“Now, Dad. Spill it.”
He remained silent. I forced myself to remain calm and not blow up at him. I headed into the kitchen to start the coffeemaker. Bills were piled near the telephone, and a few boxes were packed against the wall—as if he was planning on fleeing. “Did you read an organizing book or something?”
“No.” He gazed out the window at the peek-a-boo vineyard view.
“Why are your things packed?”
“Just doing some cleaning.”
I leveled him with my eyes.
He let out a sigh. “Okay. You got me.”
Fuck. I knew that tone.
“What’s going on with you? Where the hell is my money? The truth, please.”
Beads of sweat pooled on his neck.
“I’m bankrupt. I hadn’t paid the property taxes and was behind on our mortgage so I used the money to catch up. The bank was going to foreclose on our home.”
I clenched my fist, and my vision became cloudy. “How on earth are you bankrupt? You had a six-figure advance for your last book. Didn’t you invest?”
“That book deal was five years ago. The critics loved it but it was no bestseller. I earned out my advance and that was that. I need a hit.”
I poured coffee into two mugs, debated emptying the pot on my father’s hand. My dad by no means lived an extravagant lifestyle. We had always lived within a budget, which was probably why it was easy for me to adjust back to being a starving college student after my brief time as a starlet.
But my house, our home, meant the world to me. It was more than a roof over our heads. I could still hear my mother’s voice echo down the hallway, I could still picture her tending to the garden, I could still inhale the scent of her perfumed clothes.
He continued his excuses as I struggled to remain calm.
“I’ve approached everyone I can think of to write a biography, but either they’re already working with a writer, or my agent doesn’t think we could get a big enough advance from a publisher.” His voice was choked with emotion but I refused to pity him.
My mind immediately flashed to Grady. If he wrote a war memoir, it would be a bestseller. He’d told me he had no desire to write one, but I wondered if he would ever change his mind.
“So you stole from your own daughter? I need that money for tuition. I won’t graduate. It’s my money. How fucking dare you? I can have you arrested.”
“I know, I’m sorry. My agent assured me that this celebrity would choose me to write his book, so I thought I could take the money out of the trust and deposit it back before you ever noticed. It was wrong of me and I don’t blame you if you hate me, but I didn’t want to tell you. I’ll figure this out, I promise.”
I was not reassured. Rage flashed through me. “Can’t you sell the house and move somewhere else? That’ll buy you some time until you find your next subject.” The second the words left my lips, hollowness filled my core. My home. The place I’d escaped to when my face had been plastered on every tabloid in America, the community that had embraced me when everyone else turned their back on me.
“Even if I sell the home it won’t help. I’m underwater on the mortgage, and I’d need to find a new place to live. I have three months of expenses left with the money I took from you, and then I have nothing.”
Memories rushed back of picnicking with my parents at the duck pond, exploring the candy and root beer shops in quaint Old Town. My childhood had been happy—I’d never had a clue that my mom was in such private pain. And my parents always seemed so in love. I had dreamt of having my own happy marriage one day—but now that image was shattered. My mom wasn’t content—she was miserable. If I had read her so wrong, how could I trust anyone?
“How much do you owe?”
He started speaking rapidly. “Maybe it’s best if we lose the home. Who knows how long I’ll be around anyway?”
“Is that supposed to be comforting? How much debt do you have?”
“Forty-seven thousand dollars.”
Forty-seven thousand dollars? We were screwed. Royally screwed. I could never come up with that kind of money, unless I went back on Dancing under the Stars for a season. And that was completely out of the question. I hadn’t danced in years and was completely out of practice. There had to be another way.
“I don’t want to lose this house, Dad. We have so many wonderful memories here. Do you remember the time that Mom found that white bunny in our backyard? Our neighbor wanted to feed it to the coyotes. But Mom nursed him back to health. She loved little Latte.”
