The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  It’s over.

  End scene.

  * * *

  U seless tears sting at my eyes as I walk into the kitchen and pour myself a drink. It’s not the first I’ve had today, but it is the only thing I’ve consumed. The bottle is nearly empty — I hate the thought of going out again, of leaving the small, safe sanctuary of my shit-hole of a condo and seeing his face plastered everywhere, mocking me from the checkout aisle as I wait to pay for my industrial-sized bottle of vodka.

  OLD FLAMES REKINDLED? GRAYSON AND HELENA SPOTTED OUT ON THE TOWN!

  THEIR SECRET ENGAGEMENT… SEE THE HUGE RING ON PAGE 32!

  BACK TOGETHER FOR THE BABY? WE’VE GOT ALL THE DETAILS…

  I finish my drink, feeling numb as the vodka swirls around my empty stomach.

  Grayson .

  I ache. I ache so badly I can barely breathe. There’s a steady throb inside me, like a broken bone never set properly — a constant source of chronic pain that catches me off guard when I least expect it, sending me stumbling off balance and craving an escape.

  But I cannot escape him.

  Not in sleep, for he haunts my dreams, not in a bottle, for he is always there in the darkest corners of my mind and the alcohol thrumming in my system seems to welcome him to the forefront of my cerebrum like an old friend. He has ensnared me like a frail winged insect in a spider’s web. All my struggles only serve to tire me out, to shorten my fight. Demise is inevitable.

  It always was.

  We once played chess with weather-beaten pieces at an old scratched board in the heart of my favorite park, as the sun faded out into a star-studded sky. Though I put up a valiant effort, we both knew it was only a matter of time until he outmaneuvered me, his rook moving more deftly, his mind making moves and countermoves so far in advance I had no chance of ever capturing his king.

  Checkmate, baby.

  I suppose that’s the fundamental problem with the two of us — he’s always played the game better. Whether chess or the endless contest of indifference we were engaged in, he had a clearer grip on the rules since the very first moment our orbits crossed, and he always knew exactly how to make me feel childish and unskilled.

  I find some small, twisted comfort in thinking that perhaps we used each other. Him, for a glimpse into what it would be like to live a life entirely different from the one he'd been raised to desire, and me for the steady diet of angst and emotional damage that seemed to make me better, sharper, like a sword against a whetstone. I was his intellectual escape from a long parade of pretty, empty girls… and he was my drug of choice — unhealthy, probably lethal, but ultimately so addictive it was hard to turn away.

  The problem, of course, with this theory of mutual exploitation, is that it is the deepest of lies. There was nothing equal or mutual about the way we used each other. I barely scratched his surface while he sliced me limb from limb.

  There’s no comfort in that. None at all.

  It’s strange, realizing something that meant everything to you meant next to nothing to someone else. That you cared more, invested more, loved more.

  I was one of many. I was mundane.

  The safety net. The safe bet. The sure thing.

  The one you call after a weekend spent chasing other women, because you know she’s so caught up in you she’ll always answer the phone.

  I am his Monday girl.

  And Grayson?

  He is the worst kind of faker — the kind so full of shit he actually believes himself genuine. He talks of dreams for a different kind of life, an authentic life, with a girl like me who would push him to grab the world by the throat and squeeze every drop from it.

  But he never wanted me. Not really.

  He craved the idea of me.

  The potential of what we could be.

  The sad, shallow truth is that, when it comes down to it, he needs his string of bimbos more than he ever needed me. He cannot relinquish the Grayson Dunn he pretends to be for the cameras, the news crews, the crazed fans. He cannot be the man I want, the one I saw a glimpse of as he made me see stars beneath a waterfall in the middle of a cloudless sky one stolen afternoon in paradise.

  In rare moments with him on the island, I saw flashes of a man I would follow over a cliff, just to keep loving. Flickers of a man I would offer all my devotion, if he could just love me back.

  But I cannot survive on flashes and flickers.

