The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  “Your gym membership expired two years ago.”

  “Okay, but I also dated Michael.”

  “Michael?”

  “You remember, the guy who used to live in the unit next door before the screaming couple moved in.”

  “You mean the neighbor with the good weed who’d occasionally get you high and fuck your brains out?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That’s not dating,” she counters. “Dating involves a meal. Perhaps some conversation.”

  “We’d get the munchies and order pizza after, sometimes.”

  “Romantic.” She rolls her eyes. “You never date. And it’s not because you don’t have the option. There are guys who would kill to take you out for a nice dinner, hold your car door open, notice that you’re cold when you’re strolling along the boardwalk and offer you their jacket…”

  I make retching sounds until she punches me in the arm.

  “Laugh all you want, but you’re missing out on an opportunity for love. You’ve gotten so good at being alone, you don’t know how to let anyone in, Kat.”

  “I like being alone.”

  “I know you do. But do you really want to be alone forever ? When you see your life ten, twenty, thirty years down the road… are you single? Or is there someone by your side? Someone to hold you when you’re sad and the world feels too fucked up to comprehend? Someone to stroke your hair and tell you it’ll all be okay, even when it won’t? Someone to father your children, and peel the potatoes while you slice the carrots, and take pictures of you looking cute for your Instagram account so you can make all those dumb bitches you went to high school with jealous?”

  I scoff. “Yes, because that’s the sign of true romance.”

  “Whatever. You know what I mean.” She sets her bowl in the sink and runs the tap. “You’re terrified to like someone who might actually be good for you. You talk yourself out of people before you ever give them a chance. You have all these bullshit rules about types… but I think we both know you’re just fabricating excuses not to date guys you could actually have feelings for.”

  “Maybe my type is just asshole .”

  “Or maybe you’re protecting your heart at any cost.”

  “Maybe I’m not protecting myself from them. Maybe I’m protecting them from me . You ever think of that?”

  “You talk about yourself like you’re toxic,” she says softly. “Like you’re poison, and you’ll kill them if they get too close to you.”

  My voice is so quiet, I’m not sure whether I’m talking to Harper or myself. “Maybe I am.”

  “Honey, that’s just not true.”

  “Oh, but it is .” I look at her and see sadness and stark worry in her eyes. “I’m fucked up. Damaged goods. What the hell kind of man would want someone like me? Some guy with a savior complex, whose heart I would break in the long run? Or, the alternative, someone with a penchant for emotional messes, who would leave me even more of a train wreck when he walked away?”

  “There’s a third kind of man you’re not considering.”

  “All ears, Harper.”

  “You say you’re poison. I disagree — but, for argument’s sake, if you’re right…” Her eyes narrow. “Even the most venomous poisons on earth have antidotes. Even the deadliest strains are useless against someone with a natural immunity. Maybe you just need to find a guy who can withstand your specific brand of toxicity. Maybe you need someone strong enough to cure you without killing you both in the process.”

  “And what kind of man is that?” I snort “A fictional one.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “A soulmate.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’d taken on the role of my shrink as well as my best friend.”

  “I’m not trying to shrink you. I’m trying to help you.”

  “You know what would help? Not talking about this anymore.”

  “Fine.” She follows me into the living room. I try to ignore her as I turn on the TV and start flipping through channels, but apparently she’s not quite done lecturing. “Kat?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Just remember — even if you’re a little bit broken, it’s okay. Without those cracks in that impenetrable outer wall of yours, I’d never see the beautiful person you are inside.”

  I keep my stare trained on the stupid nature documentary flashing across the screen so she doesn’t see the tears filling my eyes. But a moment later, when her head lands on my shoulder and her hand twines with mine, squeezing so tight my fingers start to ache, I don’t scoff or move away.

  I just squeeze back.

