BEAST: A Bad Boy Marine Romance

by Alana Albertson

  We left his apartment, the stars now shining over the San Diego night. We walked in silence to where Marisol had parked, but her car wasn’t there.

  Dammit.

  I tried to think of a lie because I didn’t want Grady to know I didn’t have a ride. I didn’t want him to feel guilt-tripped into driving me home. “My friend’s car’s gone. Let me text her real quick.”

  He grabbed my hand as it slid into my purse. “Gone? She left without texting you?”

  I checked my phone. Yup. Nada. “Well, technically I left without telling her though I did text her that I’d met someone. I’ll call a cab.”

  He turned me to him. The starlight shone in his glass eye. “I don’t trust cabs. Stay with me tonight, and I’ll take you home tomorrow.”

  I couldn’t get a read on him. Earlier he offered to drive me home; now he was telling me to spend the night. Did he really want me to stay or was he just worried about my safety? “Well, I trust cabs so I’m going to just call one.”

  “Stay.” His grip tightened on my arm, but still I felt safe.

  “Okay.”

  He put his arm around me and we walked back up to his apartment.

  Now it was awkward.

  He nodded, and then sat down, this time across from me. His gaze leveled me.

  After a long swig of his beer, he finally spoke. “Where have I seen you before?”

  Great. My insides quivered.

  My gut wrenched as I thought about telling him the truth. If I had any hope of dating this man, this hero, I’d better not lie to him. After all, he’d been honest with me. But this situation was awkward enough. If I told him, I was sure he’d see me as some spoiled, rich reality star—the polar opposite of him being famous for saving his men’s lives. But I wasn’t spoiled or rich. I’d left that life. I wanted to help people who had gone through trauma. People like Grady, people like my mother.

  People like me.

  My hand rubbed my face. “Not sure, I guess I have a familiar face.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I may have only one eye, but I never forget a face. I’ve fucking seen you before. Don’t lie to me.” His voice was now gritty, rough, angry—a wave of fear flashed over me. I was alone in an apartment with a Marine with PTSD. He was trained to kill. Hell, he probably had killed.

  This was it. This was the moment, one of those pivotal moments I was certain I would agonize over for years to come. I could tell this man my truth in the hopes that we could turn this one-night stand into something more. But I knew from experience that the second he knew I had been on television, he would probably assume I was one of those trampy celebrity types who went home with everyone they met. Most men saw me only as a conquest once they learned about my past.

  That fluttery feeling that I had had in my belly was now replaced by knots.

  No, I couldn’t allow a man I didn’t know didn’t trust into a part of my life I’d said goodbye to forever.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe you’ve seen me at another party or around town.”

  He exhaled, an audible sound of his disgust. He could probably tell I’d lied to him.

  Great. I had just ruined this night.

  After a few moments in silence, his phone rang. Saved by the bell.

  “Hello? . . . Yeah, man, hold one sec.” He looked at me. “It’s my buddy, his wife just left him. Make yourself at home.”

  He opened the sliding glass door and stepped onto the balcony, closing the door quickly behind him. I wanted to give him some privacy, so I grabbed my purse, headed into his bedroom, and went into the bathroom.

  One look in the mirror, and I almost didn’t recognize myself. My hair was wild, my eyes had mascara pooled under them, and my cheeks were splotchy.

  I left the bathroom and something shiny caught my eye. His nightstand drawer was ajar, and a glimpse of steel deflected off the moonlight.

  A gun.

  A motherfucking gun.

  My blood chilled. A flash of my mom’s skull busted open, blood staining her gorgeous black hair, the smell of gunpowder, the lethal weapon still clutched in her hand, a final reminder that she’d given up the will to live. She’d never see me walk down the aisle; my future children would never know the love of their nana. After she’d taken her own life, I’d lost the desire to ever dance again.

  My hand shook. Only an hour ago I’d seen Grady suffer from a combat flashback. He’d been blank, out of his mind, unreachable. What if he had another flashback and no one was around? What if this truly turned into nothing more than a one-night stand? Did he have someone to talk him down off the ledge? Would he call someone for help? I’d recently read an article about the suicide rates of vets and the lack of mental health care they receive. He’d even told me that he didn’t believe any of the therapies worked. A grenade had blown Grady up. He’d watched his best friend die. Was he suicidal?

  I peered out the window—he was still on the phone.

  Luckily, I’d gone shooting with my dad many times prior to my mom’s suicide, and I knew how to operate a weapon, though I hadn’t seen a gun since I’d discovered her. My hand shaking, I slid the magazine out—it was empty. But I saw a single round in the chamber.

  One round. One bullet.

  Enough to end his life.

  Enough to end mine.

  I removed the round, clutched it in my hand, and buried the bullet in my purse.

  I walked back into the living room, my heart racing, but I was certain I’d done the right thing.

  But I was also certain I had to get the hell out of here. What if he found out I stole his bullet? In the haze of lust and desperation, I’d put myself in a dangerous situation—alone with an armed stranger. Emotions twisted inside me. Grady was sexy and a true hero.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Ultimately, I didn’t feel safe. Though I wanted to be a clinical psychologist, I didn’t have the tools to help Grady, and one glance at the bullet in my purse made me realize I was in way over my head.

