The Swan and The Sergeant

by Albertson, Alana

  My voice increased a notch as I tried to hide my anger. “It’s hardly pointless. We do good stuff, too. Charity work, fundraisers, that sort of thing. Dima and I even started this program where we teach underprivileged kids how to dance. It’s awesome. I’ve met with sick children and wounded warriors. It’s not all tanning salons and talk shows.”

  Bret laughed. “The whole thing is ridiculous. ‘Stars.’ How is starring in your own sex tape ‘star’ material? Or popping out a hundred kids? My buddy died defending the freedom of these buffoons so they could make assholes out of themselves on camera. These reality stars are pathetic. I’d rather live my life than watch people live theirs.”

  This show, my life, was clearly nothing more than a joke to Bret. “We’ve also trained Olympic athletes and Grammy winners. And I’m a reality star—so are you saying I’m pathetic?” My body heated up. “You trash the show but want to use it for money. Where’s your integrity?”

  “All the money I make will go back to helping my buddy’s family. So, yeah, I know I’m doing the right thing. What do you spend your money on? How much is that obnoxious ring on your finger?”

  I stared at my 3.7-carat pink diamond ring that Dima had given me when we got engaged six years ago. I now wore it on my right hand instead of my left. But then again, Ukrainians wore their engagement rings on their right hands. Ugh, I was sure Bret thought Dima and I were together.

  “Dima got it free from a jeweler who wanted his rings seen on the red carpet. It’s not an engagement ring. I mean, it was, but we aren’t engaged. We aren’t even dating right now. It’s just a gift.” When the words left my mouth, I realized that Bret must think I was awful. I took a nervous sip from my water bottle.

  Bret scowled at me. “Whatever you say, Selena. Dima makes hundreds of thousands of dollars a year, and he can’t even buy you a ring himself? Hell, I was making five hundred a week at Best Buy and saved up for months to buy you a ring. Not that you appreciated it. The fact that his ring doesn’t even mean anything to you makes it worse.”

  My cheeks warmed. “I didn’t say it didn’t mean anything to me.”

  “What’s the point of a huge diamond ring if you have no intention of ever getting married? Oh, I forgot—you don’t want that simple, I think you once said boring, life. But it’s cool. I’m sure we’d be divorced by now.”

  My throat burned. “It wasn’t easy for me, either. I loved you, but I was only eighteen, Bret. It was heartbreaking.” I blinked back tears, remembering what I’d given up. I considered coming clean and revealing the real reason I had ended it with Bret but didn’t have the courage. “I wasn’t about to give up my dreams and become a teenage housewife. And I needed to keep dancing to support my family. What would I do on some base in the middle of nowhere while you were fighting wars nine months out of the year? It would’ve never worked. We were too young. If you wanted to settle down so badly, why aren’t you married?”

  He looked away from me. “I never met the right woman.”

  Ouch.

  “It’s fine. I don’t want to get married. Not until I get out of the Corps. I’ve seen so many divorces, and many of my buddies’ wives cheat on them while they’re deployed. Then again, many of my men cheat, too. Broken families. Kids never see their dads. Plus, even if I found a great woman, what if I died over there like Pierce did? I’d leave a young widow and my kids without a father.”

  After all these years, I had hoped Bret had found the family life he’d always craved that I couldn’t give him. At least that’s what I told myself. To hear that Bret was still alone and had given up hope made me sad.

  “You can’t live your life like that. What happened to your friend was awful, and I feel so sorry for his family. But that doesn’t mean the same fate would await you.”

  The truck accelerated, nothing drastic, but enough for my water to spill. Banjo jostled in the back.

  After a few songs in silence, Bret relaxed into his seat. “So, where do you live? Some gated Beverly Hills mansion? Are there going to be paparazzi waiting for us?”

  “Why? Hoping for the cover of People?”

  “No. I just don’t want the Marine Corps to charge me with adultery, with your deep commitment to Dima and all.”

  “I told you we aren’t together, Bret.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. Sharing a room, kiss on the floor, huge diamond ring.”

