The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  “Give us a smile, sweetheart!”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Are you dating Ryder?”

  “When did you meet Grayson?”

  The valet hops down from the driver’s side and holds the door open for me. Reaching blindly into my purse, I grab the first bill my fingers land on from my stack of tips and shove it in his direction. He pockets it and disappears, leaving me alone with the paps.

  What a gentleman.

  I grit my teeth and contemplate the odds that I’m about to flash my private bits on the national news circuit while attempting to climb into this car in a barely-there miniskirt.

  More than likely.

  Before I can truly start to panic, Ryder’s face appears above me. Grinning like a mad-man, he extends both hands down and waggles his fingers.

  “Coming, Kit-Kat?”

  I’m so relieved, I let the awful nickname slide. As soon as I grab his hands, he locks his wrists with mine and hauls me up into the cab with surprising strength, considering his lean build. I manage to keep exposure to a minimum as I settle into the seat and slam the door shut behind me, extremely grateful for the heavily-tinted windows and muffled silence.

  Camera shutters are still clicking as I adjust the steering wheel, strap myself in, and force the mammoth vehicle into gear. I imagine it feels similar to driving a tank across a battlefield.

  “Are you strapped in?” I ask the drunkards.

  There’s no answer.

  I glance at Ryder and see his eyes are half-shut as he doses against his window like a child on a long car ride. In the rearview I see Grayson sprawled across the backseat, now fully unconscious.

  My fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel as we leave Balthazar and the crowd of paparazzi behind.

  It’s three in the morning. I’m driving a three-hundred-thousand-dollar SUV with two of the most sought-after celebrities in Hollywood, both of whom are drunk out of their skulls, one of whom I don’t even like. There are thousands of unflattering pictures of me being uploaded to the internet at this precise moment in time. I have absolutely no idea where I’m going. And, to top it all off, I’m absolutely starving.

  How in the hell did my night end up like this?

  Six

  “ I ’m absolutely not a fuckboy .”

  - A fuckboy.

  “ I think I love you .”

  “You told me that already.” I stuff another handful of French fries into my mouth. “Twice.”

  “Well, I’m serious.” Ryder takes a truly massive bite of his quarter-pounder and moans. “Hitting the drive-thru was the best idea ever.”

  “I’m not sure the girl working the window would agree,” I say dryly. “The shock of seeing Ryder Woods in the passenger seat damn near killed her.”

  He smirks. “I tend to have that effect on women.”

  “I can’t fathom why.”

  “So good.” He moans around another bite. “We should make you come out with us every weekend.”

  I snort. “Yeah… I wouldn’t count on that.”

  “Ah, right. You’ll be too busy to eat burgers with me at four in the morning — Grayson mentioned you guys start filming on Monday.” Ryder glances in the backseat, where his friend is still passed out cold. “He also mentioned there’s some kind of weird beef between you.”

  My eyebrows go up. I’m surprised he mentioned me at all. “It’s a long story.”

  “Uh huh.” Ryder shoves another mammoth bite into his mouth. “There’s a security gate up ahead — don’t worry, I know the code.”

  After getting some food into Ryder, he sobered up enough to program the GPS to take us to Grayson’s place in Malibu. Sure enough, the next turn I take brings us down a narrow lane to a set of stately black security gates surrounded by a towering row of hedges, concealing the house beyond. I have to unbuckle and climb halfway out my window to reach the buttons on the security panel. Ryder whistles and waggles his eyebrows at me as I settle back in my seat and tug my mini-skirt into place.

  “You weren’t supposed to look,” I grumble as the gates swing open.

  “Piece of advice: you don’t want men to look, don’t wear leather.”

  “Are you as chauvinistic as you seem?” I ask, darting a glance at him.

  “Are you as cynical as you seem?” he counters.

  I roll my eyes and steer us down the long, sloping driveway until the shape of a house appears in the darkness. Ryder’s out of the car before I’ve cut the engine, darting for the front door like a bullet.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I think there’s leftover pizza in Grayson’s fridge!” he calls, sliding a key into the lock.

  “You just ate a cheeseburger!”