  But what about our connection? I liked this guy—my heart raced when I thought about him. We had just had the most incredible sex, twice, and he’d opened up to me, revealed himself to me, showed me his scars. He asked me to spend the night. How could I leave him now when he had just began to let me in?

  After a few more minutes, Grady came back into the room. “Sorry about that, my buddy’s going through a rough time.”

  “No worries, it’s great that you’re there for him.”

  We sat in silence. I didn’t know what to say to him. I had so many questions about what had happened to him in Iraq, what his life was like now, how he coped. But I had no right to ask these questions. I never wanted to start a relationship with sex first. But we’d already crossed that line, and there was no going back.

  My phone vibrated. Marisol.

  Marisol: You hooker! You ready to go home?

  Isa: I’ll be back where you parked in a few minutes.

  Marisol: K.

  “Grady, my friend is going to pick me up downstairs. I’m going to go.”

  His face fell and it was as if I could almost see hope escaping from his eye.

  What had I just done? I hated myself.

  “Good.” He stood up.

  Good? Ouch. Maybe he had only asked me to stay the night because he was a gentleman. Guess he didn’t want to be held responsible if a cabbie murdered me.

  Or maybe the sting of my rejection had caused him to turn cold.

  I’d been wrong to think there was a connection here; I was probably nothing more to him than another random hookup.

  This was for the best. As much as I craved getting close to a man, I truly doubted that I could really let my guard down, especially with someone who was going through his own issues. Plus once he realized I’d disarmed him, he would probably never trust me again.

  I refused to let him see my hurt. “It was really nice to meet you, Grady.”

  My arms extended for a hug but he brushed me of
f. Double ouch.

  I wanted him to throw me over his back and take me back to his bed, fuck me all night. Grady’s wounds, his scars of war, were likely so deep, that no amount of love could heal. Maybe he was actually right—no amount of therapy could help either, especially with an unwilling patient. He was not right for me—I couldn’t risk getting involved with and loving another person who would leave me.

  Pathetically I still hoped for a second that he would ask me for my number, or out on a date. Somewhere public, without a loaded gun in the vicinity. Some sign to show me that this was more than just a one-night stand.

  But he just opened the door.

  Isa, you’re embarrassing yourself. He doesn’t want anything to do with you. Just make a clean break now and forget this night ever happened.

  I squeezed his hand, gave him a kiss on his cheek, and darted out of his apartment.

  7

  Grady

  Man, she couldn’t leave fast enough, just like all the other girls. I’d been wrong, thinking there was a chance she could actually be interested in more than just a hookup. She definitely would never agree to attend the ball with me and be seen in public with a freak.

  I threw my beer against the wall—shards of glass flying through the air, the liquid dripping down the wall.

  Had I said something wrong? I didn’t have a tolerance for bullshit or small talk. I never knew what to say to women. After living through the hell that was my life, talking about my favorite color or what movies I liked seemed so superficial.

  This entire night had been so fake. Another meaningless hookup. I’d actually been about to ask her out before I had that flashback at the party. But once she’d followed me back to my place, of course I tried to fuck her. I’d hoped she’d stay the night, and maybe we could slowly learn about each other. If she’d seemed cool, I was going to ask her to the ball.

  But asking her out was a dumbass idea anyway. I clearly couldn’t handle being out in public, even with my face covered. Where could I take her? Some smoky bar where she wouldn’t have to look at me?

  I paced around my apartment, the blood pulsing violently through my body, my adrenaline spiking. Had she taken pity on me? A pity fuck—that was all I was these days.

  And I’d seen her before, but I just couldn’t figure out where. When I asked her where, I could swear she was lying to me. My mind never cooperated anymore. Her face, her body, her eyes, even her voice. It was as if I knew her. But that wasn’t possible. Maybe I was really losing it.

  Fuck that bitch. It would’ve never worked out between us anyway. She was training to be a shrink. If I dated her, our relationship would turn into a never-ending counseling session.

  Fuck women. I’d risked my life for my buddies and they had done the same for me. My love for my brothers was the only thing that mattered to me. My best friend was dead, and here I was acting like a pussy, stressing out because some girl I met took off. It didn’t matter. None of this dating drama mattered.

  Living in San Diego didn’t help. I missed my hometown friends. And the Southern girls too. Everyone out here on the left coast only cared about appearances and money. I had neither.

  I regretted ruining a perfectly good beer over this bitch. I grabbed another bottle, drowning myself in liquid regret. Each sip increasing my rage. Yes, I was a fucking alcoholic. And no, I didn’t need any help.

  I should’ve never left my place. I couldn’t handle being around people anymore. From now on, I would hide away from the world. I’d fulfill my duties to the Corps and complete my required treatment.

  I still needed to find a date to the ball, but it sure as hell wouldn’t be Isa.

  8

  Isa

  I woke up the next morning with the worst hangover, but it wasn’t from the alcohol, it was from the guilt. My head throbbed, and my eyes were blurry. God, I hated myself for dashing out of there last night after he’d asked me to stay. I could’ve been honest with him about finding his loaded gun and asked him if he was suicidal. What was wrong with me? How could I claim to want to be a psychologist if I ran away at the first sign of trouble?