  Red brake lights blinded me, and I was too tired to focus on anything. “It’s not like that, and you know it. You know how ballroom partnerships are. A kiss on the floor means nothing, it’s just acting. We book a room together because it’s easier to keep all our costumes together. Most times, he ends up crashing at another one of the dancers’ rooms anyway. And I already explained to you about the ring.”

  “Well, don’t you have an excuse for everything.”

  Why was he such a jerk to me?

  “Anyway, soldier boy, no, there won’t be any paparazzi. It’s not like we go around ringing them up and saying, hey, come over, I’ll give you a good shot. Jesus, Bret, not everyone on the show is some shallow fame whore. Some of us actually do it because we want to dance.”

  “First off—Marines aren’t soldiers. Marines are Marines or warriors. Army has soldiers.”

  I laughed. Bret was so uptight. “Sorry, Marine.”

  I gave him the address, and Bret plugged it into his navigation system. My gaze zeroed in on his large hands, bulging veins, and confident hold on the steering wheel. A fleeting thought entered my sleepy mind, blowing past my consciousness and leaving a trail of even more questions, like what it might be like to feel those hands touching my bare skin.

  Warmth climbed up my neck, and I shook the thought away, scolding myself. As much as I was attracted to his fantastic body, masculine scent, and deep voice, I had to remind herself that Bret’s reappearance into my life would only be brief.

  Sure, I could have a fling with him, but I knew I would end up getting hurt when he left again.

  Besides, all he did was give me a hard time about my choices. He infuriated me. Drove me completely crazy.

  And if I allowed myself to get used to him being around, then I’d have to learn to live without him.

  Again.

  Bret

  I maneuvered my brand-new truck up the winding Hollywood Hills. Towering trees framed the street, and it was difficult to focus on the road. Being this close to Selena unnerved me. Despite the fact that she drove me absolutely crazy with her spoiled and selfish outlook on the world, she looked and smelled incredible. I tried to keep my mind on the road and not on thinking about kissing her neck, tasting her lips, and caressing her body.

  “It’s the next driveway. Just enter Code 0114 in the keypad.”

  I eyed Selena. January fourteenth was the anniversary of the day Selena and I won Nationals.

  Selena seemed to understand my questioning look. “Don’t get all weird on me. It was just the first major competition I—I mean we—ever won. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Sure, it doesn’t.”

  I turned into the driveway and pressed the numbers into the black alarm pad. A huge gate opened, and I drove to the front of Selena’s house. It was less extravagant than I had expected, just an old Spanish-style bungalow with talavera tiles framing the entrance, not some sprawling Hollywood mansion.

  Selena took the keys out of her purse and opened the door. “It’s super late, and I’m beat. Are you sure you don’t want to crash here tonight? We can leave as early as you want tomorrow morning.”

  I hoisted Banjo out of the backseat of the truck, attached his leash, and led him to a bush to pee. It was dark, so I couldn’t read Selena’s face. She had just invited me to spend the night. I wasn’t sure I could sleep in the same house as her. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

  Selena just laughed and turned on the lights. “Relax, Bret. It’s really not a big deal. You can use the guesthouse out back.”

  Guesthouse? I should’ve known that
there was more to her house. It sure made my tiny place off base look like a slum. She’d probably laugh if she saw my small apartment, which was about the size of her living room.

  In the main house, there were red tiles on the floor and dark wooden beams on the ceiling. Her yellow-painted walls had pictures of Dima and Selena everywhere: winning competitions, on the television show, on the red carpet. But I was taken aback when I noticed a framed picture of Selena and me winning Nationals. The same picture from the magazine cutout Benny had sent.

  “Why do you still have this picture up?”

  Selena smiled. “It was my first national win.”

  I remembered that night well. After we celebrated with Dima, who had coached us, I told Selena I loved her for the first time.

  Banjo jumped up on Selena’s brown leather sofa and curled into a ball.

  “Well, I’m tired too. So just show me the guesthouse, and I’ll get out of your hair. We have to leave at zero six hundred tomorrow morning.”

