The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  “As in… three days from now? That’s fast.”

  “Everything has been fast-tracked. They were supposed to be filming weeks ago, but apparently things were stalled because Grayson banged his co-star and she stormed off set rather than continue working with him.”

  “Helena Putnam, right?” Harper’s eyes narrow. “She’s beautiful, but I’ve heard she’s a bit…” She trails off and twirls her finger in the air by her temple, the international symbol for bat-shit crazy .

  I snort. “She’d have to be, if she thought Grayson was going to commit to her. The man is about as loyal as a junkyard dog.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t met the right girl yet.”

  “Or maybe he’s just a douche.”

  “Presenting Kat Firestone, ladies and gentlemen.” Harper claps her hands slowly. “Yes, she’s single — shocking , I know, with charm like that. Line forms behind me.”

  “I dislike you.”

  “That’s all right, I don’t mind. As long as you’re still picking up the bill — now that you’re making the big bucks, I’m pretty sure I never have to buy drinks again.”

  “I don’t even know how much they’re giving me. The contracts haven’t been signed yet.”

  She sighs. “I’m guessing whatever the figure, there will be lots of zeroes on the end of it.”

  I open my wallet and pull out my only credit card without a maxed-out balance. “I just want enough to keep me stocked in tacos for the rest of my life.”

  Her head tilts. “Grayson Dunn pulled in six million for his last movie.”

  All the breath leaves my lungs in a gust at the concept of that much money.

  “That’s a lot of tacos,” I murmur, when I’ve recovered.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Four

  “ I really need to work on myself.”

  - A man who thinks you should probably work on yourself.

  T he emerald green Cadillac parked in front of my condo is unmistakable; the woman leaning against it is downright terrifying. Her honey blonde hair has been teased into a beehive so tall, it would bow a lesser woman in half. Arms crossed over her chest, acrylic nails tapping impatiently against her power-blazer, she fixes me with an unflinching gaze that never wavers as I park my car, sigh heavily, and approach.

  “Hi, Cynthia.”

  Her eyebrow ticks. “Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

  “Oh, did you call me? I didn’t realize.” My innocent act is thin at best. “Maybe I left it in airplane mode by accident.”

  “Funny,” she says in a tone that conveys her total lack of amusement. “I don’t recall you flying anywhere recently.”

  I swallow. “Did you need something?”

  “I wanted to know how the audition went. When I couldn’t get ahold of you, I called the talent agency.” Her blue eyes, the only feature I inherited from her, narrow lethally. “Tyra was very… informative.”

  I assume Tyra was the brunette who conducted the vampire show audition — it seems a million years ago, with everything that’s happened since.

  “Ah,” I say lightly. “I take it she had nothing but lovely things to say about me?”

  “Katharine!” Cynthia’s voice cracks like a whip. “This is not a joke. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to even get you in that room? The favors I had to cash in? The number of phone calls and hours spent networking on your behalf, just to get you in front of those women?”

  “From your tone, I’m guessing a lot,” I murmur under my breath. Thankfully, she’s too busy ranting to hear me.

  “They didn’t want you! They want a rosy-cheeked seventeen-year-old with a perfect ass and breasts that still defy gravity! But you don’t seem to care about that. You don’t seem to realize that your prime years are slipping away.” Her arms uncross and suddenly there’s a razor-sharp acrylic nail pointed straight at my nose. “You won’t be young forever. In this industry, you’ve only got another decade, at best, before you’re relegated to the scrap heap.”

  She makes it sound like I’m closer to my mid-eighties than my mid-twenties. I fight the desire to roll my eyes, knowing it will only further incense her.

  “This part would’ve been a source of steady work for at least a season, maybe opened some doors to other roles on the AXC Network. And you just strolled in there unprepared, looking like an unwashed streetwalker, from the sound of it, and couldn’t even be bothered to take the audition seriously.” Cynthia pushes off the car and takes a step closer to me; in her sky-high stilettos, she towers over my five-foot-three frame. “Tyra says you laughed .”

