The Swan and The Sergeant (Heroes Ever After Book 4)

by Alana Albertson

  We made our grand entrance. Before Dancing Under the Stars was on television, competitions had been low-key events, relegated to the ballrooms of hotels. These days, when one of the dancers on the show competed, a red carpet was rolled out, and TMZ cameras were in our faces.

  We all smiled for the cameras, gave a few autographs to our fans, and headed into the ballroom. After waltzing through the luxurious lounge, we walked over to the cramped vendor room. We made our way through the maze of stage jewelry, ballroom shoe peddlers, photographers, and costume designers.

  Jenny headed over to the registration table and checked us in. Even though people were paying the organizers to come to see the competitors dance, all competitors still had to buy tickets to the event.

  The Latin music playing in the ballroom overtook me, and I swayed to the beats of cha-cha. I scanned the ballroom for familiar faces and breathed a sigh of relief after reassuring myself that Bret wasn’t lurking around. The last thing I needed was to be distracted by him tonight.

  The thought of him made me impossibly hot. Had he felt what I had when we had danced? Dima was technically perfect, but with Bret, it was different. My body reacted to his touch, my soul to his.

  What was he doing on the show anyway? How on earth did Benny convince him to be on the show?

  Ay, I couldn’t think about him. Not tonight.

  Jenny returned from the desk and handed us our tickets. “Go schmooze, Sel. I’ll get set up for you in the dressing room. See you in fifteen.” She hugged me and then rushed off to set up my costumes and makeup.

  Dima and I did our rounds and kissed up to the judges in the house. Dima flirted with Karen, as her son, Jared, chatted up Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s partner, Ricardo, only had eyes for Mikey, his young boyfriend.

  His arm was wound tightly around his wife. Vika’s platinum hair was slicked into a sparkly bun, gold earrings framing her face and violet eyes glinting. She looked like an angel. Dima had introduced her to Benny at a competition in Moldova. Benny had certainly given her the life, plucking her from her small village in the Ukraine, training her to be his protégée, forcing his son to be her partner, casting her on the show.

  Vika walked toward me and leaned in for a cheek kiss. “Selenichka, you look beautiful to me. Good luck to you tonight.”

  “Cbacibo, Vika. I love your dress. Good luck to you.” Endless seasons on a show together could turn anyone into close friends. This cast of characters was my family. I had no life outside of these people. This world.

  “Ahh, Selena. You look stunning, lassie. Let me have a gander.” Benny moved toward me.

  I steadied my nerves. I was unfortunately used to being leered at by old men. “Thanks, Benny. You must be thrilled to see Vika and Jared compete tonight.”

  “Yes, luv, it’s great to see them give it a fair go.” He wet his lips and whispered in my ear, “But we both know they’re a no-hoper against you and Dim’er. Sorry about earlier with Bret. I wanted to give him the best chance and knew you would try to knock back if I told you ahead of time.”

  I smiled, glad for his vote of confidence. “It’s fine. I was just shocked. I’m glad he’s going to be on the show. How did you convince him to be on it?”

  Benny’s face dropped. “Well, it’s tragic, really. His friend was killed in Iraq. He is trying to raise money for his family.”

  Oh my god! My heart ached. How awful. And what a saint Bret was. I was truly a moron for ever leaving him.

  Nicole and her husband, Eric, walked over to the group.

  Nicole kissed Benny. “Hi, Daddy. Hi, Selena. Are you excited about tonight?” Nicole cradled their infant daughter.

  I was in awe of Eric and Nicole, one of the only couples in the ballroom world who were truly in love, on and off the floor. “Hi, Nikki. I’m thrilled. Thanks for helping me with my cha-cha choreography.”

  “No worries.” Nicole placed baby Rebecca in Eric’s arms.

  A pang clutched my belly. Would I ever have a family of my own?

  I took out my phone and looked at the time. “I have to run and get ready.”

  “Me, too.” Vika gave Benny a kiss on the cheek, and he patted her bottom.

  Nicole took Vika’s bag from her father and smiled at him. “Let’s go.”