  Echoing laughter is his only answer.

  “Wait! Ryder! You have to help me with him!” I yell, but he’s already disappeared inside. I leap down from the driver’s side and slam the door harder than necessary.

  Goddamn rockstars.

  Yanking open the back door, I turn tired eyes to Grayson. An irrepressible giggle bubbles up from my stomach at the sight of him — face slackened in a drunken stupor, a puddle of drool forming on the leather seat beneath his cheek, dark hair even messier than usual.

  “Dunn. Hey! Dunn. Time to wake up.” I prod him gently on the arm. When that yields no results, I shake him lightly. “Grayson!”

  Still nothing.

  With no other option, I flick him in the middle of the forehead.

  Green eyes crack open and focus on my face. “Kat.”

  His voice is slurred with sleep and liquor as he mutters my name, but it still sends a shiver down my spine.

  “Come on, drunky.” I poke him again. “Let’s get you inside.”

  “Where are we?” he asks, struggling to sit up. His hair is completely flat on one side, sticking straight up on the other.

  “Your place.” I offer him a hand. “Come on.”

  He stares at me for a moment, then nods and slides his giant palm into mine and climbs slowly from the car, stumbling a bit on the dismount. I reflexively wrap my arms around his waist, steadying him as best I can.

  “Whoa, careful.”

  I’m suddenly very conscious of the lack of space between us. My hands are at his waist, fingertips digging into his sides to keep him upright; his arms are draped over my shoulders, and he’s looking down into my eyes while smiling that dopey, drunken smile.

  “Kat,” he whispers again.

  My heart starts skipping beats.

  “Let’s get you inside.” I force myself to release him and move back to the driver’s seat, where I retrieve my purse and the greasy white fast food bag. “Here, I bought you a cheeseburger. Eat it. You’ll feel better with some food in your system.”

  He blunders along behind me, unwrapping the burger with clumsy fingers. Ryder’s left the door ajar. When I step through it into the house, I try not to gawk at the obvious show of wealth. The ceiling soars twenty feet overhead; marble floors gleam underfoot. A wall of windows looks out at an incredible view of cliffs that drop straight down to the Pacific. I can see the first hints of dawn staining the sky — soon, the sun will illuminate the whole house with early morning light.

  The gorgeous atmosphere is marred somewhat by the sight of Ryder passed out on the couch: face on the cushions, feet on the floor, snoring so loud it could wake the dead. There’s a half-eaten piece of pizza still clutched in his hand.

  I hear the door click closed as Grayson shuffles in behind me, chewing the last bite of his cheeseburger. He doesn’t bat an eye at Ryder’s prone form, he simply stands there swaying in place, blinking his glazed green eyes like he’s never been here before.

  “Come on, you,” I say, sighing deeply and grabbing his hand. “Let’s get you into bed, before you fall over.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers twine tightly with mine and he begins to shuffle forward through the house, flicking on lights as we walk down a hall, around a corne
r, through an amazing living room with about ten skylights, and past what looks like a library full of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves which, under any other circumstance, I would insist upon stopping to investigate. Eventually, we reach his bedroom.

  It’s lacking what they’d refer to in a vaguely sexist manner as “a woman’s touch.” The walls are blank except for a single abstract canvas I’d bet my life was picked out by an interior designer. With the exception of a laptop and various other electronics scattered around his desk, there are very few traces of life. A leftover coffee cup sits on his bedside table, a few sweaters are tossed haphazardly across the back of the arm chair in the corner, a motorcycle helmet sits askew on his desk. The king bed is half made, as if he rose in a hurry.

  Grayson stumbles toward it on unsteady feet. I try to release his hand, but he holds me fast and before I can stop it, I’m pulled down next to him on the edge of the mattress. He collapses instantly back against the blankets with a heavy sigh, his eyes slipping closed, his hand still holding me firmly in place.

  “Dunn.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Dunn, let go of my hand.”

  “Mmm.”

  “DUNN!”

  Green eyes sliver open and focus on my face. “Kat.”

  “Hand,” I say, lifting our interlocked fingers and shaking them. “Let go.”

