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 had been 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. 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’d 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. Finally, 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?
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.
He had a wife and a beautiful little girl who worshipped him. Who missed him. Who would do anything to see him one last time.
I had no one.
No one would ever love me like that. No woman would ever want to look at me every day for the rest of her life.
It should’ve been me.
I jammed my key into my apartment, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and blasted the death metal CD I’d left in the stereo.
San Diego was suffering from another late summer heat wave. The sun blazed outside the window, the excessive warmth incinerating my already torched skin.
I paced around my apartment, clutching my cell phone, but my fingers refused to press any numbers. I didn’t want to burden my grandparents with my pain, my friends were in the field at CAX preparing to deploy to Afghanistan. I was jealous of those motherfuckers, training in the desert of 29 Palms, able-bodied, fearless, free. I was a prisoner of my body, my mind. Loneliness and despair crashed in a wave over me, drowning me in the agony I tried so hard to ignore.
I can’t do this anymore.
Another swig of whiskey, and I knelt beside my bed. One shot, that’s all it would take to end my suffering, my burden on this world. My spirit would soar free, leave my battered body.
Maybe it was my destiny. I shouldn’t have survived.
I shouldn’t be alive.
My life as I knew it was over. My career was finished. My best friend was dead. My body was in excruciating pain. I looked like a mutant.
No one would even notice if I was gone.
I grabbed my pistol, my Glock. No magazine; I always kept one round in the chamber. One click, and I’d meet my maker.
This wasn’t the first time I’d thought about killing myself—I’d always kept my gun close by, in my nightstand, in my glove compartment. It was like a prescription that was always filled just in case I needed it.
It was time.
I wasn’t afraid; I was at peace. I wanted to go home.
I placed the gun to my head, the cold steel imprinting on my temple, and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Nothing. Radio silence.
What the fuck?
I was still here.
Fuck, I can’t even kill myself.
Where the fuck was that round? I always left a round in my chamber.
Always.
No one had been in my apartment in a while. Only person who had been here recently was Isa.
Isa?
No way. No fucking way.
But it could only be her. No one had broken into my place to steal my bullet.
How
did she know how to disarm a weapon? When had she done this? While I was in the shower? On the phone with my buddy?
I placed the gun down, debating going into my closet to get more ammo. But I just sat still on the bed, frozen.
I couldn’t believe that bitch had stolen my bullet. What if I needed my gun to protect myself?
If I ever saw her again, I’d make her pay. But I didn’t even know how to contact her. No last name, no phone number. Nothing. Only a memory remained that replayed daily in my mind. The sensation of her hot, wet flesh, of how being inside her erased my pain, if only for a fleeting moment.
I buried my face in my hands. And for the first time since my injuries, I allowed myself to cry.
One tear burned my skin, and it was like I had opened up a floodgate. I wept for Rafael, I wept for myself, and I drowned myself in self-pity. What had I ever done to deserve this fate? I was caught in an endless cycle of surgeries, intolerable pain, agony, and no relief.
I grabbed my bottle of whisky and downed it, the smooth liquid coating my throat, taking the edge off my aching. The framed picture of the President awarding me the medal came into my view, and my breath hitched. I was not worthy of such an accolade—the highest military honor in the country.
After staring at my gun, I stood up and placed it back in my nightstand. Once again, I’d cheated death. I would make no promise for tomorrow, but tonight would not be my end.
Isa
My hand shook, my coffee spilling through its tiny plastic slit. This bank opened at nine in the morning, and I’d been standing outside for the last half an hour. Worry gnawed through me. This was more than money—this was my life, my future, the only lasting benefit of my past.
The teller finally opened the door at a minute past nine. I marched to the back of the bank and sat in the manager’s chair.
A middle-aged man with a glint in his eyes and an ill-fitting suit greeted me. “Good morning, Miss. How can I help you?”
I handed him my driver’s license and bankcard. “There’s a mistake in my account. My tuition check bounced. I looked online last night and it said there was a negative balance. That can’t be correct. I had over thirty-five thousand dollars in it a few months ago.”
He glanced at my ID. “I see. Please swipe your card in the reader and enter your PIN, and we will get to the bottom of this.”
I followed his directions and pulled my hair.
The manager gave me a sympathetic grin and perused his screen. After the annoying tapping of his old-school keyboard, he nodded his head toward me.
“I’m sorry to say that unfortunately your balance is in the negative. It seems a transfer of funds was made into another account last month.”
“No, that’s not possible. This is my college fund. I don’t ever transfer out of it.”
He turned the screen towards me. My eyes registered what I was seeing, and I could feel my heart drop. “It seems the other owner of the account went into a branch in Temecula and transferred the money to a personal checking in his name.”
Temecula.
My hometown.
My temples throbbed with rage.
“I see. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” I stuffed my cards in my purse, grabbed my coffee, and dashed out of the bank, praying I would reach my car before tears welled in my eyes.
My father had stolen my money.
All of it.
No wonder he was avoiding my calls.
I slammed the car door and hunched over the steering wheel. I knew my dad was an alcoholic and hadn’t written anything worth publishing in years. But to steal from his own daughter?
I turned my keys in the ignition and pressed on the gas pedal.
My father would not get away with this. He better pay me back every damn penny, or I’d have him arrested.
But no matter what I had to do, I’d find the money to graduate.