  I would never understand how it didn’t bother Nicole that her stepmother was ten years younger than she was.

  Elizabeth joined us, and we walked down the hallway together. We posed for a few fan pictures for the younger dancers. Visions of my twelve-year-old self squealing after receiving a kiss on the cheek from champion twenty-two-year-old Dima flooded my head.

  “Selena, about time.” Jenny’s voice rang out as I walked through the door. That girl couldn’t whisper if her life depended on it.

  Jenny stood before a single-mirrored makeup table. She helped me get into my costume. After giving up on my stubborn dress straps, Jenny settled into gluing crystals above my eyebrow so quickly that it looked like someone had hit fast-forward on the scene in front of the mirror.

  Nicole led Vika over to a corner and unfastened her bun. Elizabeth’s sisters helped her get ready. At least ten other dancers were in various stages of undress. Another dancer bound her long black hair into a knotted ponytail on the top of her head, like an Arabian princess. One dancer rubbed baby oil on her body; another was being sewn into her costume.

  The door flew open, startling everyone. The rancid smell of yesterday’s Stroganoff wafted into the room.

  “Lovely, the Russian Mafia is here,” Jenny muttered. She threw a look of pity Vika’s way then buried her head in my bag, looking for God knows what. Nicole excused herself to go check on her baby.

  Vika’s grandmother Irina and her six-person entourage took over the dressing room. Irina and two pre-pubescent Ukrainian dancers started spreading Vika’s costumes in the cramped right corner of the room. Vika stripped down to nothing but her dance heels.

  “Vika, sidyat!” Irina grabbed a still-naked Vika by her hair and shoved her into a chair to finish her makeup as her ladies-in-waiting fussed with her nails and jewelry.

  Vika had married Benny to get a green card. Dima had also married his first partner for a green card, and he’d tried for years to get his cousin over here legally. In the end, he’d set her up with Benny.

  Benny adored her, but I doubted that Vika truly loved him in any way other than a father figure.

  Vika’s family bullied her into competing, teaching long hours at their studio, showcases, and keeping up appearances. Dima used to drill into my brain that this lifestyle was a privilege, and Americans like me didn’t know how to sacrifice. But then, he got famous. To Vika, happiness was a blend of success and wealth. She had told me as much.

  But Vika’s eyes told another story.

  So did mine.

  Jenny glued on my mink fur eyelashes with rhinestones on the tips and rubbed on a final coat of Pro-Tan and Sun Shimmer to make my skin gleam. Then she started on my makeup: eyes brushed with rainbow-iridescent shades of a peacock, cheeks stained blood-red, and lips painted the color of cotton candy.

  Yakking with the judges had cost me precious preening time. I shoved my hair into a sequined headband. Through the mirror, I stole a glance at Vika in her smoking-hot gown. It was completely nude underneath, with a sheer slip and hand-sewn rhinestones that adorned her body, with pink Swarovski crystals covering her ta-tas and, as Benny would say, her “Map of Tasmania.” From a distance, she would appear to be dancing naked.

  “Okay, Selena. You look beautiful as usual.” Jenny gave me a hug. “You’re going to do great.”

  “Thanks, Jen.”

  “Will the couples in Heat One of the Closed Professional United States Latin Championship please make their way to the on-deck area?” a voice with a British accent beckoned over the intercom.

  I fluffed out my extensions and ran out into the hallway.

  “Selena!” Dima yelled from inside the ballroom.

  I raced into the ballroom and st
ood by his side. He kissed me on the forehead. I took a second to straighten the number on his back. Facing the audience, my gaze swept the room randomly—until it zeroed in on Bret, standing by the bar with a beer in his hand.

  Holy shit.

  He wore a sleek black suit and a conservative blue tie that matched his eye color, which I had adored years ago. Looking like a shiny boot in the sea of rhinestone dresses and flashy suits surrounding him, he didn’t seem to care how out of place he was in my world of glitter and glam, a world that used to be part of his daily life.

  He stared off somewhere to the left, and my eyes blurred on him. Why was he suddenly everywhere? And why was I always the last to know?