  “If you’d read that dialogue, you’d have laughed too. It was ridiculous.”

  “I don’t care how ridiculous it was,” she hisses, advancing on me. “Where you got this prideful, high-and-mighty streak of yours, I’ll never know. It wasn’t from me, I’ll tell you that.”

  “But I got your cheekbones and in the long run I think that matters more, am I right?”

  Before the joke is even out of my mouth, she’s reached out and slapped me full across the face. I reel back, eyes watering as pain radiates through my cheek. My hands clench into fists at my sides, but otherwise I show no reaction to her strike.

  “You are going to call Tyra and apologize.” Cynthia’s breaths are shallow with rage. “You are going to make this right. And if by some miracle she gives you another chance and finds you some small role on one of their shows, you will take it. No matter how ridiculous or beneath you it may seem.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “You stubborn, selfish girl!” Her hand twitches and I know she’s aching to hit me again. “You are just like your father.”

  “I’ll have to take your word on that,” I grit out. “Seeing as we’ve never been introduced.”

  “I don’t know why I bother with you anymore. After all I’ve sacrificed… The years I’ve spent getting you to this point… And you’re just going to flush it down the toilet. All my hard work, wasted on a girl who’s determined to amount to nothing but a disappointment.”

  “Wonderful words from a mother to her only daughter.” No amount of sarcasm can cover the sharp zing of pain in my chest.

  “If you want respect, you have to earn it,” Cynthia says coldly. “You know that.”

  Of course I know; she’s been pounding that into my head since I was old enough to comprehend such things. The point she’s never seemed to grasp is that I never wanted her respect in the first place. I wanted her love. And even two decades of disappointment on that score haven’t been enough to alter that aspiration.

  “Call Tyra.” She holds out her cellphone in the space between us. “Apologize. Beg her to give you some small part.”

  My jaw clenches. “Like I said before, that’s not going to happen.”

  “Katharine, if you don’t take the phone this instant—”

  “Because,” I say, talking over her. “I start filming Uncharted in Hawaii next week and I already have enough scheduling conflicts with my work at Balthazar, since I haven’t even given Vince my notice yet.”

  The air goes completely still. Cynthia’s head swivels slowly until our eyes meet.

  “Uncharted ,” she whispers. “The new Stanhope movie.”

  I nod.

  “You got a part?”

  I nod again. “The lead. Co-starring with Grayson Dunn. I should have my contract tomorrow.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at the phone in her hand, which is now trembling in the air between us. “Unless, of course, you’d like me to turn it down, call Tyra, and beg for an inconsequential part in her next teenage-angst after school special. You know… If she’ll still have me , that is.”

  For a full thirty seconds, my mother stares at me with a look I’ve never seen before, and I think maybe she’s about to say something crazy like I’m so proud of you but instead her mouth twists into a smirk and she says, “I can’t wait to tell that cow Tyra to shove it. Too good to give my client a
part? Ha! Well, the joke is on her now, isn’t it!”

  I should be used to her treating me as her client instead of her child, but it still makes my stomach twist. No matter how awful she is, no matter how cruel or unkind, I don’t think I’ll ever be immune to her words.

  “I wonder if Sergio has any appointments before production starts…” She’s eyeing my dark, messy waves with a scary look. “Maybe he can do something with you…”

  “I’m not cutting my hair. I got this part because they like my look as it is,” I point out, but she’s not listening. She’s snatched her phone back and is pecking at the screen with her talons like a large predatory bird.

  “I have to call Stanhope’s people. See if they’ll be putting out a statement or whether I can draft a press release. Oh, and we should see if we can get an exclusive interview with Entertainment Weekly or one of the late night talk shows…”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “Good talk, mommy dearest. If you’ll excuse me…”

  She doesn’t look up from her phone as I step around her on the sidewalk and beeline for my front door, fishing the keys from my slouchy purse as I walk. I’ve got one hand on the knob when she finally realizes I’ve left the conversation.

  “Katharine!”

