The Someday Girl (The Girl Duet Book 2), page 1
THE SOMEDAY GIRL
The Girl Duet: Part Two
Julie Johnson
JOHNSON INK, Inc.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Julie Johnson
Copyright © 2017 Julie Johnson
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.
Cover Design by Julie Johnson
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To every girl who knows she’s worth more than a Monday.
“I loved something I made up… I made a pretty suit of clothes and I fell in love with it. And when he came riding along, so handsome, so different, I put that suit on him and made him wear it whether it fitted him or not. And I wouldn’t see what he really was.
I kept on loving the pretty clothes — and not him at all.”
Margaret Mitchell, Gone with the Wind
Prologue
Does my brokenness offend you?
Are my words too sharp? My shadows too deep? My pain too raw?
Are you haunted by my damage the same way I’m haunted by the memory of a man whose taste I can no longer conjure on my lips, whose handprints have long since faded from my skin? Does my misery make you uncomfortable, like a paper-cut on a knuckle that re-opens each time you flex your finger?
I’d apologize, but I really don’t give a shit.
For a month, I have been trying. Trying to breathe. Trying to make it through the day without my chest aching with pain that will not end, without my eyes stinging with tears I refuse to let fall.
For four unrepentant weeks, I have attempted to piece myself slowly back together.
But there is no fixing me. Not really.
Putting my broken fragments back into place is like trying to reattach petals to a flower after you’ve ripped them off one-by-one and crushed them into pulp between your fingertips. A childhood game of chance gone horribly awry.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
He loves me.
He loves me not.
There is no returning to the girl I used to be. She is gone. Ended. Obliterated. She has faded out like a ghost. She has ceased to exist and become something entirely unrecognizable.
Because she is now a we.
I have never been more alone in my life than this past month. And yet, I am never alone. Not anymore. Much as I might like to deny it, I am altered on a molecular level. There is a tiny, unseen heartbeat pumping in tandem with mine, somewhere far below the surface of my skin where no one else can see. I cannot hear it, cannot feel it, but I know it’s there. And no matter how often I press useless hands against my stomach, wishing to wake from a nightmare of my own making, I cannot change my reality. I cannot ignore the flutter of life growing ever stronger inside me. A war drum, thud-thud-thudding like a steadily-approaching line of enemy fighters on the battlefield.
Katharine Firestone: hot freaking mess.
…and… unfathomably, unpredictably… a mother?
Fear clenches me in a stranglehold at the mere thought.
I am unprepared.
I am unequipped.
A wreck of a girl, raised by a wretch of a woman. Reared with cold calculation in lieu of love.
How could I possibly carry a child? How could someone like me foster a human being into anything resembling normalcy or well-adjusted adolescence?
I will fail at this, just as I have failed at every other turn in my life.
I will break this child, just like I broke him.
After all, it’s the only thing I know how to do with any kind of precision.
Smash. Wreck. Destroy.
Maple syrup leaking across a marble floor.
Ice in eyes made for heat and humor.
I am fire.
I am chaos.
I am a force of destruction, down to my marrow.
Please hear me when I tell you I am not intentionally heartless. I simply do not know my own heart. Do not recognize its true desires or understand its motivations. This senseless organ inside my chest is a stranger to me. I do not know which path it will lead me down, which star-chart it will steer me by. I haven’t allowed myself to think that far ahead yet. Haven’t allowed myself to feel anything except numb disbelief and clammy-palmed terror.
My hands find my stomach again. I press down hard enough to feel my lowest row of ribs jut through the skin like dull knives, carving me from within. Cleaving me in two. Tearing me to shreds of indecision.
A girl divided.
I am filled with contrary desires. Brimming over with conflicting interests. Torn, in every facet of life, in opposite directions between which I cannot choose.
I do not know if I want this child. But I do know one thing for certain.
This child will not want me.
One
“Are you sure you’re ready for me, honey?”
- The lady shaping my eyebrows with hot wax strips.
I stare at the dark red polish coating my fingernails as the SUV cuts a slow path through downtown Los Angeles. There is not a single chip marring their glossy surfaces. In this moment of undeniable anxiety, with my stomach clenched into a fist and my back rigid with tension, the girl I used to be two insufferable months ago would’ve picked at them until they lay like bloody petals on the sleek leather seat.
Now, even if I wanted to pick them off, I couldn’t. The cheap, drugstore-brand polish of my past has been replaced by professional-grade lacquer, applied by a petite Vietnamese woman who came directly to my new house in the Palisades with a small cart of subtle shades in tow. My days of lukewarm pedicure baths and questionably-cleaned cuticle cutters are over… Along with almost every other recognizable facet of my existence.