  Many years ago, Bret and I won this competition together, our first big win. So far, no other night had been able to rival the elation I’d experienced on that one. The more time passed, the more I reminisced about the happiest night of my life. I had achieved my goal with the boy I loved, and we had a bright future planned together. More importantly, I’d felt safe and secure, a feeling I’d been grasping to get back ever since.

  A sharp tug at my hand and an even sharper glare from Dima brought me back to the present. Dima was my partner now, my life, even if we weren’t romantically involved. I needed to push Bret out of my mind so I could win. After all, I had sacrificed my soul and happiness to become a champion.

  I took one last look Bret’s way, hoping maybe he had vanished. But our eyes met. Bret winked at me.

  I blew a kiss back. I was in costume—I could excuse my flirtation as part of the show.

  I had to dance my heart out tonight to show Bret how far I’d come as a dancer. Maybe then he’d realize I made the right decision, many years ago, to leave him and my heart behind.

  Maybe I’d be able to convince myself too.

  Bret

  So far, the competition hadn’t been as painful as I had thought it would be. The producers filmed a segment with me talking about being at my first competition in over ten years. It was better than dodging land mines in the desert, that was for sure.

  I clutched my beer bottle and headed into the ballroom for the final round. The bright lights reflected off the rhinestones, blinding me. After regaining sight—my eyes fell on Selena in the on-deck area.

  Dima came from behind her and took her hand. The eleven judges strutted around the floor in formation like Marines in boot camp. The female judges displayed no emotion, probably from all that Botox they were always shooting their faces with. The sweat-filled room reeked of fake tanning spray and ripe feet.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said. “We are now going to proceed with the final round of the Closed Professional International Latin Championship. The judges have recalled the following six couples to the final round. From California, Couple 187—Dmitri Volkov and Selena Martinez.”

  The crowd erupted in applause. Dima led her to the floor, and Selena’s eyes scanned the audience, landing right on me. It was like she could feel my intense stare always falling back on her.

  She was definitely flirting with me—how could I resist the most beautiful woman in the world?

  She wore a yellow-fringed dress that was open on the side, revealing her perfectly toned body—a far cry from the conservative black dresses she used to compete in when we were teens. She had always been so self-conscious about her body back then, though I had always thought she was perfect.

  I sat at a round table and surveyed the crowd. Never had I thought I’d be back at a dancing competition, sitting amongst the spectators, pretending that I hadn’t once been part of the show. How could I never have realized how gaudy this whole scene was? Both female and male dancers committed immigration fraud and married people they didn’t love just to stay in America. Older women paid tens of thousands of dollars for costumes and lessons to compete with younger professional male dancers, who doubled as gigolos. To think of how much good that money could do for injured Marines and their struggling families… The whole dance world made me sick.

  This time it would be different. Instead of heartache and broken toes, I planned to leave the season with enough money to change the life of my friend’s family.

  After another swig of my beer, I relaxed in my seat. It was showtime.

  Time to watch Selena dance for me.

  “From California, Couple 201—Jared Brooks and Viktoria Volkova Brooks.”

  I choked on my beer. Benny and Karen’s son was Benny’s latest wife’s partner? Vika was Jared’s stepmom, for God’s sake. It was worse than any daytime soap opera my mother had forced me to watch. These types of incestuous couplings were one of the many reasons I had left this world without looking back many years ago. Not even my love of Selena had made me want to stay.

  But here I was, back again.

  “From New York, Couple 216—Ricardo Mancini and Elizabeth Young,” the announcer said, and then called three more couples to the floor.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s put those hands together for our Closed Professional International Latin Championship Finalists. Congratulations, competitors. And places for your first dance. The Cha-Cha-Cha. Music, please.”

  The beat of a cha-cha song filled the room, and Selena brightened. She swirled her hips, flashing her thighs. Dima’s jaw went firm; his back straightened like a pole. He gave her a fierce, animalistic look, grabbed her hand, and glided into their routine.