  Selena laughed. “I’ll assume you mean six a.m. But it’s okay, Bret. You can relax—we don’t have to be there until five in the evening.”

  “I don’t like to be late. Punctuality was never your strong suit if I remember correctly.”

  Selena walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “Do you want a beer? Dima mostly stocks Vodka, but he does have some Russian beer.”

  “So, Dima fills your fridge, too? What else do you do together? File taxes? You sound married.”

  “Stop, Bret. I have a place here, and he has one closer to the studio in Glendale. Sometimes he crashes here—in the guesthouse. How about that beer?”

  I would’ve loved a beer to relax and take the edge off the tension in the room. But I didn’t trust myself alone with Selena.

  Before I could decline, Selena popped off the cap of a bottle and handed it to me.

  Why was she being so nice to me? Probably because she broke my heart and felt guilty. If it were any other woman, I would be certain she was flirting.

  I studied the label, written in Russian letters. “Peba? What’s this crap?” I took a swig. It tasted like vinegar. “You don’t have a Corona? I guess Dima’s taste hasn’t changed.” But beer is beer. I took another sip and then sat on the sofa to pet Banjo.

  “Peva. Yeah. It’s not the best, but Dimka loves it.”

  Dimka? Hearing my old coach referred to like that was…well, creepy. Dima had been a twenty-two-year-old man when he’d started teaching us as kids. A ten-year age difference wasn’t a big deal now that Selena was a woman in her late twenties, but I couldn’t help but be disturbed by the way I thought Dima had groomed her to be his.

  Selena took her own bottle and settled in next to me.

  I inched my way over to the other end of the sofa and looked around the room. This place was incredible—must be worth at least a million dollars, probably more, hidden up in the hills. This could’ve been my home, my life, my sofa, my woman, but the fridge would be stocked with craft beers. At the time I gave up dancing, there was little hope for a career besides running a studio and spending all the revenue on competing. Now Selena and Dima were millionaires.

  I wasn’t jealous; I hated competing and truly loved being a Marine. But I never thought for a second that I would be struggling to make ends meet, with little hope of ever buying a house in San Diego or Marin.

  She took a long sip and then sighed. “Bret, I need to get this off my chest. So, I know it was ten years ago, but I just really want to say how sorry I am about what went down. It was the hardest decision—”

  Not doing this. “Selena, don’t. It’s fine. It was forever ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  She pursed her lips and looked at me. “Well, I do. There was so much going on and—”

  I didn’t want to hear her excuses for walking out on me. Plus, for all I knew, she was miked, and this pathetic apology would play out on television. “I said it’s cool. Just forget it.”

  She put her hand casually on my leg.

  Heat pooled to my body. I imagined her hand sliding up my thigh.

  Nope. She was so fucking hot. I was dying to fuck her, but I just couldn’t let myself go there.

  I moved her hand off and stood up.

  “Thanks for the beer, Sel. I really need to get some sleep.” I motioned to Banjo, and the dog jumped down.

  She bit her lip, a dejected look on her face. “Oh, sure. I’ll show you the casita.”

  “I’m just gonna grab my bag.” I opened the front door and went to my truck. I looked up to the dark blue, starry sky. I hadn’t signed up for this emotional drama. The producers were probably strumming up drama, and I wouldn’t allow it. There was no way I was going to play into some twisted love triangle. I didn’t believe for a second that Selena and Dima weren’t still hooking up.

  I wanted to jump into this truck and head back down to my place and rip up the dance contract. But I was a man of my word and wouldn’t go back on my promise to Pierce.

  I was now sure of one thing—being this close to Selena for the next fifteen weeks would require some serious self-control.

  Selena

  A loud rap at my bedroom door roused me from my dreams.

  “Sel, we need to get a move on. Are you awake?”

  Hearing Bret’s voice first thing in the morning was a welcome surprise. “Yeah, sorry. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll make coffee.”