  * * *

  “ T his is amazing .”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Kat! We are on a private jet.” Harper barrels past me, eager to explore the AXC plane’s luxurious interior. “Look! There’s a full bar. And it’s freaking catered, for god’s sake.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “There are canapés, Kat! Canapés .” She sighs. “Please, muster up a little enthusiasm.”

  “I don’t even know what a canapé is.”

  “Oh! They’re—”

  “I don’t want to know. I like a little mystery in my life.”

  She huffs. “You’re impossible.”

  “Apologies for not being totally psyched to get on a tiny-ass aircraft and fly over open water for six hours, after spending the past three days rehearsing a plane crash.” I glance around — the cabin looks more like a lounge than a plane, with couch-like seats built facing each other along either side, a fully-stocked bar, a massive flatscreen television mounted on the wall, and a sleek coffee table, where trays of appetizers are waiting to be consumed. I sit down on one of the cream leather couches, buckle my seatbelt as tight as possible, and lean back with my eyes closed.

  The previous day flew by in a blur, with Sloan pushing everyone to their breaking point as we finished in-studio filming. Grayson and I traded no more than a few words all day. I wasn’t ignoring him, necessarily, but I also didn’t go out of my way to converse. Then again, he was so busy trading sultry glances with the slutty PA, he didn’t seem to notice my taciturnity while the cameras were off.

  When they were on, we didn’t have much chance to speak — most of the scenes we shot featured Beck unconscious, and Violet doing her damnedest to prevent him from bleeding to death due to the deep gash in his leg, all while keeping the raft upright as simulated waves crashed over the sides.

  I found the hurricane scenes even more draining than the swimming ones — by the time we wrapped filming for the day, I was so cold and grumpy, I took Wyatt up on his offer for a ride home and promptly fell asleep on the way there. I woke in his arms as he carried me through my front door and tucked me into bed, barely stirring enough to murmur a thank you as he left.

  Harper, bless her soul, helped me pack my travel clothes the previous night, so my only worry was setting my phone alarm to ping at six this morning — just enough time to scramble out of bed and make myself presentable for the ride to the airport. Ignacio seemed just as flustered by Harper’s enthusiasm as I was, when we collected her from her apartment along the way, Greg waving sourly from the window as we pulled from the curb.

  Now, I hear her pouring herself a drink at the bar, murmuring under her breath about mimosas in a giddy tone.

  “Who the hell thought filming on location in Hawaii was a good idea?” I grumble to myself, pulling my belt tighter and jostling to get more comfortable on the leather couch.

  “That would be me.”

  I crack an eye open to glare at Wyatt. He’s grinning down at me without a care in the world.

  “I hate you,” I inform him darkly.

  “Noted. Feel free to file a grievance with the union.” He glances down at the seatbelt across my lap, so tight it’s cutting off circulation to my legs. “You know, we aren’t actually taking off for another twenty minutes. You probably don’t have to strap in just yet.”

  “I’m fine, thank you very much.”
>
  He holds his hands up in a defensive gesture, drops his laptop bag on the couch across from me, and walks to the back of the plane to fix himself a drink. I hear him chatting with Harper, but I’m too anxious to focus on their words.

  I hate flying.

  Even before I was cast in this damn movie and forced to live out one of my lifelong fears, I’ve never been fond of hurtling through the air in a tin can with wings. I barely felt safe on the 787 jumbo jet Harper and I took down to Mexico for a girl’s weekend a few years back; it’s safe to say I feel even more uncomfortable on this tiny jet.

  To my surprise, I feel someone settle in on the couch beside me and hear the telltale click of their belt snapping into place. I open my eyes to find Grayson has adopted an identical pose of anxiety — head leaned back, eyes pressed closed, hands clasped tight against his knees as though we’re already coasting at thirty thousand feet.

  “Nervous flyer?” I ask.

  He looks over at me. “Just waiting for my brownie to kick in.”

  “Your brownie? As in…”

  He grins. “It’s medicinal. I have a note from my doctor and everything.”

  “Seriously? Pot brownies? What are you, a fourteen-year-old boy left unsupervised for the first time with his parents out of town for the weekend?”