  Selena started with a simple cha-cha lock, into fan, as she flirted with the audience. She embraced Dima and draped her arms around his neck, then ran her hands slowly up and down his chest as she did lightning-fast swivels. Dima threw her down into a deep split while caressing her legs.

  I had been away from ballroom for so many years, but I could still appreciate how sharp and connected Dima and Selena were. Every inch of their bodies, every step of their feet, every flick of their toes, and every arm movement were perfectly in sync.

  Dima pushed Selena into another deep split and then lifted her up to his lips. My own breathing got shallow, quick. She was so alive, on fire, in her element. Maybe she had been right many years ago, choosing dancing over me. Watching her out there, seducing the judges, dancing as if on air—it was clear she belonged on the dance floor.

  I was glad I left the lights behind. Joining the Marines was the best choice I had ever made. I didn’t want this life, the lifestyle of the famous.

  And she’d made it clear she didn’t want mine.

  I studied Selena’s face, looking for where the performance stopped, and the real feelings for Dima began. When the song was over, she pushed Dima’s face away. But maybe that was just part of the choreography.

  I clenched my fist—why did I even care whether Selena and Dima were in a relationship or if their affection was just an act for the cameras?

  Seeing Selena compete took my thoughts back to my childhood. My parents were ballroom champions, and I had grown up on the competition circuit. They had forced me to dance, and I had never really enjoyed it. As a kid, it was exciting, traveling around the world like vagabonds. But deep down, I’d always wanted something stable. The kind of life I had imagined the other kids had. Boring, predictable. Normal. Play little league, join Boy Scouts, try out for the football team.

  When the kids at school discovered that, instead of spending my free time playing video games and throwing eggs at houses, I was dancing, that was when I’d learned what it was to be a target.

  Fag. Sissy. Girl. The taunts had never let up. But I’d been willing to endure the teasing.

  For Selena.

  After she left me, I’d turned all my focus to the Corps. I became a different man. And that man had vowed never to step on the dance floor again.

  On the other hand, that man now had a plan. One season of this show and I’d get the money I needed to fulfill a promise to my best friend—a man who saved my life. It seemed like a small sacrifice.

  “The Cha-Cha-Cha. Thank you, competitors.”

  Dima presented Selena to the aud
ience and judges. The crowd exploded.

  “Who’s your favorite couple out there, ladies and gentlemen?”

  “Couple 187!” someone yelled.

  I couldn’t resist. I whistled. “Selena!”

  “And places for your next dance. Ladies and gentlemen, samba, please.”

  It had only begun, but Selena was on fire.

  ***

  AN HOUR LATER, all the competitors were lined up in the on-deck area. They’d run through the samba, rumba, paso doble, and jive.

  “And the results of the Closed Professional International Latin Dancesport Championship are as follows: Ladies and gentlemen, our runners-up. Placing second in cha-cha, third in samba, second in rumba, second in paso doble, and second in jive—from California, couple 201, Jared Brooks and Viktoria Volkova Brooks.”

  Jared kissed his stepmother on the cheek, and she giggled. Thank god when my own father had remarried, his new wife wasn’t as young and sexy as Vika.

  “And ladies and gentlemen, placing first in all dances, your Closed Professional United States International Latin Champions—from California, couple 187, Dmitri Volkov and Selena Martinez.”

  Selena jumped up and down and kissed Dima on the lips.

  An ache twisted in my stomach.

  And it wasn’t just jealousy. Dima had been our coach when we were kids. He was ten years older than us, which didn’t seem like a big deal now that we were in our late twenties but had been a big deal when we were in our tweens. I idolized that motherfucker.

  Then he stole my girl.

  Spinning four times, they bowed and thanked the crowd. Selena took her place for the event photo. The competition organizer handed her a dozen red roses and their check for the prize.

  The night winded down quickly as the spectators milled around the ballroom, saying their goodbyes. The judges vacated their posts. Reporters wandered the room, searching for any available dancers.

  I made my way over to the floor.

  Wrapping herself in a robe, Selena withdrew from the crowd, Benny following her.