  I also should’ve just opened up to him, told him I used to be on Dancing under the Stars. Maybe we could’ve connected. He would’ve probably understood how fame distorted reality since he was also in the public eye. A brief fantasy of grabbing brunch after incredible morning sex, maybe topped off by a walk on the beach later in the day, filled my head. We’d fall into a deep relationship before either of us really knew what had happened.

  But more than likely, opening up would’ve just led to nothing.

  But I didn’t feel sorry for stealing his bullet. Granted, he was a Marine, so I was pretty sure he had more ammo around the house. At least if he had a weak moment, he would have to reload his gun, and even that short delay could potentially save his life. I’d missed all the signs that my mother was suicidal, so I refused to regret being proactive.

  I did entertain the thought that my action could’ve possibly put his life in more danger. An intruder could break into his place, Grady could reach for his gun, think it was loaded, and then shoot, and lose his life. But that was the chance I’d taken, and my gut told me that he had a higher likelihood of committing suicide than of being robbed.

  I Googled him the second I returned home. He was so beautiful before he’d been injured. Kind of looked like a young Elvis Presley but with a way better body. I was still attracted to him, even with his disfigurement and scars. In a way, it made him sexier. More badass.

  My fingers shook as I clicked away. I glanced around my room—a dust bunny perched on my nightstand, last night’s costume in a pile on the floor, a day-old coffee mug on my desk. I definitely wasn’t neat like Grady was. I wondered if he had always been that clean and organized or if being a Marine made him that way.

  I hoped he didn’t think I’d left because of his injuries. I shuddered, thinking I could have possibly made him feel like he disgusted me. Maybe I was being conceited—he clearly knew he had a great body and could get any woman. Maybe he’d been relieved when I left.

  Another link took me to his official webpage. I laughed when the page loaded—it played that song “Grenade” by Bruno Mars. I loved that Grady could keep a sense of humor about his injuries. On second thought, that song would make a good rumba . . .

  I missed dancing, connecting to the floor, expressing the emotion of a song. For years it had been my outlet, kept me sane when my family life was chaotic. But after my mom killed herself during my last night on the show, the memories of me dancing had been laced with tragedy.

  Wow, Grady wasn’t the only one who needed therapy.

  Despite all my intense work on myself, I was cognizant enough to realize that I was completely screwed up. I’d never been in a healthy relationship. And my own interaction with my father was complicated. He’d become distant after my mom died, not that I blamed him.

  And he refused to talk about my mother.

  I tried to tell my father once how much I needed to share memories about her with him, but he claimed it was too painful to remember. I thought it was more painful to forget.

  I closed my eyes, and replayed last night over again, haunting questions increasing my anxiety. Would I ever be able to find a man who was emotionally present and responsible? Would Grady ever recover from war? Could he move on from his traumas and find happiness in a normal, stable life? A man like that, so strong and sexy . . . I wondered what it would be like to be his.

  But I’d never know. I’d closed that door before it was even cracked.

  After stalking Grady, I finally closed the window, determined to push him out of my mind. I logged in again to my student services account, hoping the hold on my account had mysteriously vanished in the night, but unfortunately it remained.

  Something was off. My father hadn’t even returned my text.

  A thought chilled me. Was he avoiding me?

  I rummaged through my notebook to find my passwords. Fina
lly, I was able to log in to my trust fund, a fund I had set up with my earnings from Dancing under the Stars. I had made my father trustee.

  The blinking screen seemed to take forever to refresh. But there was no mistaking the negative balance in glaring red.

  -$359.

  What in the world? This had to be a mistake. I had checked last quarter and had over thirty-five thousand dollars. Definitely more than enough for this final year of school.

  I shot off a frantic text to my dad. Maybe he was in Vegas or on one of his benders? I would not wait for him to respond. First thing tomorrow morning, I would head to the bank. No one else had access to these funds— except my father.

  And he would never touch it.

  Would he?

  9

  Grady

  My hand grasped the thin envelope, crumbling it in my fist. My heart knew the words written inside—medically retired. Not fit for duty.

  Worthless.

  I ripped open the letter, the stoic black ink confirming my worst fears. I was out, done. I’d be medically retired at the end of this enlistment—six more months. Nothing left of me but a broke-ass civilian, doomed to spend the rest of my life shuttered away from public view so I didn’t scare the children. A future working the graveyard shift was my best bet so no one would have to look at my fucked up face.

  Why hadn’t I died in that shanty house? Honorably, a hero. Maggots eating my body in Arlington, a twenty-one-gun salute blazing.

  At least I’d be with my best friend, Rafael.

  I missed that motherfucker. His raw sense of humor, his supremely bad taste in music, his penchant for dousing his MREs in hot sauce. But more than anything, I missed the way he took care of everyone in our unit. He truly had our backs. If you needed some extra cash, Rafael wouldn’t hesitate to lend it to you. If you needed a ride from the airport at two in the morning, Rafael would be there even if he were due to PT on base at six.