  “My parents live in San Diego, so no.”

  “Not really my point, Dunn.”

  “I don’t even bake them myself — I buy them from a dispensary.”

  “I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse.”

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. I swear, it’s the only way to get through a long flight.”

  “I’ll have to take your word on that.”

  “Or…” His eyes gleam. “You want one? I have an extra.”

  “Seriously? You have a surplus of pot brownies on hand?”

  “I always come prepared.” He reaches into the leather messenger bag at his feet and pulls out a small package, wrapped in parchment paper. “Here.”

  I unfold the wrappings and find myself staring down at what appears to be a totally innocuous fudge brownie. It’s not particularly large and, actually, it looks delicious. All I’ve eaten this morning is a stale microwavable waffle I scarfed down thirty seconds before the chauffeur pulled up outside my condo to bring me to the airport.

  “They’re pretty strong,” Grayson says as I lift it to my lips. “Maybe you should only have half of one to start—Oh .”

  His suggestion comes too late. I’ve already popped the entire chocolatey square in my mouth and swallowed it down.

  “Huh. Well, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” He grins. “High off your ass, but fine.”

  “Grayson!” I stare at him in horror. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I tried!”

  “Not hard enough.” I groan. “Why do I ever listen to you? You’re a terrible influence.”

  “Possibly. But, hey, think of it this way — you’re not even worried about the plane crashing now, are you?”

  “No, I’m far too focused on the extremely high probability that I’m about to make a total ass of myself in front of everyone onboard.”

  He chuckles.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Harper says, settling on the couch across from us. “We all already know you’re an ass. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter dryly, accepting the mimosa she hands my way. Grayson winks at her as she passes another to him, and I try not to roll my eyes too hard when she flushes red in response.

  Wyatt lifts his glass, a stout tumbler of amber liquid with a large round ball of ice submerged in it. “Cheers.”

  “What are we toasting?” I ask.

  “To Uncharted !” Harper holds up her glass. “And a free trip to Hawaii.”

  “To clear skies, warm seas, and favorable filming conditions,” Wyatt adds.

  “To free time spent exploring the island,” Grayson says, smirking. “And its many beautiful inhabitants.”

  “To not plummeting into the ocean on the way there,” I grumble.

  The three of them laugh. They think I’m joking.

  I sip my mimosa and lean back against the cushions to wait for takeoff as the others chat about the hotel where we’ll be staying for the next two weeks, a lavish resort on the north side of the island, flanked by white sand beaches and lush, green coastline. Wyatt used his AXC connections — and a large chunk of our production budget — to rent out the entire property, so we won’t be bothered by fanny-packed tourists while filming on the coastal stretch surrounding the resort.

  A few minutes before takeoff, Sloan finally arrives with two of his assistants following short on his heels — Trey, the PA I met my first day on set, and Grayson’s busty brunette, whose name I’ve since learned is Annabelle.

  Annabelle .

  What kind of bullshit name is that?

  After a brief hello, Sloan leads his posse to the back of the plane to go over the footage from the past few days. I try to hold back my scowl when Annabelle walks past, waving coyly at Grayson with three perfectly-manicured fingers, but I don’t think I succeed because I catch Harper staring at me with a bemused expression seconds later.

  “What?” I hiss at her.

  “Nothing.” She blinks innocently and sips her drink. “Nothing at all.”

  Perhaps I’m being paranoid — a side effect of my unfortunate brownie snack — but I doubt it. It’s clear Harper hasn’t abandoned her belief that my heart is somehow caught up in the man sitting beside me, his arm radiating heat as it presses against mine, his shoe nudging the side of my sandaled foot on the carpeted plane floor, his aftershave lingering lightly in the small slice of air between us.

  And, obviously , that’s not the case.

  At all.