Here lies Katharine Firestone, of the mussed hair and ripped cut-off shorts, of the day-old mascara and inappropriate drinking binges, who hurled headfirst through life hungover and heartbroken.
May she rest in peace.
The new Katharine Firestone is poised. Her hair is never messy. She never leaves the house still wearing makeup from the night before because she knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the paparazzi’s prying eyes are never far away. She is calm and collected. Her clothes bear designer labels. Her shoes cost more than the monthly rent of the crappy condo where she used to reside.
She is a stranger to me.
The weight of someone’s stare makes me look up. My gaze finds the icy blue irises of my security detail and driver, Kent Masters, in the rearview mirror. I see his hands tighten ever-so-slightly on the steering wheel as he scans the deep shadows beneath my eyes, the haunted look in their depths that I can’t quite mask, no matter how much expensive makeup coats my lids and lashes.
“Feeling all right today, Miss Firestone?”
I sigh. “Masters, how many times do I have to insist you call me Kat before you listen?”
“At least one more.”
“You’re dating my best friend,” I point out. “Doesn’t that make us friends by association?”
“Depends. You give all your other friends a three-figure salary and health benefits?”
My brows pull into a scowl.
“No,” I mutter.
“Thought so.”
His mouth twists as he merges left and turns onto a one-way street, heading toward Hollywood Boulevard. Traffic is even thicker than usual. It’s the week before Christmas; shoppers are out in force, especially in this glitzy part of town. Tourists with time off for the holidays are pouring into the City of Angels — they crowd into double-decker buses and hang out the windows with cameras fixed permanently to their noses as they roll down famous palm-tree lined avenues, taking pictures of vibrant street art without ever stopping to look at it in person. Trading actual experiences for Instagram likes from followers they will never meet.
When they reach the movie studios, they will disembark and fork over a thick wad of hard-earned cash for the privilege of taking a mind-numbing tour of a vacant soundstage — likely led by an annoying guide who cracks corny jokes and speaks a bit too emphatically into her microphone headset as she shows them a quote-unquote genuine piece of Hollywood before they shuffle back to their lives in some benign small town where nothing scandalous ever happens.
How was LA? their friends will ask.
It was okay, they’ll reply. But I don’t see what all the fuss is about.
I stare out my tinted window as we pass by a particularly vibrant strip of shops. The neon signs and congested sidewalks look more l
We’re nearly there.
I refocus on Masters and try another tactic. “You know, I pay your salary — you’re required to listen to me. That means you have to call me by my first name if I want you to.”
“Actually, I’m required to protect you, not listen to you,” he corrects in a bland tone. “And you’re avoiding my question.”
“Oh, did you ask something?” My voice is innocent.
“How are you feeling today?”
“Just fine.”
His eyes find mine once more, holding my stare in a challenge.
“I’m fine, Masters.” I swallow again, but it does nothing to clear the thick dollop of anxiety resting on the back of my tongue like peanut butter. “Really. You and Harper can’t keep treating me like I’m made of glass. I won’t fall apart when I see— when I see—”
Grayson.
Wyatt.
Together.
In the same room.
For the first time since…
I clear my throat so hard it hurts. “When I’m back on set,” I finish weakly.
“Uh huh.” Masters’ eyes crinkle slightly. “Whatever you say, Miss Firestone.”
I glance out the car window and feel my heart stutter inside my chest as I recognize the familiar sight of AXC Studios’ wrought-iron gates.
We’re here.
Masters hands over his identification to the man guarding the back gate and, before I have time to prepare myself, we’re pulling into a reserved spot by Stage 13, where we filmed the first part of Uncharted six weeks ago, before flying to Hawaii to shoot the rest on-location. I stare at the imposing silhouette of the warehouse, looming in the bright midday sunshine, and try desperately to remember all the sensible advice Harper has given me over the past month.
It’s useless. All her pragmatic suggestions and practical tips have vanished from my brain like vapor.
“Miss Firestone.”
Masters’ voice snaps me out of my stupor. I glance right and find he’s already shut off the SUV and rounded to my side. He’s holding open my door, waiting for me to climb out.
His eyes soften when they meet mine. “Just breathe. You’ll be fine.”
Nodding, I haul air into my lungs, steady my shoulders, and climb out. He closes the door behind me and comes to a stop at my side, a mountain of a man towering over me.
“Harper’s doing makeup for that new teen werewolf show next door, so she’s not far.” His elbow grazes mine in a gentle nudge. “And if you need me, you know I’m just a call away. Harper programmed my number into your new phone as Boy Toy but I changed it back.”
