as I practically run up my limestone walkway. I slide my key into the lock and bump my hip against the door, trying to focus on the sound of my neighbors screaming at each other through the thin-walled condo next door. That way, I don’t hear the sound of his car idling by the curb, waiting for me to make it safely inside, or the echo of his words, still ringing in my mind.

  There’s nothing I can do to escape the weight of his eyes on me though. Even after I’ve slammed my door shut between us, closing myself inside the haven of my shitty apartment, I can still feel them burning holes into my back, as though they’ve scored into my flesh and laid waste to some secret part of me, deep down where no one can see.

  I lean back against the door and slide down to the ground, staring unblinkingly at the white wall of my living room as my mind turns over memories of a cracked chess board and twilight gleaming on the surface of a pond and messy black hair and, more than anything, the tangled constellation of stars inside a set of endless green eyes.

  Unless you’re worried you can’t handle being just my friend , his voice mocks.

  I press my eyes closed and rub my temples. It’s nearly nine; less than twelve hours until I see him again. Less than half a day to compose myself into something resembling professional and aloof and unaffected.

  I am so fucking screwed.

  * * *

  T he town car appears like magic the next morning. I manage not to face-plant as I climb inside this time, but I’m no less jittery or nervous as Ignacio, the AXC chauffeur, cuts through the morning traffic and turns into the studio gates for the second day in a row. The butterflies in my stomach are relentless beasts, swarming as I enter the soundstage and head for my dressing room. I half expect Grayson to jump out at me every time I round a corner or pass a particularly shadowy doorway.

  After he dropped me off I tossed and turned for hours, attempting to tune him out of my thoughts, but there was no suppressing him. Well past midnight, exhausted from rolling fruitlessly around beneath my blankets, I shoved out of bed, stalked into my bathroom, and chugged down a double dose of NyQuil to send myself into a drug-induced drowse. It probably wasn’t the best choice to self-medicate, but I was desperate for some shut-eye — desperate to escape him, even if only for a few unconscious hours.

  In the bold light of day, under-caffeinated and still foggy-headed from the aftereffects of the medicine, I’m wishing I’d just pulled an all-nighter.

  I open the door to my dressing room and stop short when I see it’s already occupied.

  “God, what happened? Did you run out of coffee? Get hit by a bus? Switch to a cheap drugstore concealer brand?” Harper grimaces at me from her spot on the plush couch along the wall. “Seriously, you look half-dead.”

  “Just the pep-talk I needed. Thanks, Harper.” I collapse beside her on the cushions and glance in her direction. “What are you doing here?”

  “Didn’t Wyatt tell you?”

  “Clearly not, or I wouldn’t be asking.”

  She’s practically quivering with excitement. “I got the gig! I’m doing makeup for Uncharted , starting today. I’ll be helping the full studio team they already have in place here, but when we’re in Hawaii it’ll just be me and one other woman named Cassie who, to be honest, seems a bit uppity about me scooping the job out from under her… but all’s fair in love and contouring, am I right?” Her giddy expression falls a bit when she catches sight of my flat one. “Why aren’t you excited? Don’t you want me to be here with you, on set? I thought you were thrilled about me coming to Hawaii. Girls’ trip, remember?”

  “Wooooo. I’m excited. See?” I make a half-hearted attempt at jazz-hands. “I’m sorry, Harper. It’s not you. I’m just exhausted. Barely slept last night.”

  “It shows,” she says dryly. “What kept you up? Not the tabloids, I hope
. Honey, you can’t let yourself get upset over anything they print in those awful magazines. Everyone knows it’s total bullshit.”

  “I haven’t seen them, actually. And I wasn’t at all worried about what they were printing until you said that .” I sit up a bit straighter. “What’s in them?”

  She flushes red. “Oh. Nothing you should concern yourself with.”

  “Harper.”

  “Seriously, it’s not a big deal.”

  “Just tell me. I’m going to see it sooner or later — might as well be sooner.”

  Resignedly, she pulls out her smartphone and clicks the internet icon to open her web browser. A few quick keystrokes later, I’m staring at a celebrity gossip website capped with a bold red headline.

  DUNN IS DONE! THE MEGA-STAR DITCHES EX, FINDS LOVE WITH NEW CO-STAR

  The headlines only seem to worsen, the father down the page I scroll.