  I turn, holding my breath, and stare at the woman who gave birth to me with arched brows.

  “Don’t do anything to screw this up. Stanhope is the hottest director around, these days — one film with him, and you’ll be on the map for good.”

  “I wasn’t planning to,” I call back, my voice only the tiniest bit bitter. “But thanks for the tip.”

  I turn back to the door and bump my hip against it — the damn thing always jams in its frame. It swings inward with a sudden lurch.

  “Grayson Dunn is single and he’s worth millions!” Cynthia shouts, before I can shut her out. “If you can get your hooks in him now, even with a prenup you’ll never have to work again—”

  I slam the door so hard it rattles the wall, cutting off the rest of her poisonous words. Leaning my back against the wood, I slide down to rest against the peeling laminate floor and attempt to regulate my breathing. My skin is crawling as her words swarm over me like ants on a picnic blanket.

  Don’t do anything to screw this up…

  Get your hooks in him now…

  My mother has the unique talent of making you feel like you need a shower after being in her presence for longer than five minutes. Probably her only talent, if I’m being honest, which is why she’s so goddamned set on exploiting mine to the fullest degree.

  I sit on the floor until I hear her Cadillac roar to life and peel out of the parking lot. When I know it’s safe, I head upstairs to my bedroom and begin to gather my things. My shift at Balthazar starts in a little over two hours, and in Friday night rush-hour traffic it’ll take almost that long to get downtown on the 405.

  The glamorous life of a movie star , I think, smirking as I step into the shower. Sitting in traffic and tending bar.

  Watch out, Hollywood. Here I come.

  * * *

  “ Y ou’re late !” Vince barks as I rush through the back door. “Again.”

  “Sorry, Vin, traffic was a bitch.”

  “This is LA. Traffic is always a bitch.” He shakes his bald head sternly. “Don’t make me fire you, Kat. I like you, but you’re gonna give me a heart attack if you keep showing up late.”

  “A heart attack? In your peak physical shape? Impossible.” I grin and tug at my leather mini-skirt, which rode up alarmingly high during my dash inside. “You’re the picture of health, Vince.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere,” he says, crossing massive arms over his chest, but his lips are twitching. Vince may look like a badass bodybuilder, but he’s about as tough as a marshmallow. He gave me this job when I moved out of Cynthia’s house last year, despite the fact that I had basically no experience and spilled a full tray of Dom Perignon champagne flutes during my first shift. Still, as I eye the vein popping in his temple, I somehow doubt this is the ideal moment to tell him I need several weeks off work to shoot a movie.

  “Listen, it’s only eight and we’re already slammed.” He takes the purse and jacket from my hands and gives me a small push toward the double doors that lead onto the floor. “I have a feeling tonight is going to be one for the books. Go help Holly in the downstairs lounge bar, and later I’ll move you upstairs if we get any big VIPs.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “Don’t call me boss.”

  “You got it, jefe.”

  “Kat.”

  “Sorry.” I laugh.

  “Get moving.”

  “I’m going, I’m going,” I mutter, pushing open the doors. A bouncer nods to me as I step into the club, his black-on-black suit rendering him almost invisible against the ebony wall. The pulsing base hits me like a wall of sound, vibrating up through the soles of my stilettos into my bones. My eyes strain to adjust as I cut through the throng toward the bar. It’s dark inside the club, the large multi-level space illuminated only by the occasional flashing strobes overhead. Dozens of people gyrate on the dance floor, groping and grinding in time to the beat. In another two hours, this place will be so packed you won’t be able to see the ground beneath their feet.

  I glance up at the second level and see the velvet-roped balcony is empty — for now, at least. Balthazar is a hot spot for celebrity sightings, with its chic table-service, exclusive VIP area, and lush decor. Plus, the fact that Vince makes all his girls dress in what basically amounts to lingerie doesn’t hurt. My black lace corset is so tight, it’s hard to breathe. I console myself with the thought that by the end of tonight, I’ll have enough in tips to take my Honda to the mechanic for a much-needed checkup. The engine was wheezing like a geriatric patient when I peeled into the staff parking lot ten minutes ago. There is a zero-percent chance it will make it through another bumper-to-bumper drive on the 405 without overheating, and, somehow, I need to get to the studio on Monday morning.

