BEAST: A Bad Boy Marine Romance
Page 1
BEAST
Alana Albertson
Contents
Copyright
Epigraph
BEAST
1. Grady
2. Isa
3. Grady
4. Isa
5. Grady
6. Isa
7. Grady
8. Isa
9. Grady
10. Isa
11. Grady
12. Isa
13. Grady
14. Isa
15. Grady
16. Isa
17. Grady
18. Isa
19. Grady
20. Isa
21. Grady
22. Grady
23. Isa
24. Isa
25. Grady
26. Isa
27. Grady
28. Grady
29. Isa
30. Grady
31. Grady
32. Isa
33. Grady
34. Bella
35. Grady
36. Grady
37. Bella
38. Grady
39. Grady
40. Isa
41. Grady
42. Isa
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Also by Alana Albertson
About the Author
Invincible
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Invincible
1. Patrick
2. Star
3. Patrick
4. Star
5. Patrick
6. Patrick
7. Star
8. Patrick
9. Star
10. Patrick
11. Patrick
12. Patrick
13. Patrick
14. Annie
15. Patrick
16. Patrick
17. Patrick
18. Annie
19. Patrick
20. Annie
21. Patrick
22. Patrick
23. Annie
24. Patrick
25. Annie
26. Patrick
27. Patrick
28. Patrick
29. Patrick
30. Annie
31. Patrick
32. Patrick
33. Annie
34. Patrick
35. Patrick
36. Patrick
37. Annie
38. Patrick
39. Patrick
40. Patrick
41. Annie
42. Patrick
Epilogue
Conceit
Copyright
Epigraph
SINopsis
Countdown
1. Mia
2. Grant
3. Mia
4. Mia
5. Mia
6. Mia
7. Ksenya
8. Ksenya
9. Grant
10. Ksenya
11. Grant
12. Ksenya
13. Grant
14. Ksenya
15. Ksenya
16. Grant
Chronic
Acknowledgments
BEAST
Copyright © 2016 by Alana Albertson.
Cover Designer: Regina Wamba of Mae I Design
Cover Model: Matt Zumwalt
ISBN-13: 978-1-941665-72-5
Copyright © 2016 by Alana Albertson
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
Bolero Books LLC
11956 Bernardo Plaza Dr. #510
San Diego, CA 92128
www.bolerobooks.com
All rights reserved.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
ISBN: 978-1-941665-72-5
Love doesn’t need to be perfect, it just needs to be true.
Beauty & the Beast
BEAST
Isabella—Grady Williams is a national treasure, the youngest living Medal of Honor recipient, America’s scarred superhero. With tattooed arms sculpted from carrying M-16s, this bad boy has girls begging from sea to shining sea to get a piece of his action.
When my father squanders away my college fund, I make a deal with this dirty-talking Devil Dog—I will pretend to be Grady’s girlfriend for the Marine Corps Ball, and my dad will write Grady’s war memoir.
Grady is fearless. Hell, this badass jumped on a grenade to save his fellow Marines! As much as I crave him, I refuse to allow myself to become addicted to a dangerous man who will detonate my heart.
Grady—Isabella Cuesta is an angel who can see beyond my mangled skin, a pawn used to repay her father’s debt, a woman who makes me feel like a man instead of a monster.
But I no longer believe in fairy tales.
She’s mine until our contract ends. I’ll take her hard and rough, listen to all her hopes and fears, lay down my life to protect her.
This beauty will never let herself love a dangerous man like me—a man who has killed, a man who runs towards gunfire, a man who never backs down from a fight.
But without her love, I’m not a man—I’ll remain forever a beast.
1
Grady
I blasted the volume on the television, trying to drown out the noise from a goddamn frat party down the street. Loud music, water splashing in the pool, girls laughing maniacally—the sounds of people enjoying their lives. At least the racket sounded better than the clamor running through my head.
The ricochet of gunshots, my friend screaming in pain, his agonizing cries during his last seconds of life—that was the clatter that racketed through my skull. And I could never turn it off, not even when I slept.
Why had I been the one to survive the battlefield? The survivor’s guilt was almost worse than my physical scars.
And now, I’d been deemed a fucking war hero. At twenty-five years old, I was the youngest living Medal of Honor recipient. I’d met the President—even shared a beer with him in the Rose Garden.
He’d invited me to be the guest of honor at an upcoming Marine Corps Ball in Hawaii that he would be attending. Sounded great, but I needed to find a date worthy of meeting the leader of the free world. I couldn’t exactly bring one of the porn stars I’d recently fucked to meet the President.
My commander-in-chief had given me one piece of advice—get an education. Sounded great in theory, but only one of my eyes worked, dirt from the attack was still embedded deeply in my wounds, and the burns on my skin itched so fucking badly that I spent my free time gouging my own flesh off. And those were just the physical problems.