  I cannot love him for his potential. It is not enough to live on, though the masochistic streak I cannot seem to suppress would tell me to keep trying, to cling to the possibility I saw lurking in his eyes until it killed me. To keep hold of that empty promise of someday , lovesick and starving on the crumbs of attention he tossed my way, until I was nothing more than a skeleton — no thumping heart, no vital organs. Just a calcified corpse of longing, waiting for the day he'd finally look at me and realize, Fuck, I am killing her.

  The thing it’s taken me far too long to realize, so long I have dwindled to nothing but bone strung together by ever-hopeful cartilage, silent except for the sound of the wind whistling between my vacant ribcage, is that he happily let me wither down to nothing.

  His indifference was not an accident. He saw that his silence was killing me and did nothing to stop it.

  I pour another drink and wash the taste of dashed dreams from the back of my tongue. I feel half-dead, but my broken heart somehow still beats. What a stubborn, senseless organ, to keep going when all hope and happiness are lost.

  That is the cruelest death in the world: the death of hope. The utter destruction of a dream you carried close inside you, praying someday it might come true, even if you never let yourself speak such words out loud.

  Alone in the silence of my shitty condo, crushed beneath the weight of my own reality, with Grayson Dunn out of my bloodstream and settled firmly back in his old life without me, I see the gravity of my own miscalculations.

  I am not the Juliet to his Romeo.

  I am not the lodestar around which he orbits.

  I am not the trade wind by which he sets the course of his sails.

  I am not essential or exceptional.

  If I were a day in his schedule, I would undoubtedly be Monday. An afterthought to an otherwise exciting weekend. Something to simply trudge through on your way to better things ahead.

  I was his Monday girl.

  Shitty, really, since he was my whole damn week.

  * * *

  T he knocking starts and doesn’t stop until I’ve dragged myself out of bed and made my way downstairs to the front door. Yanking it open angrily, I find Wyatt on my doorstep, dressed in jeans and a thin sweater that shows off his impressive chest. His long bronze hair is pulled back in that messy-perfect way he always manages to pull off and his eyes are roaming my face like he’s staring at a ghost.

  I want to die on the spot.

  I hate him seeing me like this — mascara stained and messed up. I’ve been drunk for two days straight. Harper would undoubtedly call this a spiral .

  “Jesus,” Wyatt mutters, taking in the sight of me. From his dark expression, I’m guessing I look even worse than I feel. “Katharine, when was the last time you ate something?”

  “Are we counting vodka?” I ask, slurring a little.

  His jaw ticks. “No.”

  “Then I don’t really remember.” I shrug, turn, and head into the kitchen, leaving the entry open so he can follow me in. “Don’t worry! I’m on an all-liquid diet. It’s like the master juice cleanse, only alcoholic.”

  “Christ,” I hear him mutter as the door clicks closed. “When Masters called me and said I needed to come, I knew it was bad… but I didn’t know it was this bad. Baby .” His voice cracks as he stops in front of me, face a mask of concern. “What happened?”

  I lean against the counter and wave his words away, trying to look put together. “Don’t worry, Wyatt. I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, you look it,” he says dryly. “Not answering your phone for three days.
Drunk at two in the afternoon. Alone. Thinner than a damn rail.”

  “Oh, relax. It’s not that bad.”

  “Katharine. Tell me what happened.”

  “No.”

  “Is this about Dunn?”

  “Don’t!” I yell, glaring at him. “Don’t say his name. I don’t want to hear his name ever again.”

  Wyatt sighs and presses his hands over his eyes, thinking about something. I take the opportunity to search for my glass, in desperate need of a refill.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” He plucks the vodka bottle from my grip, unscrews the cap, and pours the remnants down the kitchen sink.

  “Hey! I was drinking that!”

  “You’ve had enough.” He whirls around to face me. “Now, this is what’s going to happen. You are going to get in the shower. When you get out, I’m going to make you a meal and you are going to eat every damn bite of it without argument. Do you understand me?”

  Wyatt’s never talked to me like this before. I blink slowly at him, trying to reconcile the gentle giant I know with this angry, glaring man before me.