  ON FIRE FOR FIRESTONE: WHO IS HOLLYWOOD’S NEW IT-GIRL? WE’VE GOT THE SCOOP!

  And worse…

  KAT HAS CLAWS! GRAYSON’S NEW GIRL LASHES OUT AT HELENA. INSIDERS TELL ALL!

  And worse still…

  PUTNAM PREGNANCY SCARE — HELENA ALONE, ABANDONED…AND EXPECTING? DETAILS INSIDE!

  Harper snatches the phone back before I can read any more. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. Who reads that shit anyway?”

  “You do, for one.” I lean back against the cushions with a groan. “Plus just about everyone with a computer in every developed nation in the world. Other than that …”

  “Since when do you care what people think?”

  “I don’t.” I crack open one eye and glance at my best friend. “You don’t think Helena is really pregnant, do you?”

  “God, I hope not. That girl drinks like a fish. If there’s a fetus in there, let’s hope it has a fully developed liver.”

  “Not funny.”

  “It was a little funny.” She stands up, grabs my hand, and drags me to my feet. “Now, come on. Let’s make you beautiful for the cameras. We only have an hour to get you ready to film and to be truthful…” Her nose wrinkles. “We’re going to need absolutely every second.”

  “And the hits just keep coming…”

  I drag my feet as she leads me over to the vanity table, but I can’t deny I’m happy to have a friendly face with me. Once I get two cups of coffee in my system, I’ll be back to normal.

  Or, as normal as my crabby, curmudgeonly, cynical self ever manages to be.

  * * *

  “ I ’m so wet .”

  “Under almost any other circumstance, I might think you were coming on to me, Firestone.”

  “Gross. Let’s keep it PG-13, shall we? This isn’t a porno.”

  “What can I say?” Grayson grins through chattering teeth. “I’m a walking X-rated film.”

  “You do look like something out of a wet t-shirt contest.”

  “Oh stop — if I had any warm blood left in my body, I’d be blushing.”

  “Ah, yes, you’re the king of modesty.” I snort at the absurdity of my own statement, then look pointedly at his abs, which are on full display through the thin white t-shirt plastered to his body like a second skin beneath the water. “You know, I can almost see the outline of that burrito you ate last night. Maybe you should hop out, do some sit-ups…”

  “Oh! Now you’re asking for it!” He swims over to me, drags me into a headlock and dunks me fully beneath the water.

  I surface, gasping for air, and squirm out of his grasp. Ducking back under, I take in a full mouthful of water and spit it straight into his face. He splutters. I see the flash of retaliation in his eyes as he reaches for me again, and quickly paddle out of reach with a squeal.

  “Children,” Wyatt calls from dry land in a faux-stern voice. “Please, control yourselves.”

  Grayson and I both snicker like scolded kids at a pool party. The brief moment of levity helps distract from the fact that I’m slowly becoming hypothermic, the longer we tread water between takes.

  We’ve been shooting ocean scenes all morning — struggling underwater after the crash, swimming as the flaming plane wreckage slowly sinks in the background, scrambling into the inflatable red life raft as the engines explode into a ball of flame. After breaking for a quick lunch and makeup reapplication — even Harper’s industrial waterproof mascara was no match for three hours in the pool — Sloan ordered us back in the water.

  The rest of the day is even more physically demanding — Violet spots Beck’s lifeless body floating on the surface and does her best to rescue him. We’ve done about six takes of me pulling Grayson into the raft using all the strength left in my limbs, pounding on his chest until he coughs up water, scanning helplessly for other survivors as the light fades and the current carries us away…

  They’ll make good use of the bright green screens around the pool in post-production, working their special effects magic to make it seem like we’re adrift in the middle of the South Pacific, instead of a ten-thousand square foot warehouse in downtown Los Angeles. The shallow end of the pool where we’ve been treading isn’t particularly deep — if I stretch my legs fully, the tips of my sandals just manage to scrape the solid bottom. The water temperature, however, is a click above freezing.

  It laps at my skin, which is nearly as blue as the gauzy sundress floating around me like a fabric cloud. My fingertips turned to prunes several hours ago, my hair reeks of chlorine and I’m well past the point of exhaustion, despite the brief reprieve we’ve been given while Sloan repositions the cameras to capture a different angle.