Grady
Another fucking waiting room. Man, I was sick to death of doctors. Probing my flesh, their compassionate yet condescending smirks, insincere offers of hope. Today, I’d get another skin graft, fuck my life.
I shifted in my seat, wishing I were anywhere but here. This place was stuck in the eighties, like I was on a Miami Vice set: Kenny Loggins played over the speakers, the walls were painted pale peach, the air reeked of baby powder and bleach, and a vase of plastic flowers was placed on the floor, not even worthy of a cheap coffee table.
I pulled out my phone but had no fucking reception. Dammit. My hand shuffled through the basket of magazines; a Playboy would’ve been nice, but I’d settle for a Men’s Health.
I grabbed a pile of crap—last year’s Good Housekeeping, Star, Vogue. I was about to give up and just stare at the cracked paint when something caught my eye.
A “Ten Years of Dancing under the Stars” special edition. And there in the corner of the cover was a small picture of a girl dancing. Black hair, incredible body, killer smile.
Isa.
The hot chick from the one-night stand I couldn’t stop thinking about, the girl who stole my bullet.
What the fuck?
I focused on her face, her body, her hair. It was fucking her. I’d bet my medal on it.
I knew I’d seen her before. I’d even fucking asked her why she looked familiar but she lied to me. Couldn’t for the life of her know where I could’ve possibly seen her? How about fifteen million people watched you every night for two years? My grandma loved that show—used to force me to watch it every fucking week. And now I remembered that Meemaw’s favorite dancer was “that sweet American girl.”
I thumbed through the magazine, desperate for some more intel.
Bella Applebaum won the 5th and 6th seasons of Dancing under the Stars. She left the show in the middle of the 7th season, with no explanation. Her current whereabouts remain unknown.
Isa. . .bella?
Why did she leave the show? Unknown whereabouts? Why the secrecy? What was she hiding from?
A reality star—of course she’d never want a relationship with me. She’d probably run off and marry some liberal war-protesting Hollywood pretty boy.
She was like one of these goddamn celebrities who pretended to support our troops but actually charged the charities to make appearances. Give back to your country, fuck a war vet.
My mind raced. Who the fuck did she think she was, trying to disarm me? I needed to see her again—get some kind of closure. I’d fucking flat out ask her why she slept with me, then ran the fuck out the door the first chance she got.
Man, I sounded like a bitch. I just couldn’t accept that I’d read her so wrong. I honest to God thought she was into me. The sex was incredible, and she hadn’t abandoned me after my PTSD freak-out at the party. She seemed to want to get to know me even if it was only to help me since she claimed to want to become a psychologist.
And that damn bullet. Maybe the episode at the party had been tolerable to her, piqued her psychobabble curiosity, but once she found herself trapped in an apartment with a PTSD war vet with a loaded gun, she bolted. I can’t honestly say I blamed her. I was a fucking mess.
“Mr. Williams, we’re ready for you now.”
I glanced up. A hot young nurse waited to escort me back to a room so I could be tortured. My flesh would be manipulated and scraped so I could pass for a human and not an alien. A swig of the whiskey hidden in my water bottle took the edge of my pain.
Across the room, I recognized a fellow Marine, his leg amputated, his wife clutching his arm, attempting to comfort him. I wondered what it would be like to have someone like that in my life who would love me no matter what.
I stood up and followed the sexy nurse down the barren hallway. Meeting Isa, having her take my bullet, seeing her in the magazine, these incidents couldn’t all be coincidences.
I had to see her again.
Isa
I sped on the freeway and drove an hour and a half north to confront my father in Temecula.
Normally, I loved going ho
me, but not today when my anxiety was burning through my body. How could he take my college money—money I had earned on my own? And why? Was it a gambling debt? I’d worked so hard to graduate on time. The mere thought of having my entire future destroyed because I’d trusted my father was unbearable.
Our home was nothing extravagant, just a simple three-bedroom, two-bath, ranch house. But there was comfort knowing I could return to the place where I’d taken my first steps, spent merry Christmases, and had learned how to dance from my mom.
My hometown wasn’t well-known—it had a few vineyards, and a bunch of motocross racers and UFC fighters lived there. But it had a strong community network—it was a place Ronald Reagan made famous by praising its hardworking citizens for rallying together to build a sports park.
As I pulled on our street, I noticed that our grass was unusually brown and patchy—more than was even normal in this drought. The trim on the door was faded, and the annuals I had planted in spring had already wilted. Even so, our bright pink crape myrtle was in full bloom and the lone avocado tree was bearing fruit.
I grabbed my bag, and as I headed up the driveway, my dad greeted me at the door. He wore his classic uniform of a wrinkly flannel shirt and worn jeans, and his strong, woodsy cologne mixed with his alcohol-spiked breath quickly hit my nostrils. His face was unshaven and his salt-and-pepper hair was unkempt. I winced—I hated seeing him so broken. In my memories, my father had always been strong, proud, and attractive. I knew he blamed himself for my mom’s suicide, no matter how many times I told him there was nothing we could’ve done.
He quickly surveyed my face. “Don’t give me that look; I’m fine.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. I followed him inside the house.
“You look wrecked. Why did you take my money?”
He paused, his eyes pained.
I knew that look.
Heroes Ever After Boxset: Books 1-3 Page 6