  I shift out of his space, so we’re no longer touching, and turn to look out the window as the flight crew arrives. The captain makes an announcement over the speakers, but I barely hear it. The world has gone a bit dull around the edges, like I’m watching events unfold from underwater, and as the plane begins to taxi down the runway, I find I’m experiencing none of my typical take-off anxiety.

  “Told you,” Grayson whispers, somehow reading my thoughts. He’s so close I feel his warm mouth against my earlobe. “High is the only way to fly, kitten.”

  My throat convulses violently, swallowing down words I’d rather choke on than ever say out loud to him. It’s a struggle to keep my eyes on the window, to stop myself from turning to look at him when he’s this close to me and all my normal safeguards have been swept away more easily than pawns on a chessboard.

  The plane picks up speed until the world goes blurry. With a lurch, we pull up into the air and, like magic, we’re flying. Water droplets stream over the windowpane, which vibrates with the force of our ascent. The mechanical buzz of the plane wheels shifting back into place in the underbelly of the aircraft reaches my ears, but it seems somehow distant. All my focus is used up by the man at my side and the tilt-a-whirl world out my window.

  I suck in a breath as we shift directions and the earth goes askew beneath us. Grayson’s hand finds mine, his warm fingers stroking my palm in a soothing gesture, like I’m a skittish horse in need of a sugar cube.

  “There,” he says as we level out, the topsy-turvy ground replaced by clouds and clear blue sky. “The worst is over, now.”

  I nod in agreement, but as his fingers twine even more thoroughly with mine… as my heart starts beating inside my chest at twice its normal speed… as that giddy, nauseous feeling fills my stomach cavity… I can’t help thinking he’s wrong.

  The worst isn’t over.

  The worst hasn’t even started, yet.

  * * *

  “ S hhh . You’ll wake her.”

  “We’re going to have to wake her soon, anyway.” Wyatt’s voice is wry. “We’ll be landing soon.”

  “Well, I’m not finished yet,” Harper murmurs, sounding distracted. “And once she wakes up, I’ll
never get another chance.”

  I blink my eyes open and take in the sight of my best friend, crouched over my cellphone like a convict with a pack of contraband cigarettes. Her fingers move at warp-speed across the screen, typing god knows what.

  I sit up abruptly and groan as the world spins. The after-effects of the brownie I consumed are still not entirely gone from my system.

  “Too late, it seems.” Wyatt smiles at me. “How you feeling, Sleeping Beauty? Still stoned?”

  “Ugh.” I glare at him. “No, I don’t think so.”

  I look around bleakly and see Grayson sprawled across the other end of the couch, head pillowed on his arms like a child, hair mussed, mouth agape as he snores lightly. The sight makes me smirk.

  “Please, tell me someone got that on camera.”

  “Oh, don’t worry — it’s been thoroughly documented.” Wyatt’s grin widens. “Got some gems of you, as well. Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

  “I do not!” I protest.

  “You so do,” Harper murmurs, still typing furiously. “You once recited the entire Gettysburg Address, I swear on my entire supply of MAC cosmetics.”

  “What are you doing with my phone?” I press a hand to my aching temple. “God, my head is splitting.”

  “Pot tends to have that effect.” Harper doesn’t take her eyes off the screen as she speaks. “Especially when you top it off with three mimosas, two finger sandwiches, and an entire tray of chocolate chip cookies. You and Grayson gave a whole new meaning to the word munchies about an hour into the flight.”

  “Sugar coma,” I mutter, deeply regretting my life choices. “Yep. That explains the headache.”

  “Hang on a second.” Wyatt rummages around in his bag for a moment, then passes me two Advil tablets and a bottle of water. “Here. Take these, you’ll feel better.”

  I smile weakly at him before I swallow down the pills and drain the entire bottle. The water instantly eases the pounding inside my head. “Thanks.”

  He winks at me.

  “Can I please have my phone back?” I ask Harper.

  “Just one more second…” She types another string of letters, then looks up with a smile. “Did you know you have a guy in your contact list named Horny Harry ?”