  His drunken smile returns. “You’re here.”

  “Yes, I brought you home, remember?”

  It’s clear he doesn’t remember. He’s still totally wasted.

  “So pretty,” he says, staring up at me. “You were always so pretty.”

  I laugh, still trying to tug my hand from his. “Who’d have guessed, the asshole gets sweet when he’s plastered out of his mind—Hey !”

  An unexpected yank on my arm sends me reeling off balance — I sprawl forward onto Grayson’s chest with a squeak. Before I can roll off him, his other arm snakes around my waist and he buries his head in my hair. I feel his warm breath at the nape of my neck as he inhales rhythmically.

  “Are you cuddling with me?” I ask, when I’ve regained the ability to speak. “Seriously?”

  “Shhh.”

  “I’m not a cuddler. I don’t do cuddling.” I pause, but he doesn’t respond. “Are you hearing me right now?”

  “Mmmm.” His voice is fainter; like he’s hovering on the edge of consciousness.

  “Grayson Dunn! Don’t you dare fall asleep!”

  He doesn’t even murmur in acknowledgment this time, which I take as a bad sign. I try to slide out of his hold, but he doesn’t budge. I attempt to shift him sideways to reach my purse, which he conveniently collapsed on top of when he timbered like a felled tree in the forest, but he’s far too heavy.

  Great. I’m snuggling with a goddamned giant.

  All I can do is lie there with him, listening to the faint thud of his heartbeat through the fabric of his jacket, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest as he slips further into sleep. I know there’s a part of me that should be filled with rage at this man, for ruining my night…and getting me fired…and making me take care of him…and forcing me to spend half my tip money on drive-thru food…and reading the love letter I wrote him out loud to an entire cast of pre-teen boys all those years ago… but lying in the circle of his arms, I can’t seem to muster even the smallest bit of anger.

  Head on his chest, I stare at the small clock on his bedside table and watch the minutes tick by, feeling the warm puffs of his breath like a metronome against my skin and trying not to succumb to the strong lure of sleep.

  After a few moments, the arms around me go completely slack and I know he’s fully asleep. Moving gingerly so I don’t accidentally shake him awake, I slide from his hold and scramble off the bed on light feet, stopping only when there’s a safe distance between us, lest he wake suddenly and try to grab me again. Hands planted on my hips, I shake my head in exasperation as I stare down at his prone form. He looks totally uncomfortable in his jacket and jeans. His shoes are still on, for god’s sake.

  Sighing, I bend and start to undo the laces. I can’t let him sleep in his shoes.

  I may be a bitch, but I’m not a monster.

  They’re knotted tightly — it’s a struggle to yank the expensive leather loafers from his feet. When I finally get them off, I toss them into the corner of the room, wincing when they thud against the hardwood so loudly, Grayson stirs in his sleep. I should probably be worried I’ve woken him, but I’m too busy staring at the feet dangling off the edge of the bed to care. A shocked giggle bursts from my mouth.

  His socks aren’t the standard, solid black you’d expect of Hollywood’s leading action hero. Instead, they’re navy blue and covered in shooting stars and moons, suns and planets — something you’d sooner find in the closet of a seven-year-old than a twenty-seven-year-old.

  I don’t know why, but the sight of those damn socks makes something inside me snap. The hilarity of this whole circumstance hits me all at once: I’m wearing a corset, in Grayson Dunn’s bedroom… marking perhaps the first time in history he’s had a half-naked girl in here and done nothing more than amuse her with his little-boy socks while drooling onto his pillow.

  Once I start to laugh, I can’t stop. I sit there for a long while, laughing so hard I start to wheeze; so hard my eyes start to stream; so hard I don’t notice those socked feet shifting down onto the floor, or their owner sitting up on the edge of his bed like a zombie rising from the dead.

  “What’s funny?” a slurred voice asks.

  My laughter dies instantly and I scramble to my feet, wiping tears from the corners of my eyes. When our gazes meet, I can’t quite suppress a grin.

  “Nice solar system socks, Dunn.”