  Holly is manning the lower-level bar alone, moving at warp-speed to accommodate the crush of patrons. Her hands are a blur of motion — pouring shots, shaking cocktails, sliding glasses across the LED-lit bar without ever spilling a drop. She’s wearing a strappy leather getup that makes my outfit look positively demure and her jet-black hair flashes blue-green in the pulsing overhead strobes of the club.

  “Thank god you’re here,” she calls as I hop up over the bar-top and swivel my legs around. “Haven’t been able to take a damn breath for the past half hour.”

  “Where do you need me?”

  “On your left!” she calls, tossing a vodka bottle high in the air. “Bachelor party. Give ‘em one more round, then cut them off.”

  I move toward a group of ten men waiting on the opposite side of the bar. White, preppy, and practically indiscernible from each other in their identical jeans and v-necks, they’re so drunk they can barely string together enough words to order another round, let alone calculate a decent tip.

  Every bartender’s dream.

  “Shots!” One of the men pounds a beefy fist on the bar. “Though no amount of tequila’s gonna make my man here forget he’s getting shackled in two days!” He grabs a very inebriated man in a headlock and hauls him close. “Isn’t that right, Trevor?”

  Trevor blinks glassy, rid-rimmed eyes.

  “BALL AND CHAIN!” A redhead howls at the top of his lungs. “TILL DEATH DO YOU PART!”

  “OR UNTIL SHE GETS FAT!” another chimes in, laughing uproariously. The two of them clink glasses and chug down the rest of their beers.

  “Charming.” I clench my teeth. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Trevor’s getting married,” the beefy-fisted man informs me, swaying on his feet. He’s slightly more coherent than his friends. “We’re the bachelor party.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “TEQUILA!” the redhead roars.

  I pull a bottle of tequila from the bottom shelf, t
he kind that tastes a bit like lighter fluid, and start lining up empty shot glasses. These fools are so loaded, I could charge them for cat piss and they wouldn’t even taste it going down.

  “Trev, tell us,” the redhead slurs as I flourish the bottle and begin pouring. “Does Andrea even let you fuck her anymore?”

  “Not in the ass, that’s for sure,” a blond guffaws. “No room, what with the stick she’s got shoved up there all the time.”

  “Piss off.” The groom-to-be halfheartedly bats his friends away. “That’s my wife!”

  “Not yet!” A large tattooed arm reaches out and starts passing around the shots to his friends as I chop a lime into wedges for them. “Two more days of freedom, bro. Let’s find someone for you to fuck. Lots of prime slam-pieces here, tonight.”

  It takes an abnormal amount of effort to keep the knife steady in my hands. I finish chopping their limes and slide a small bowl of salt toward Trevor. He doesn’t notice — his vacant eyes are fixed on the dance floor, where half-clothed girls writhe in time to the music. I watch two men in the group slide wedding bands into their wallets before throwing back their shots, each yelling a toast to their friend before slugging down the shitty tequila.

  “To Trevor!”

  “To the end of freedom!”

  “To wife number one!”

  “To prenups!”

  I snatch the credit card from the redhead and turn to run their bill, gritting my teeth as I listen to them congratulate each other on their utter lack of decency. I’m still seething five minutes later when I take a break between mixing cocktails for a few girls — or “slam-pieces” as the men so affectionately referred to them — and return to pick up the receipt.

  They didn’t even leave a tip.

  There’s nothing I can do about it besides cast a fervent wish up to the powers-that-be that every member of the bachelor party catches crabs tonight. Cosmic justice in the form of an itchy crotch — the thought makes me smirk.

  We’re so busy I don’t stop moving, mixing, and pouring for the next two hours. I’m so intent on making drinks, it takes me a while to register the sound of someone saying my name and tapping my shoulder.