The Swan and The Sergeant

by Albertson, Alana

  Ray rolled his eyes. “Well, you never know. Maybe she’s changed.” Ray broke out a bag of Skittles. “I’ll go with you. Can you request Beyoncé as my partner?”

  I laughed. “Not sure if Jay-Z would like that. Or your wife.” Ray had one of the good ones. His wife was any Marine’s dream. Beautiful and faithful, Nia raised their four children while Ray was away. She was the head of the Key Wives’ Club, and still had time to send Ray the best care packages, hence his endless supply of Slim Jims.

  After Selena, I vowed never to get close to anyone again, at least not until I left the Corps. I needed to focus on guiding my men—not get distracted wondering if another man was keeping my girl’s bed warm while I fought a war thousands of miles away.

  Ray stood up. “Nia’d be cool with it. She loves the show, man. Do it.”

  I didn’t answer. I stuffed the article back into the pocket containing my “If I should die” letter.

  The roar of more rounds boomed through the sky. Sweat soaked my cammies, weighing them against my chest. I couldn’t see anything, but the rumbling of the helicopters overhead told me this was no training exercise.

  I didn’t say a word, but I knew what was about to go down. A fire built in my chest and adrenaline took over. Moments like this made all the sacrifices of war worth it—knowing my life meant something, and that I was responsible for not only protecting my men but also ensuring the safety of Americans back home. I tossed the rest of the food into my pack and gathered my weapons.

  We leaped to our feet. We raced into the tent as if hounds were on our heels.

  I screamed at my men. “Grab your weapons and take cover!”

  Selena

  Six months later

  Squinting at the bright lights, I slipped on my sunglasses even though I was still inside the airport terminal. Sunlight wasn’t blinding me—it was the flashes from those horrible cameras.

  “Back in one minute,” my partner Dima said curtly and nodded to a nearby kiosk overflowing with souvenirs—leaving me at the mercy of the photographers.

  A man thrust his microphone in my face. “Selena, are you coming back to Dancing Under the Stars next season?”

  My seven-year contract didn’t give me much choice. “If they want me back, I’ll be there.” That was all I could say. I was under strict orders not to reveal any details of the new season.

  A female reporter dressed in a fitted suit pushed her way to the front of the mob. “Selena, is there any truth to the rumor that Dima had an affair with Poppy Mabel?”

  I glared at Dima, who was surrounded by sunhats and adoring fans. His personal life off the dance floor was none of my business, but I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t the victim the tabloids painted me to be. “No. But if the rumors were true, there would be no scandal. Both Dima and Poppy are single.” My eyes flicked to Dima. He took a break from posing for pictures with his fans and surged through the media swarm to pull me to his side.

  “Poppy and me are the friends,” he said. “The only woman in my life that I’m committed with is Selena.” His accent always worsened when the media pressured him.

  I narrowed my eyes at him, but he probably couldn’t see them through my sunglasses. I’d seen the photos of Dima and Poppy frolicking at a pool in Vegas on the cover of a few magazines as we’d passed a newsstand at the entrance to the airport. It didn’t bother me who he dated—as long as it didn’t overshadow our purely professional partnership.

  A young girl ran up to us, waving a promotional photo. “Selima! I just love you guys. I’m a competitive dancer, also. You’re so amazing together! I hope you work things out and get married. The ballroom dream.”

  Selima—the tabloids’ combined nickname for us—made me wince. Our identities were bound together even though we hadn’t been romantically involved in years.

  I took the photo. “All that matters is the dancing, dear. What’s your name?”

  “Amy.”

  I signed the photo. “Keep practicing those rumba walks, Amy. I hope to see you compete someday.”

  The girl squealed. “I just know you’re going to win Blackpool this year. I’ll be there!” Dima also signed her photo and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  We signed a few autographs, posed for more pictures, and answered questions for our fans.

  After the crowd thinned out, we made our way to baggage claim.