My dad’s eyes narrowed and a vein popped in his neck. “I hated that rabbit—another one of your mom’s projects that she started but then abandoned when she lost interest. I ended up taking care of that thing.”
I slammed my coffee mug down. “Why do you do that? Every time I mention her, you either dismiss me or get enraged. We had good times, happy times. Why can’t we talk about her?”
“Because she left us! Suicide is selfish. She didn’t care about or love us or she wouldn’t’ve done it!”
I raised my hand and slapped him, the tight sting of my palm shocking me. “How dare you! She was not selfish. She was sick! How can you not see that? She did love us—she probably thought we were better off!” I was completely stunned by how ignorant people were about suicide. I admit I’d thought the same things my father just said, that she didn’t love us, that she was selfish. Thank God I’d educated myself. I just wished my father would try to understand. Try to forgive.
My father didn’t say anything to me. He didn’t need to. He exhaled and his hand started shaking.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have slapped you.”
“It’s okay, I probably deserved it. I just miss her.”
And that was the first time my dad admitted to me that he missed her.
I didn’t know what to say. The intersection of anger, hurt, and resentment brewed inside me. “Why didn’t you tell me about the house sooner? Can’t you take another job? Anything?”
“You don’t think I’ve applied for everything? No one wants to hire a middle-aged man. I just need a chance and I can turn this around. Just one more hit.”
Could I dare ask Grady? He would say no, and he didn’t seem to want anything to do with me. He hadn’t even asked for my number. What was I going to do? Stop by his apartment?
Maybe I could contact him through Facebook, though he didn’t even have a searchable profile, just a page.
No, I couldn’t do that. I didn’t even know Grady. And I’d ran out on him.
There was one other person I could ask.
“Don’t worry, Dad. It’ll work out. I’ll pray for a miracle.”
He exhaled and his eyes looked up. He hugged me. “Thank you. I’m really sorry I took your money.”
I racked my brain. I could apply for a school loan. Or take a one-quarter leave to figure this out. But one thing was certain—I could only rely on myself.
Grady
All fucking day I couldn’t get Isa out of my mind. How she’d sucked my cock, the image of her ass as I took her from behind, the expression on her face when I licked her pussy, the sweet sounds of her moans as she came.
Remembering how it felt to be inside her numbed my pain. The throbbing from my skin graft was intense, like being dragged around on a carpet until my skin melted off.
I sat down to my computer and Googled her.
Bella Applebaum—Dancing under the Stars.
Her face lit up my screen—hair darker, skin tanner, and body skinnier. I thought she looked way hotter when I’d met her than she had on the show—I liked my women with curves.
She’d danced two seasons, then left mid-season. No reason why. She’d obviously changed her life—instead of dancing with losers she now was sleeping with monsters.
A few pics with her ex-partner—Pasha, a fellow dancer on the show. I wonder if he ever fucked her? Looked like a pansy. I mean, the guy fucking waxed his chest.
I scanned a f
ew more articles on the screen, until one headline sent a jolt through my body.
Inside Bella’s private hell: the truth about the night when the reality star discovered her mother’s body.
I skimmed the article—though Bella had never confirmed the story to the press, the rumor was her mom had been shot by an unknown killer.
Fuck.
Maybe that’s why she stole my bullet . . . she’d been scared I would harm her.
And little did she know I’d be dead if it weren’t for her.
My head buzzed and a devious thought passed through my head. What if . . . I accepted the show’s offer? Agreed to make a jackass out of myself—as long as I was allowed to choose my partner.
The producer had called me again last week. Said he’d do “anything” to get me on the show.
Anything.
And honestly, what the fuck else was I doing with my life, besides drinking myself into oblivion? To be honest, I needed a plan B. Now that I was about to be retired from the Marines, I’d be left at the mercy of the VA, waiting two years to get an appointment. I had no formal education, no ability to hold down a job with my injuries, no future.