  “I said do you understand me , Katharine?” he hisses.

  “Yes,” I say quietly. “I understand you.”

  “Good.” He nods, and I see some of his anger ebb. “Are you sober enough to shower?”

  “Of course.” I scoff, swaying lightly on my feet. “I’m totally sober.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Look!” Arms held out at my sides, I touch my pointer fingers to my nose one by one like I’m undergoing a field sobriety test. “See? Sober.”

  “Get in the shower. Try not to fall and crack open your skull, please.”

  “Fine. I’m going .” I roll my eyes, reach down, and peel my long-sleeved shirt up over my head. Tossing it onto a nearby chair, I reach for the button on my jeans and quickly step out of them, so I’m only in my bra and panties. I hear a sound from Wyatt, not quite a cough, not quite a groan, and when I look up I see he’s staring pointedly at the floor.

  “Katharine,” he growls through gritted teeth, his voice pained. “Please, go get in the shower.”

  “I said I’m going!” I turn and walk toward the bathroom, reaching for the clasp of my bra and sliding it off my shoulders as I go. There’s another cough-groan from the kitchen, but I’m too drunk to think what it might mean as I slide my underwear off and turn on the shower head in my dingy pink-tiled bathroom. Naked, I step into the tub, almost stumbling off balance as I adjust the temperature.

  The world is spinning.

  I sit down on the cold porcelain and let the hot water pour over me in a torrent. The heat feels good, radiating into my numb chest cavity. My dark hair is plastered down my back, hanging half over my face like a curtain. Knees curled up to my breasts, I wrap my arms around myself and lean against the side of the tub with my eyes closed. And for the first time in days, I sleep.

  * * *

  “ K atharine ! Fuck, baby, what are you doing?”

  Someone is shaking me. Big hands are on my shoulders, under my armpits, lifting me from the tub. The water’s run cold. I hear the valve shut off and open my eyes to see Wyatt, his gaze frantic with worry as it scans my face. I’m naked and freezing in his arms, water beading against my pruned skin like rain on a windowpane.

  Shivering, I stare up at his beautiful features and attempt a smile with frozen lips.

  “You’re like ice,” he growls, pulling me into his chest. It’s warm and broad and comforting against my cheek. “Are you okay?”

  “Fell asleep.” My teeth are chattering. “Sorry.”

  His arms come around me. “Don’t be sorry. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let you shower alone. I mean… I should’ve helped you… I should’ve called Harper to help you.”

  I press closer to him, eyes closed. I rub against him like a cat, seeking warmth. “Mmmm.”

  “Christ.” His voice sounds like he’s in pain again. “You’re going to kill me.”

  I feel his hands flex against the naked skin of my back. I hear him suck in a ragged breath as he grabs a towel off the nearby rack and wraps me in it.

  “There,” he rasps out. “That’s better. Now…”

  He scoops me into his arms and carries me into the living room, setting me down on the couch and tucking a blanket around me as soon as I’m horizontal. He crouches by my head, brushing the wet strands of hair from my face, and stares at me with those eyes that seem to see everything but demand nothing.

  “Wyatt?” I say in a small voice.

  “What, baby?”

  “Will you stay? I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

  He sighs and something unreadable flickers behind his eyes. “Of course I’ll stay.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me, Katharine. Just sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up. I promise.”

  With his words warding off the shadows that have held me hostage for the past few days, I close my eyes and drift off. Thankfully, this time, I don’t dream at all.

  * * *

  H e’s gone , when I wake up, but Harper’s there. The look on her face is of stark disapproval.

  “You are in such deep shit, Katharine Firestone.”

  I sit up with a groan. I’m sober for the first time in days. My head is aching like someone’s stuck a knife in my temple and twisted.

  “Ouch,” I mutter.

  She hands me a glass of what looks like Gatorade along with two white tablets. “Drink this. Take these. You’ll feel better.”

  I do as she says. Glancing down, I realize I’m still wearing nothing but a bath towel. My cheeks flame bright red.