  “Welcome to San Diego, America’s finest city,” said a man holding a big sign bearing our names. Like we needed any more attention. He led us to a waiting limousine and lifted our bags into the trunk.

  When I’d first met Dima, he would never let another man carry his luggage. Now he barely lifted a finger to do anything.

  I took a deep breath as the limo swiftly moved away from the airport. We were there to defend our United States Professional Latin-American Title, and we’d also be followed by cameramen as they collected filler images for the new season of the show. If it were up to Dima, we would quit competing and capitalize on our celebrity status. But I wasn’t about to let a television show get in the way of achieving my lifetime dream.

  Not when I had given up everything for it.

  Dima checked his phone, ignoring me now that the cameras were gone. Like always. Years ago, I’d idolized him. I was the young amateur, and he’d been the sexy dance god. Dima was a ballroom legend. He’d finaled at Blackpool with his former partner, Carrie. Twice. I never believed I’d be lucky enough to dance with him, especially since I had been such an awkward teen.

  Until he transformed me.

  Dima was also gorgeous—tall, black wavy hair, vibrant brown eyes. His deep Ukrainian accent used to drive me wild, the way his beautiful lips would say the word pleasure—ple-e-shore. But these days, all I saw was a Hollywood player with a freshly waxed chest.

  Grateful to take a break from the dreary Los Angeles smog, I became mesmerized by the clear ocean. The aqua waves rippled in the distance as surfers dotted the coastline. I had never surfed. Dima forbade it. Why would I be so stupid to risk breaking my ankle to ride a break?

  At least I could inhale the clean air.

  “Selenichka, listen.” Dima broke into my reverie to read out loud from his phone.

  “‘Dancing Under the Stars gains a new mystery dancer?’” Dima cocked his eyebrow at me, then focused back on his phone and read. “‘Who’s the newest male professional dancer to lace up his dancing shoes? Rumors have the cast in a frenzy wondering who will be the new dancer. Though normally the new professionals come from the troupe of backup dancers, the newest member of the cast has been recruited from a different field.’”

  I rolled my eyes. “And?”

  “And? Who it is?” Dima raised his phone. “No one has told to me nothing. No one on circuit has mentioned that they were asked to be on show.”

  I sighed. Today was not the day for speculating on rumors. We had too much to concentrate on to get worked up about who the new professional on the show might be.

  “What do I think? I think it’s probably someone we all know, maybe from another country. Or from the UK version? And gossip columnists also have nothing better to do than make stuff up. If you’re so worried, ask Benny.”

  “You’re right. I’ll ask to him.” He frantically texted a message.

  The limo rolled onto Harbor Drive. Cherry blossoms scented the air. As we approached the Coronado Bridge, a humongous Navy carrier slid underneath.

  My breath hitched.

  Was Bret on that ship?

  I shook my head. It didn’t matter. We hadn’t spoken in years and likely would never speak again.

  The limo pulled in front of the Sheraton San Diego. The bellman strode over to assist the driver with our luggage. I didn’t have time to wait for Dima to check us in. “I have to hurry to the spa, and then Benny asked me to run through some quick choreography for the show. I’ll text you later.” I kissed him on the cheek, grabbed my shoe bag, jumped out of the car, and rushed to the hotel spa.

 
; But I wanted to turn and chase after the limo and hitch a ride to the beach. No more fresh air and cherry blossoms for me. From this moment until the competition, it would be all business. Competition eve was always a headache, with all the tanning, makeup, hair, fasting.

  The calming scent of lavender filled the reception area. I closed my eyes and smiled. Hotel spas were my standard primp spots for competitions. The staffs were thorough and professional. Even better, they were nice. I could stand a good dose of nice before I walked into that den of dancing wolves. A competition dance floor was no place for the weak or the unprepared.

  “Selena Martinez, here for my ten-fifteen appointment.”