The producer had offered me $125,000 to do the show, plus a weekly bonus if I didn’t get eliminated. I could make up to a half million dollars. The Corps would definitely give me leave—anything for public relations. That was who I was these days anyway. A fucking propaganda puppet.
If the public wanted a war hero, I would give them exactly what they craved.
I relaxed back in my chair and entertained the possibilities. The dancers were forced to train their partners up to eight hours a day. I could demand that she was my partner.
It was a fifteen-week season.
Fifteen weeks to fuck Isa.
Fifteen weeks to make her need me. Show her the kind of man I was.
My hand picked up my phone but my fingers refused to dial the numbers.
No. I couldn’t do it.
I wouldn’t do it.
And it wasn’t because I thought it was gay or lame or anything like that. There had been other war heroes who’d starred on it, and my staff sergeant, Bret Lord, had been on as a professional dancer on the show, and he was masculine as fuck. He’d donated his entire salary to his buddy’s widow.
But he wasn’t fucked up like I was.
It wasn’t even the ridiculous outfits I’d have to wear or the makeup they’d paint on my face.
It was the triggers.
They would be everywhere. Flashing lights, sound stages, the audience clapping.
I’d snap. I’d break. I’d humiliate myself. I thrived on routine—one of the only suggestions my therapist had made that I actually implemented. Get up, go to the hospital for forced therapy and medical appointments, return home, get drunk, get laid.
But I hadn’t been with anyone since Isa. She’d been different than the other girls I’d fucked. I wanted to claim her as mine.
I was almost crazy enough to embarrass myself on national television to find a way back to her.
Almost.
But that was a stupid fucking idea. For so many reasons. The most important being that if I had fifteen weeks alone with Isa, I’d become addicted to her. And then she’d leave me.
As a Medal of Honor recipient, I was held to a higher standard. I would not humiliate the Corps. And having a flashback on national television would be unavoidable.
Then again, blowing my brains out would’ve clearly brought shame to the Marines, but at least the publicity might’ve shed some light on the suicide rates of veterans. What the fuck was wrong with me to even be thinking that? Man, I needed help.
I ripped up the producer’s number and threw the card into the trash.
Maybe someday Isa and I would cross paths again, and I’d be able to show her the kind of man I was.
A beast.
Isa
After a silent breakfast, where I spent most of my time internally debating whether or not I should contact Grady, my father turned on the television and found a football game. Once he was distracted, I told my dad I had some errands to run.
I needed to talk to Benny Brooks, the executive producer of Dancing under the Stars.
I jumped in my car and headed to the freeway, but I didn’t have the guts to show up on Grady’s doorstep—instead I was going back to LA.
I hadn’t been back to Hollywood since my mom killed herself not wanting to be in the city where she’d taken her life. But I was desperate now. I had to finish school. I’d do whatever it took. And this option was infinitely preferable to making an ass out of myself groveling to Grady.
And the truth was, I missed dancing.
My foot pressed on the gas pedal. It was Monday in the middle of summer. Dancing under the Stars was not filming nor was the show on tour. And it was only three weeks until United States Dancesport Championships—which meant all the dancers should be training. I no longer had Benny’s phone number and no one ever answered the studio phone, but he was usually coaching Pasha at his ballroom.
I checked Pasha’s Instagram. At least he was there—he had endorsed a workout shake from the ballroom less than an hour ago.
Two hours, an iced coffee, and a caramel apple empanada later, I parked in the studio’s parking lot. This studio had been my home for many years. I’d done rumba walks until my toenails popped off, jive kicks until my knees gave out, and samba rolls until my back ached. But no matter how much physical pain I’d endured, I’d enjoyed every second of it.
My mouth became dry. I exited the car and placed my hand on the door. Before I could change my mind, I forced myself to walk inside.
But the second I stepped into the studio, I immediately regretted it. I didn’t belong here—I was an outsider, a quitter.
Pasha whirled around the floor with his new professional partner, a stunning Russian blonde who also just happened to be his new girlfriend. I couldn’t help but stare at her toes, the effortless way they rolled off the ground.