  “Oh, Jesus… the shower… the stripping… Wyatt ….”

  Harper’s mouth twists. “Apparently, you put on quite the show, drunky.”

  “God, I was such a mess….”

  “Yeah, he told me.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s about ten.”

  “In the morning ?” I hiss, staring at the light pouring through my windows.

  “Yep. Wyatt had to go to work, so he asked me if I could stay with you today. Good thing I got a new phone last night, or I’d never have gotten his message.”

  “He stayed all night?”

  “Yep.”

  I moan, more embarrassed than I can remember being in ages. “He must hate me.”

  “I don’t think that’s even close to how he feels,” she murmurs.

  My eyes narrow. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing.” She shrugs. “Go upstairs and put on some clothes. Wyatt ordered a whole spread of food for you, before he left. Pasta, bread, salad — basically the entire menu at Mistral .”

  I gasp. “I love Mistral.”

  “Good, because there’s enough food here to feed an army and you’re looking skeletal.” Her frown intensifies. “I have no idea what you’ll wear to the wrap party tonight. Everything in your closet is going to be loose.”

  “The wrap party is tonight?” I’ve lost all concept of time. “It’s Monday already?”

  “Yes. That’s what happens when you crawl inside a bottle of vodka for an entire weekend.”

  I rise to my feet, feeling weak-kneed. “I’m sorry, Harper….” I swallow. “Things just…”

  “Spiraled?” she finishes for me, voice soft. “I know, sweetie. And I’m sorry about Grayson. I know he broke your heart. I know he’s an asshole. But if you let him break you… if you let yourself fall apart because of some douche-nozzle movie star who uses too much hair product… I’m going to have to kick your ass.”

  I feel the hint of a smile cross my lips.

  She steps closer. “You look awful.”

  The smile fades. “Thanks.”

  She grabs my hand and squeezes. “Next time, if you need to fall apart, if you start to spiral… do me a favor? Call me first. I promise my phone won’t be at the bottom of the Pacific. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Wyatt
was ready to enroll you in rehab. I had to talk him into letting you come to the party tonight.”

  “One bad weekend doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”

  “That’s what I told him.” Her eyes narrow. “Don’t prove me wrong.”

  “I won’t. I promise.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I feel better, now. Honestly.”

  It’s a lie, but she doesn’t call me out on it. Her expression softens and she nods slowly. “Okay, Kat. Go pull yourself together. I’ll reheat the food.”

  I turn so she doesn’t see the tears and climb the stairs up to my bedroom, wondering how the hell I’m going to face Grayson again. How I’m going to survive not just tonight, but also a press tour, movie premiere, and a thousand photo ops with him at my side for the next six months. How I’m going to live in his world and pretend he hasn’t shattered mine to pieces.

  I guess I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.

  Seventeen

  “ I ’m not crazy .”

  - A psycho, stage-five clinger.

  “ A re you ready ?” Harper looks over at me in the back of the town car. “We can skip it. We don’t have to go in there.”

  “No.” I steady my shoulders and stare out the window at Wyatt’s massive mansion in the Hills. It rises magnificently into the darkness, the front facade lit by ground-level spotlights. Urns filled with dancing flames line the driveway where we wait, watching people slowly filter in through the front door. “No, I’m okay. I’m good. I can do this.”

  Harper looks unconvinced.

  She’s wearing a gorgeous red cocktail dress that matches the exact shade of her freshly-dyed hair, which she’s done up in an elaborate French twist. She styled mine in a half-up, half-down cascade of waves and braids that took hours in front of the mirror but perfectly complements the flowing, white Grecian-style gown she stuffed me into, evidently borrowed from a friend who works in the wardrobe department at AXC. I’ve been threatened with bodily harm, should I spill anything on it or lose any of the expensive pieces of gold jewelry clasped around my wrists, neck, and ears.

  “Let’s go,” I say, calling thanks to our driver and stepping out into the driveway. Harper falls into step beside me, linking her arm with mine.