  “Oh yes, Miss Martinez. We’re so thrilled to have you.” The receptionist consulted her computer screen. “You’re scheduled for a facial, a Brazilian bikini wax, a brow wax, a Mandarin Orange Body Polish followed by a custom sparkle spray tan, and then you’ll receive a mani and pedi while Alberto touches up your roots and tightens your hair extensions.” She abandoned the screen and leaned forward, her eyes wide. “You know, Miss Martinez, I just love Dancing Under the Stars—really, it’s my favorite show. You ballroom dancers must lead such glamorous lives.”

  I pressed my lips into a forced smile. “Yes. We’re so blessed. And please, call me Selena.”

  I sat on the sofa and thought about my “glamorous” life. I lived in the gym and the studio, sometimes dancing up to eight hours a day. Every weekend was spent in a hotel in some random state, competing. My diet consisted of egg whites, vegetables, soup, and salad. I couldn’t even eat fruit—too much sugar. And I hadn’t had a weekend off in two years.

  The paparazzi stalked me. No man had the guts to ask me out, knowing that his picture would be a TMZ headline if we were ever caught together. I couldn’t even take my trash cans out of my house in my sweats for fear that I’d get photographed. I hated all the nonsense I had to endure to dance.

  What if I’d chosen a different path all those years ago?

  It didn’t matter.

  I’d probably never get married and have a family.

  But enough of the self-pity. I did love my life. How blessed was I? The older generation of ballroom dancers had spent every penny they earned on competing. The show allowed me to pursue my dream of winning Blackpool while not having to worry about money.

  For years, I had struggled. My mother had worked three jobs and cleaned dance studios at night in exchange for my lessons. I was finally in a position to support my family. My first big splurge had been buying my mom a condo and starting a college fund for my younger sister.

  Now I could make twenty thousand dollars just for appearing at a party. Dima and I had even started our own charity, bringing ballroom classes to inner-city kids. I was so appreciative of the opportunities the show had given me. How lucky was I to make a living out of my true passion? I lived to dance. I chastised myself for even feeling ungrateful for a second when so many people struggled.

  But deep in my heart, I knew what I’d given up to have this life could never be replaced.

  I had only opened a magazine to the first page when the receptionist called over to me. “Selena, Larissa is ready for you.”

  I sucked in a deep breath before standing. Let the games begin.

  In the backroom, I stripped off my peach-colored terry sweatsuit, put on a smock, and lay on the paper-covered table.

  Larissa entered the room and gave me a smile. “I just got tickets to the competition tomorrow. I can’t wait to see you win.”

  “Thank you for supporting us.”

  She painted the hot wax onto my skin. “Are you thinking of retiring? I read in Star Magazine that you want to start a family.”

  Larissa ripped the hair from above my eye, but the face I made had nothing to do with the pain. Star, of course.

  “I hope to someday.” I yearned to take a break and start a family. I was confident that I’d be able to balance my career and children, but I hadn’t been on a date in years. People outside of the industry didn’t realize that no one could ever have a healthy relationship in the ballroom world.

  Dancers had three options for dating: they could date their partner and combine their floor and relationship problems, like what had happened with Dima and me; they could date a dancer who was not their partner, and the worse dancer of the two would be jealous of the other’s success; or they could date a non-dancer, who usually had a hard time understanding the partner relationship and the travel demands.

  How would I explain to a prospective boyfriend that I spend ten weeks twice a year training celebrities? In the show’s off-season, I spend every weekend in a hotel in different states or countries with Dima at some random competition. Add in my celebrity status, with cameras following me everywhere, and it was too much drama for most men to handle.

  So, basically, it was hopeless.

  A lump gathered in my throat. No nerves.

  Larissa paused, a new glob of pink wax on the stick in her hand. “Well, you guys just look so good together. Watching you two dance is amazing. It’s too bad about all the rumors going around. It can’t be easy on a couple…right?”

  Maybe that was why I couldn’t get a date. Everyone still thought I was involved with Dima. “We aren’t a couple. We just dance together.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Larissa cleaned up my other eyebrow. “Okay, honey, time for your bikini.”

  I spread my legs.