  My arm muscles ache from pulling Grayson’s body inside the inflatable raft. I’ve made several pointed comments about his weight under my breath, but he seems to think I’m complimenting rather than insulting him. He laughs like a child whenever I scowl in his direction.

  He’s taking our newfound friendship quite seriously. There’s been not one smoldering glance or inappropriate comment out of him all day, for which I am eternally grateful. He wasn’t lying when he told me he cares about this role. As soon as they call “Action!” the playful man I know fades away and he’s fully focused on embodying Beck… Which means I’ve actually been able to focus on playing Violet, instead of ogling his muscles.

  “All right, we’re ready for another go!” Sloan calls from behind the camera. “Let’s run the rescue scene once more, then we’ll call it a day. I don’t want you to catch pneumonia, or you’ll be of no use to me tomorrow.”

  Grayson catches my eye. “You up for one more?”

  “Yes, but I think I need something a little more nutritional than a burrito for dinner, if we’re going to be doing this all over again tomorrow.”

  “Sorry, you’re on your own for fuel tonight, Firestone.” His grin is wicked as his eyes slide to the edge of the pool. “I’ve got other plans.”

  I follow his gaze to the buxom brunette PA, lingering on the outskirts of the film crew. Her ample chest is visible behind the clipboard she’s clutching. She giggles and waves when she notices Grayson’s eyes on her.

  Something unpleasant churns in the pit of my stomach, but I swallow it down as I swim over to the raft. Why should I care that Grayson is boinking some slutty PA on the side?

  He’s nothing to me.

  Less than nothing.

  I repeat those words to myself over and over as Grayson assumes his face-down, floating position — limbs spread-eagled on the surface, one shoe missing. My silent mantra continues as they announce the take number, as the slate slams down, as the cameras start rolling.

  He’s nothing to me.

  He’s nothing.

  Nothing.

  My insides feel as numb as my fingertips as I heave him up into the raft, nails digging into his sides like spears. I’m not sure what expression is on my face as we film the rest of the scene, but Sloan seems pleased when we finally wrap for the day.

  “Kat, you were perfect, that last take,” our director calls. “Perfect balance of fear and fati
gue.”

  Is that this uncomfortable feeling swirling around inside my stomach?

  Fear ?

  I don’t let myself look too closely at my own emotions as I hop out of the raft without a word to Grayson and make my way to the edge of the pool. When I reach the side, a large, calloused hand appears in front of my face.

  I glance up and find Wyatt there, his eyes guarded as they hold mine.

  “Violet, you’re turning violet.”

  “Are you quoting Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory ?” I laugh up at him. “Really?”

  “It’s one of my all-time favorite movies.”

  “Which version?”

  “The original, of course.” He scoffs. “As with all things, remakes rarely measure up. Imitation can’t compete with authentic. I don’t care about special effects and CGI. There’s something to be said for the magic of something completely original. Not the same old watered-down, recycled, regurgitated ideas thrown together and branded as unique .”

  “You’re an old soul, Hastings. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Maybe I’m just old.”

  “Thirty-five isn’t that old.”

  “Said the twenty-two-year-old.” His lips twitch. “How reassuring.”

  I brace my elbows on the edge of the pool. “Almost twenty-three.”

  “An old maid.” His fingers wag. “Come on, baby. I mean it, you’re turning blue.”

  My pruned-up fingers lock with his and he heaves me out of the pool so easily, you’d think I weighed no more than a feather. My feet have barely settled on solid ground when his arms go around me, wrapping a fluffy black towel over my shoulders until I’m fully cocooned. I sigh gratefully as warmth starts to sink back into my chilled skin, as the safe feeling of Wyatt’s strong arms wrapped around me cancels out that strange, uneasy sensation Grayson’s after-hour antics stirred up inside my stomach.

  “Thanks,” I whisper against Wyatt’s chest as his hands run over my back through the towel, big and steady, smoothing the fabric until most of the water is absorbed. Swamped by a sudden wave of tiredness, I sway toward him like a plant reaching for the sun, seeking heat and light. He doesn’t push me away; his hold only tightens, perhaps recognizing that I’ve reached my physical and emotional limits.