A bunch of younger dancers practiced their cha cha locks in the mirror. Luckily, no one had noticed me. I contemplated dashing back to my car, but a familiar voice stopped me.
“Bellichka?” Pasha had ditched his partner in the middle of the floor and walked over to me.
Bellichka, Pasha’s pet name for me. “Privet, Pasha.”
The man who stood before me hadn’t aged a day since the last time I’d seen him four years ago. Pasha’s blonde hair was slicked with gel, his eyes were a pale blue, and his body was lean and tan. I was pretty sure that his flawless skin was the result of Botox.
I expected him to hug me or at least give me one of those fake kisses on the cheek. But instead, his gaze traveled my body. I felt naked in his presence. He’d never looked at me like that, ever. All the years we danced together he’d treated me like his little sister. I had yearned for him to want me, see me as a woman and not as a little girl. I’d been so jealous of his girlfriends.
But now, when I looked at him, I felt nothing.
He took me in his arms and hugged me, attempting to kiss me on the lips, but I turned my cheek. He seemed startled and quickly released me.
“What it is you doing here?”
Well, his accent was still strong, despite being on television. “I was looking for Benny.”
“He is not here. He went to Australia to take care of something.”
Dammit. There went my plan.
“But I can help you. . .”
Doubtful. But I hadn’t come all this way to give up so easily.
Pasha said something in Russian to his partner, who had come over to investigate. Years of immersing myself in Pasha’s language and culture allowed me to loosely decipher what he had said. “Go practice. It won’t be long. She isn’t of your concern.”
Ouch. Well, it was true. I hated the way he talked to her, the way he had talked to me. But he wasn’t my problem anymore.
He took me to the office and I sat down on the loveseat in the co
rner. There were old pictures of us hung on the walls, a trophy in a case behind a desk. “Why you come to Benny?”
“I was wondering . . . my dad has run into some trouble, and the truth is I’m tight on cash. Do you think he could get me back on Dancing under the Stars?” I cringed with shame the second the request left my lips. Here I sat, in my jean shorts and T-shirt, begging my ex-partner to help me out. I’d left the show and our partnership. Why would he ever help me?
“I wish I could help with you on show, but I cannot. Do you need the money? How much it is that you need, I write you check.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a checkbook.
“No, no, I don’t want your money. I want to work.”
“Work? Let me be honest together with you. You will not get back on show.” He stood up from the desk and joined me on the loveseat. His hand pushed a lock of hair out of my face and I resisted the urge to recoil. “You are now beautiful to me. What we had, I will never have again. Oksana, she is incredible dancer, but you, Bellichka, when you danced, you were like magic.”
I steadied my breath. “Okay. Then if I’m so incredible, why can’t I get on the show? Aren’t you a co-producer now? You can help me.”
He laughed. “I am not head producer of show. Benny is. And he wants young dancers, more young than you. You are now twenty-three. The waitlist it is long. Unless celebrity requests to you, you will not be picked.” He inched into my dance space, and this time, I retreated. “But you can come back to me, work at studio, compete together with me, I can take care of you, like you always wanted. If you work very hard, we can win again.”
What? Was he serious? I didn’t want to date him now. Back then, I’d idolized him and that life. But now, I saw it as shallow. We had devoted our lives to dancing, not ever thinking about anyone other than ourselves. After meeting Grady, a man that had sacrificed so much for something he believed in, I wanted to be with someone inspiring. Someone who inspired me to be a better person.
“That is a kind offer, Pash, but I’m not interested. Nice to see you again. Good luck at Nationals.” I stood up, and he mirrored me. I turned to leave, and he pulled me to him, kissing me on the cheek. But I felt nothing. Once there had been electricity between us, but the spark had extinguished. Until I met Grady, I’d wondered if I would ever feel that radiance from a man again.
Heroes Ever After Boxset: Books 1-3 Page 7