  * * *

  THREE HOURS LATER, primed and plucked, I looked at my blotchy face in the mirror and debated putting on my makeup before leaving. Forget it—it would just sweat off in rehearsal. Though my natural hair color was a beautiful espresso brown, it currently was bleached blonde, which shined great onstage under the bright lights but in plain sunlight resembled straw. Dima forced me to dye it because he thought it would make a better contrast to his own dark hair.

  I had no ability to express myself—I was a product.

  I pulled my long brittle locks back into a tight ponytail, grabbed my oversized purse filled with my dance shoes, and exited the spa. Putting my sunglasses on, I headed over to the small ballroom to meet one of the producers.

  “Selena Maria Martinez.”

  The deep voice stopped me from taking another step. There was only one person who would use my middle name.

  But it couldn’t be him.

  Maybe I had fantasized so many times that he’d found me that I was now imagining his voice. Yup, that was it. I was totally losing it.

  There was no way Bret Lord could be inches away from me.

  Unless . . .

  I slowly turned.

  Oh my God!

  Bret Lord stood in front of me.

  He wore khaki pants and a white polo shirt that hugged his ripped chest. A few hairs peeked out of the neckline, teasing me. Surrounded by groomed dancers and Hollywood pretty boys, I hadn’t seen a real man’s chest in years.

  For the past ten years, I’d dreamt of him but never could see his face.

  My mind raced.

  “Bret! What are you doing here?” I thought for a second that he was going to hug me, but he just crossed his arms, holding a shoebox, which seemed odd.

  I was grateful that the sunglasses hid the guilt behind my eyes.

  Ten years ago, he had been given orders to some base in North Carolina. I’d sent him a final letter during boot camp, ending our engagement.

  Such a coward, I hadn’t even shown up at his graduation to tell him in person. I couldn’t bear to face him because I had already made my painful decision, and there was no way I could ever reverse it.

  I’d never heard from him again. He’d vanished from my life. Not even a Facebook or Instagram account I could stalk. All I could do was occasionally scour the Internet, looking for the names of casualties in the military. I’d breathe easier after not seeing his name. For a while, at least.

  He opened his mouth to reply, but I blurted out, “Are you still in the Marines?”

  Bret�
�s blue eyes blinked hard. “Yes. I won’t retire for ten more years.”

  “I can’t believe it’s really you.”

  Finally, Bret stepped forward, one arm extended as if showing some affection was an obligation. I returned the gesture. The shoebox that Bret clutched forced space between us, like an invisible line. My cheeks stretched into a thin smile, one meant to lessen some of the pressure around us.

  He released me, and I pushed up my sunglasses on my head so I could study him. Was this gorgeous man really the same scrawny teenage boy to whom I’d lost my virginity? His hair was cut short, his skin a deep brown that no tanning bed could achieve. The bottom of a U.S.M.C. tattoo was visible from his sleeve. Though Bret kept his distance, his minty scent filled the air. His lips curved into that lazy grin of his.

  He was sexier than any movie star I had met over the years. The thought of being with a real man, muscles sculpted from carrying weapons, not practicing Pilates, made me quiver.

  I glanced down at his left hand. No ring. The breath I’d been holding escaped.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you, blondie. You look great, Sel.”

  I shuddered. I was in my sweats without so much as a tinted moisturizer or lip gloss, and he thought I looked great? If Dima saw me now, he would scold me about my appearance.

  I glanced down for a moment before meeting his gaze with renewed confidence. “Nationals are here tomorrow. Are you sticking around?”

  “Wasn’t planning on it.” He gave a half-smile. “You’ve been to one competition; you’ve been to them all.”

  I nodded. That was expected. But I hoped he would agree to hang out with me, even for a little bit. Though I knew that he had no reason to. He hated me. And with good reason.

  I cleared my throat. “Maybe we can grab a drink tonight? To catch up.”

  Bret took out his phone, his thumbs moving across the virtual keyboard. “I’d love to Sel, but I have plans.”