Mentally, I was a complete fuckup. I couldn’t shake the premonition that I was headed for some sort of Final Destination fate, doomed because I’d cheated death. The littlest noise made me as skittish as one of the wild dogs in Iraq. I couldn’t focus on any task for more than a minute, and I struggled daily trying to heal from my injuries.
College wasn’t an option for me now because the thought of sitting in a room filled with people scared me more than jumping on that grenade. I wouldn’t have time to attend even if I wanted to. For the past two years, I’d endured intensive physical therapy, nonstop burn and facial reconstruction surgeries, not to mention PTSD treatment, which was the most painful experience of them all. And I’d be too drugged up to focus. My docs forced me to try a bunch of meds that gave me at worst a limp dick and at best massive headaches and sleepless nights. I’d done group therapy, individual therapy. Fucking bullshit. I’d rather get a skin graft than talk about my feelings.
The only benefit from this fucking hell that was my life was that every time I had left my place, I’d been swimming in a sea of pussy. Women couldn’t wait to get a piece of me, like being fucked by me made them some type of patriot. But that was all they wanted. One night riding a hero, and by morning they were quick to bail, find a man who didn’t look like he escaped from the circus, a man who could take them to a fancy dinner without freaking out and having a flashback. I enjoyed all the attention at first, but sometimes I yearned to find someone who actually liked me for me.
The voices down the block grew louder. I peered out the window, and could see the party raging, a bunch of rich, spoiled college kids dressed like superheroes.
Kickass. I could do this. The old me hated costume parties or anything with a theme—I’d much rather get wasted with my buddies. But since I looked like Frankenstein now, masks suited me just fine.
I pulled out my razor because I didn’t want my beard scraping against my mask. I rarely shaved because I couldn’t stand the sight of myself in the mirror. I’d never get used to looking at my face.
A freak. A monster. A beast.
My face was now split in two. On one half, my eye drooped, my skin sagged. On the other, I looked like the man I used to be.
Now I had a face only a mother could love. Too bad my mom had abandoned me years ago.
Could anyone ever stand the sight of looking at me every day? Or would I always remain some type of novelty—a patriotic pity fuck?
I dug out my favorite costume—the Hulk—stained my body with green camouflage paint, pulled on my shorts, and tugged the latex disguise over my head.
Normally, once I told a woman my name, she’d start fawning over me, and thank me for my service by sucking my cock. But tonight I wanted to try something new. I was up for a challenge. I wanted to keep my scars and my identity a secret. Maybe I’d be able to meet a girl tonight who would get to know me first before judging my appearance and my actions. Someone sweet, caring, and classy. Someone I could invite to the Marine Corps Ball. A woman who wouldn’t be scared of getting to know the real man behind the mask.
2
Isa
I logged into my student services account and stared blankly at the screen.
HOLD—PLEASE CONTACT REGISTRAR
A warning in bright, capitalized red letters. What on earth was going on? My tuition was supposed to be deducted directly from my account every month. I’d taken all the money I had earned while on Dancing under the Stars and created a tuition trust. No one else had access to the funds except my father because he was the trustee. I shot my father a quick text to call me. There wasn’t much more I could do at this point—it was Saturday night and the university was closed. I briefly considered trying to find my login for my trust, but assured myself that I was panicking and should just wait until I heard from my dad.
Now what was I going to do tonight?
My nervous hand shook as I clutched my cell phone. What was it again? Swipe right if he didn’t look like a psychopath and left if he posed shirtless in a mirror selfie? These guys didn’t have a single friend in their lives who could take a decent picture of them?
Forget this.
I deleted the app. How pathetic was I?
Pretty pathetic, actually.
After living in the public eye for so long, I didn’t trust anyone. Once a man found out I was a former reality star, he treated me differently. Like I was some fame-hungry whore, good enough to hook up with but not to date.
But I refused to hide anymore. I’d spent the first year post-spotlight cowering from the media, cringing every time I saw my name on the gossip sites. “Makeup-free former reality star Bella Applebaum indulges in fattening treat.” Cue the mean tweets.
At least interest in my life had died down. I stopped using my stage name, moved, and changed my phone number and email account. I was now living as Isa Cuesta, struggling twenty-three-year-old college senior. Bella Applebaum, America’s ballroom dancing sweetheart, had disappeared.
Sighing in frustration, I reached for my Kindle—maybe I’d just throw myself into the latest bad boy romance novel.
Just as I perused my book choices, my phone lit up.
Marisol.
My gut clenched. My goodtime girlfriend was no doubt looking to recruit a wing woman.
Marisol: Phi Delt Party at SDSU. Get ready.