I snort. “Thanks, Masters.”
“I mean it. Say the word and we’ll leave. No questions asked.”
“I can’t just leave. It’s my first day back. There’s the photoshoot for the promotional posters, then later we’re meeting at Sloan’s place to go over the press tour itinerary for the next few weeks…”
“They need you more than you need them.” His stare is unwavering. “If you can’t handle this, there’s no shame in admitting it. You’re allowed to ask for help. Entitled to it, even.”
“I’m not a quitter, Masters.”
“Never said you were, Miss Firestone. But even badasses need to take a break, sometimes.”
“I’m a badass, huh?”
He nods solemnly. “You are in my book.”
My lips tug up into a smile he doesn’t return. I take in his strong jawline, the aristocratic slope of his nose, the blond, short-buzzed crop of his hair. Six foot five, pure muscle in his ever-present black suit. If anyone here is a badass, it’s Masters. And yet, after a month of him watching out for me — analyzing the security of my new home in the Palisades, organizing safety parameters for upcoming public appearances, making sure Harper and I are always completely protected every time we go farther than the terrace in my backyard — I know he definitely has a softer side. He just doesn’t like to show it.
Ever.
“You’re a big softie, you know that right, Masters?”
He still doesn’t smile, but there’s humor lurking in his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Firestone. Now, come on. You’re already running late.”
“Maybe if you didn’t drive like such a geriatric…”
“Motor vehicle accidents are the fourth leading cause of death in the United States.”
“Cheerful.”
“Statistically accurate.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Los Angeles was ranked sixth for traffic accidents last year, out of every major city in this country.”
My eyes narrow. “Are you trying to bore me to death so I’ll go inside?”
“Depends. Is it working?”
“Don’t make me hurt you.”
“That would be counterproductive, considering you’re paying me to protect you,” he deadpans.
I roll my eyes, straighten my spine, and stride toward the side door, trying not to trip over my low-heeled boots or tug on the hem of my dress or fidget with the cloth-wrapped buttons of the thin white blazer Harper picked out for me last night. Examining my reflection in the mirror, she assured me this outfit is subtly sexy without trying too hard. I nodded and thanked her and bit back the snappy retort on the tip of my tongue.
We both know the truth — no savvy outfit choice will make an iota of difference. Wearing a pretty power-blazer doesn’t equate holding emotional sway over someone. Not even if that someone is you.
My pulse roars between my ears as I enter the hangar, Masters following close on my heels. It’s a massive space — at least 10,000 square feet. The soaring ceilings remind me of a circus tent, crisscrossed by wires, lighting equipment, bird’s eye cameras, and narrow black walkways where tech crew scramble around like acrobats during active filming. Today, the catwalks are abandoned, as is the remainder of the set. I walk by the space where we filmed the airport terminal scenes, hurry past the plane cabin where we shot the in-flight crash sequence, then wander around the shallow pool where Grayson and I spent two days treading water as a mid-sized jetliner smoked and shook and sank into the waves behind us at the prop-master’s command.
It’s unsettling to be back here — like returning to high school after you’ve graduated, seeing the halls empty, the teachers aged. It all looks somehow smaller, less intimidating than it was two months ago when I first walked through these doors.
Yet, the space isn’t different; it’s me, that’s changed.
Still, I can’t help the tiny embers of excitement that flare to life as I make my way across the warehouse. It’s the first emotion besides terror or guilt or regret I’ve felt in so long, I almost don’t recognize it at first. But the closer I creep to the massive green screens across the lot where a small group of people are clustered, the more undeniable the sensation becomes.
My breath catches in my throat as my eyes scan the crowd. Searching. Seeking.
A blond Viking with eyes like the sky.
A messy-haired heartbreaker with forests for irises.
I don’t see either of them as my gaze sweeps the dozen or so people gathered, setting up cameras and arranging a small-scale set for the photoshoot. My eyes flicker over Trey’s familiar form, his blocky black glasses and smooth caramel skin recognizable even from a distance. They flit over Annabelle, her buxom build and popped hip unmistakable as she listens intently to the man gesticulating wildly — a slim, middle-aged figure with wire-rimmed glasses and an intensity that makes his production assistants lean in, rapt and ready for any instructions he might give.
Sloan Stanhope.
Three-time Academy Award winner. Yoga lover. Master cleanser. Legendary director.
As I approach, he turns and spots me.
“Kat! You’re here!” He claps his hands together in a gesture of excitement that neither of his dour-faced PAs imitate. His hands land on my shoulders and his eyes grow concerned behind his lenses as he takes me in. “You’re pale. And much too thin. Are you feeling all right?”