  Ah. That was sweet. I rolled onto my back and closed my eyes. Last night, I’d dreamt about Bret. Over the years, he’d been the star of many of my dreams. But this dream was different. We were dancing together, after all these years. He lacked Dima’s speed and technical skill, but Bret’s dancing had something that Dima’s didn’t—emotion. Real emotion, not the fake, flashy, showy moves Dima and I were known for. Bret had always danced from his heart.

  Was that gone? Would he ever fall in love with dancing again? He swears he hated it, but I know he didn’t. He used to love it. When he was in love with me.

  I crawled out of bed and stepped onto the ice-cold marble tile. A quick shower, and we’d embark on the rest of today’s journey.

  * * *

  I emerged from my bedroom and poured myself a cup of coffee from a fresh pot that Bret had brewed. My nostrils tingled, and when I took a sip, the warm liquid soothed my throat.

  Once I could focus, my eyes fell on Bret, who sat on my sofa reading a book. Banjo lay by his feet. The sight of him, relaxed and comfortable in my house, threw me. Had I made a different choice, this could be the setting of my daily life. Bret making me coffee, reading before he headed to work. Maybe getting the kids ready for school. My gut clenched.

  “What are you reading?”

  Bret glanced up at me. “Oh, just some war book.” He closed the cover. “You ready? We really need to get going.”

  “Yeah. Let me finish my coffee, and we can bounce. Where are you staying up there?”

  “My dad bought a houseboat in Sausalito. He lives with his new wife up in Washington, so he said I can stay there while I train.”

  “How cool! I’ve always wanted to live on a houseboat. To have the ocean rock me to sleep. I used to babysit for a family who lived on one.”

  Bret stood up and took the keys out of his pocket. “It beats staying in a hotel. Hotels remind me of the barracks. Let’s get a move on.”

  I made my way to the sink to rinse my coffee cup. An engine hummed outside the window. That was weird—the gardeners weren’t supposed to come until Tuesday.

  I peeked out the kitchen window. A bright yellow taxi stood out front.

  The front door opened. “Selenichka!”

  Banjo barked and scampered out of the kitchen.

  I dropped my coffee mug. The ceramic shattered on the floor, and Bret and I stared at the little shards.

  Nothing had happened between Bret and me last night, but even so, I felt uncomfortable with Dima finding Bret here.

  Because
Dima was the reason I broke up with Bret.

  Dima walked into the kitchen. His mouth opened when he saw Bret crouched on the floor with me, gathering the pieces of the mug.

  “What’s going on here? I call and text to you all the night. Benny gave me name of hotel, and they said that you did not go to there.”

  Uh-oh. I had seen the texts, and I’d intended to text him back, but I just had been so exhausted.

  I could see Bret staring at the house key Dima was holding. Another item that made it look like Dima and I were still together. Who could blame Bret for thinking that?

  I grabbed the dustpan under the sink. “Dimka, I’m sorry. It was just so late—”

  Bret reached out his hand to Dima. “Hey, Dima. Sorry about that, it’s my fault. We were supposed to drive all night, but I was tired, so Selena said I could stay in the guesthouse. You guys danced great last night. Congrats.”

  I knew that Dima would never settle for a handshake. He probably still saw Bret as his little disciple. He embraced his old student. “Bret, great to see you, my friend! I thought you go to the war?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I swept up the ceramic shards. Dima stood with his shoulders relaxed and his feet wide apart. Did he feel a pang of jealousy knowing that Bret spent the night in my house? Even though Dima and I weren’t together, deep down, I always thought that Dima figured I would take him back at any time. But that wasn’t true, though I had figured that in some ways, Dima was my only option.

  Bret pulled back from the hug. “I did go to war. But I’m back now. Just doing a season to raise money for my friend’s family. He was killed in Iraq.”

  Dima seemed impressed by Bret’s selflessness. He sat at the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. “This friend of yours. How much money does his family need? I could give to you now. Selena and me, we would love to help.”

  There Dima went again—flaunting his money around. Maybe he thought he could buy Bret off, so he wouldn’t have to worry about me getting close to him.