My fingers typed frenetically.
Me: Sorry, not my scene.
Marisol: Too late. I’m on my way!
Great, I hated parties. A bunch of drunken frat guys and vapid sorority sisters would get wasted, hook up, and then take their walks of shame the next morning. I preferred seeing a live band downtown, catching the latest indie flick, or checking out the newest ethnic restaurant. But I did need to get out. Though it was mid-summer, I was burned out from having a full load of classes all year. I spent my vacation teaching barre, doing research for my psych professor, and studying for my GRE exams. I deserved one night of partying.
My long, dark hair was still damp from the shower. I sprayed some Moroccan oil on it, dabbed my face with concealer, lined my green eyes with a metallic gold pencil, and applied nude lipstick and mascara. One glance in the mirror and my confidence came back. Despite being the offspring of an alcoholic author and a tragic, old-school Vegas showgirl, I prided myself on being natural, normal, and real, which I considered quite an achievement having spent my late teens in La La Land. Four years ago, my life had been so embedded in the Hollywood scene—filming my show, attending premieres, posing for photo shoots, raging at after-parties, and gloating at award shows. Thank God I’d escaped and regained my sanity—though I definitely had some scars from my time in the limelight. I now lived in San Diego, which while still technically SoCal was a welcome break away from the L.A. party drama.
As I picked out an outfit, my doorbell buzzed. I opened the door, and saw Marisol standing there, dressed as Catwoman, clutching a shopping bag in her hand. Her brunette ombré hair was pulled back and her heavy makeup featured winged cat eyes, a pink nose, and sparkly whiskers.
Oh, hell no.
I rolled my eyes. “The animal shelter is closed.”
“Funny, Isa. It’s a superhero-themed bash. Don’t worry—I hooked you up, girl!” She rummaged through the bag and pulled out a red wig and a black leather catsuit.
At this point, I had two choices—either go along with Marisol and embrace wearing this getup, or run like hell and lock myself in the bathroom. But she’d never take no for an answer.
“You want to go as twin Catwomen? That’s super lame, Mari.”
She let out a purr. Well, I had to give her credit for getting into character.
“No, silly. You’ll be Black Widow. You know, from the Avengers? Come on, get dressed. My parents are watching Paloma. Please don’t make me go alone.”
Well, I had to go now; Marisol rarely had a free night between school, work, ROTC, and watching her child. Paloma was her adorable three-year-old daughter, who Marisol swore was the result of a one-night stan
d with a famous rock star. Marisol adored Paloma, never regretted her choice to have and keep her, and never sued for child support. I’d always encouraged her to contact the father; he had the right to know he had a child. She swore that she’d tried but that he had vanished.
“Fine, but we’re not staying long. And don’t you dare leave me alone with some sleazy guy while you make your rounds.”
I studied the costume and ran my hands along the rubbery material. I squeezed my body into the suit, slicked my hair under the wig cap, and slipped my feet into my shiny black pumps. Costumes and makeup used to be part of my daily life. I shuddered from the tightness of the wig cap, the familiar ache in my calves from the heels. I’d always felt trapped, like I couldn’t breathe. Not anymore. These days my wardrobe consisted of tank tops, jean shorts, and flip-flops, and my beauty routine involved hardly any products other than sunscreen, tinted moisturizer and lip balm.
But sometimes, late at night, I would fantasize about dancing a slow foxtrot, held in tight frame by a strong partner, our legs melting together until we moved as if we were one.
I closed my eyes and inhaled a calming breath. After a few seconds floating back down to reality, I opened my eyes and smiled—I could pretend to be someone else at this party and hopefully no one would recognize me. It would be nice to try to find some common interests first before someone judged me from what he’d read in the tabloids. This costume could allow me to break out of my shyness. My father was a huge Avengers fanatic and dragged me along to all the movies. I think he secretly wished he’d had a son, but after my mom died I was all he had left. At least I could relate to Black Widow’s character—she spoke Russian and had been brainwashed into thinking she was a ballerina. I learned some Russian from my old dance partner and had been forced to dance by my mother. But deeper than our superficial connection, Black Widow always emanated a sense of loss and loneliness. And that was something I understood intimately.
Though we both went to University of California at San Diego, this frat was at San Diego State. SDSU was way more of a party school, but for tonight, that was fine by me because I needed a change of scenery. I climbed into Marisol’s beat-up sedan, and we left pretentious La Jolla for the laid-back College Area of San Diego. I took a moment to center myself and appreciate the beauty of my surroundings. Turquoise skies without a hint of smog, accented with the deep green burst of treetops. Though I was less than three hours away from LA, I felt a world away from Hollywood’s famous haunting sign, which lured young people from around the world into the deadly cog of fame.