  His head cocks to the left and he stares down at his feet like they belong to a stranger. “Thanks,” he murmurs, wiggling his toes so the shooting stars dance. “They’re my favorite.”

  My grin widens. “Who’d have thought the Sexiest Man Alive was a closet science nerd?”

  “Don’t mock my socks,” he says, rising to his feet. He’s a little steadier than earlier, but not much. I take the opportunity to swipe my purse off the bed, before he falls on top of it again, and raise my hands defensively.

  “Would I ever mock you?”

  “…Absolutely.”

  I snort. “Well, that’s probably true.”

  “I’ll have you know,” he informs me drunkenly. “These socks are out of this world.”

  “Did you just make a space pun?”

  He’s too busy laughing at his own terrible joke to answer.

  I sigh. “Dunn, take off your jacket and get in bed. It’s late and I want to go home.”

  “Home?” he asks, laughter abruptly stopping. His eyes are wide and glassy. “Kat . Stay. You should stay. We can make pancakes. It’ll be great.”

  “I can’t stay, drunky,” I say, rolling my eyes as I take hold of his jacket cuff. I pull until his arm slides out. He doesn’t struggle as I move to the other sleeve — he lets me pivot his body like a sleepy, overgrown child, arms falling back to his sides like dead weight as soon as they’re free.

  “Okay…” I stare at his jeans and t-shirt. “I’ve done my duty. You can handle the rest yourself.”

  He grins and starts to swing his hips as his hands move to the hem of his shirt.

  “What are you doing?” I ask flatly, backing away. “Is that supposed to be a dance?”

  He doesn’t answer — he just moves around the room like a drunken fool attempting a strip tease, practically tripping over his own feet multiple times. I’d run away, but I’m afraid he’s going to fall and crack his head open on the edge of his desk.

  “I should be filming this,” I mutter to myself, watching as he lifts his t-shirt up over his head. It gets snagged on his chin and he blunders around blindly for a moment before freeing himself. “Dunn’s drunken strip tease — I could sell it to TMZ for a zillion dollars.”

  Now shirtless, Grayson
starts to dance in earnest — he booty-drops like a slutty seventh-grade girl, and it’s so ridiculous I can’t help laughing.

  “Dance with me,” he says, reaching for the button of his jeans.

  “I’m plenty entertained just watching. Trust me.”

  He shimmies out of his pants, trips over the fabric, and nearly wipes out. “Your loss, Kat,” he mutters, recovering his balance just in time.

  I snort at the sight of him, now in only boxer-briefs and his damn solar system socks, drunk off his ass and dancing around his room like a crazy person. Under normal circumstances, I might feel guilty about blatantly ogling his chiseled abs but, considering he won’t remember any of this when he wakes up, I don’t scold myself for checking him out.

  “Get under the covers,” I order, pointing at his bed. “I’m serious.”

  “So serious,” he mocks, making a face at me. His arms swing and his hips sway as he moves, undeterred by the lack of music. He leans back and shakes his shoulders toward the sky, doing a terrible impression of “The Bernie” dance, followed by a number of other god-awful gyrations.

  “Grayson,” I say, desperately trying to cover my laughter with a stern voice.

  “Kat,” he says, moving closer, dopey smile firmly affixed to his face.

  “Bed. Now.”

  He grins and reaches for the elastic band of his boxers. “Fine.”

  “AH!” I yell, reaching up to shield my eyes. I hear the sound of fabric hitting the wood floor. “What are you doing?”

  “You said get ready for bed.” His voice is slurred, seductive, and far too close; I back blindly toward the door. “I’m ready, now,” he says, following me step for step.

  “I didn’t mean get naked! I meant… sleep .”

  “But I sleep naked.”

  I try to breathe normally at the thought of Grayson Dunn standing three inches away, nude except for his little boy socks. It’s not easy.

  “Grayson,” I squeak. “Please go get under the covers.”

  He chuckles lowly, but I hear the uneven shuffle of his feet as he moves across the room. The tension in my body eases the farther he gets from me, and I feel myself starting to breathe again as the sound of him sliding beneath the covers reaches my ears.