The Swan and The Sergeant (Heroes Ever After Book 4)

by Alana Albertson

  I took her hand. “You, too.” Robyn gave me a hesitant smile and squeezed my hand as we all four lined up for the final announcement.

  The music came on. Matt took his position. “For the past fifteen weeks, these couples have lived in the studio and endured endless hours of practice and blisters on their feet. Right now, we will finally reveal the winner of this season of Dancing Under the Stars.” He smiled so big, I swore his bleached teeth actually twinkled from the bright lights. “The winner of the crystal dance shoe trophy is…”

  I looked over at the judges’ table. Benny was grinning at Bret. He mouthed, You did it!

  I bit my lip.

  Matt read the card. “Robyn Quintana and Bret Lord!”

  My screams were drowned out by the howls of the audience as Bret lifted Robyn and twirled her around in the air. He did it! All the dancers and stars from the season flooded the stage. Xavier embraced his wife as confetti hailed the stage.

  Bret looked me in the eye and kissed me on the lips, the camera inches from our faces.

  Ten years later, Bret Lord had won another dance competition.

  Then he dropped to his knees and pulled a ring box out of his pocket.

  Oh my god!

  “Selena, will you marry me?”

  Finale

  I sat in front of the television in Kuwait, my Marines around me. The familiar theme song blasted through the speakers.

  “Come on, man, do we have to watch this crap? The fight is on,” a corporal yelled.

  My eyes remained glued to the screen. “I’ll switch in a few. This is the only way I can see my wife.”

  “Welcome to Dancing Under the Stars. This season, we’ll thrill with our best lineup ever, including a heavy metal drummer, an Olympic figure skater, and an Academy-Award-winning actor. But first, a showcase of our professionals,” the host said.

  The ladies hit the stage. Not much had changed—Vika, Nicole, Elizabeth, and Jenny were still there. There was a new girl also, some knockout with long, black hair.

  Ray leaned toward me. “I knew you would come back to your senses and get out of the Corps. You will be back on that stage in a year.”

  “It’s crazy. I can’t believe it myself. I got more than I ever wanted.”

  Had I ever. My total prize money with endorsements had equaled $250,000. I had donated it all to Pierce’s family. Pierce’s wife, Kimberly, had initially refused to accept the money. She eventually gave in and used it to purchase a home and set up college funds for her children.

  The only item I kept from the show was my truck. And I made peace with that decision.

  “That samba was choreographed by former Dancing Under the Stars champion, Selena Lord.”

  The camera panned to Selena, who sat in the audience. She looked beautiful. Her hair was now dark, and she was dressed in a mint-colored wrap dress that showed off her tiny baby bump. She blew a kiss to the camera, and I knew that it was meant for me.

  We’d had a small wedding ceremony on the beach in Bolinas, with just our families, Pierce’s family, Jenny, Ray and his family, and Xavier and Robyn in attendance. After a one-week honeymoon to Lana’i, we’d returned to Camp Pendleton.

  Selena had told Dima that she didn’t want to compete in Blackpool with him. She also told him that she thought what had happened in that hotel room ten years ago was rape. Though she didn’t press charges, she did tell Benny, who had Dima kicked off the show.

  After our initial fight, I had not brought it up again. Selena had come to this decision on her own. And I was damn proud of her.

  The irony of it all was now Dima’s career in the dance world was over. And Selena’s was just beginning.

  Selena kept her Hollywood Hills home, and we’d also taken married housing on base. Now Selena taught at a local dance studio, even as she choreographed Xavier’s new tour and this new season of Dancing Under the Stars.

  A week before I had been deployed, we’d found out that Selena was pregnant. My deployment would only be five months, so I’d be back in time for the birth.

  I rubbed my titanium wedding band. Though I wished I could be with her, I was happy to be serving alongside my men, even if it would be my final tour. Selena would be waiting for me when I returned, and I was going to be a father.

  I had everything I’d ever wanted.

  And so did Selena—I had agreed once my enlistment was up that I would compete with her. Sure, I wanted to make her happy, but I had also realized how much I loved dancing. So I was doing it for me as well.

  I reached out and flipped the channel. “Enough samba for one day. Time for some UFC.”

  Thank you for reading The Swan and The Sergeant!

  I hope you loved Bret & Selena.

  Would you like to read a deleted bonus scene about Bret & Selena?

  Click here:

  Catch up with them and meet their friends, Dax & Mirasol in The Angel & The Rockstar—A Navy SEAL Rumpelstiltskin Retelling!

  Turn the page for an excerpt from

  The Angel and The Rockstar

  Or read about Bret’s Marine buddy Grady who also falls in love with a ballroom dancer.

  But without her love, I’m not a man—I’ll remain forever a beast.

  The Beauty and The Beast

  Available now: Book 1 in the Heroes Ever After Series

  ONE CLICK The Beauty and The Beast now!

  XOXO

  Alana

  The Angel & The Rockstar

  Dax

  I jerked back my head, flinging my blond hair off my face, the sweat dripping down my bare chest. My fingers remained glued to the strings, strumming the final riffs of our rock ballad. Ten thousand rabid fans mouthed the lyrics—the stadium glowed from the synchronized cigarette lighters, the night air pungent with drug fumes. A half naked girl surfed the crowd, minions throwing her on stage, as if they were offering a sacrifice, kneeling at the altar of their rock god—me. What an incredible night. I better fucking enjoy it—because tonight would be my last show, the last time I would make love to this guitar, the last time I would sing our songs. Tonight would be the night my chords would go silent.

  But fuck it, tonight wasn’t over yet. I was going to live it up. Fuck the finest woman in the audience, get completely wasted, maybe even trash a hotel room. My backstabbing band mates—guys I’d known since we were cub scouts—could go fuck themselves. I’d practiced in my parents’ garage with these two-timing sons of bitches since before we reached puberty. We’d broken every barrier in the industry, brought heavy metal music back from obscurity, bridged the gap between rock star and celebrity.

  I scanned the crowd, looking for my victim. Usual suspects milled in the crowd—bleached blonde bimbos, marked metal maidens, slutty sorority sisters. But for my last night as a rock star, I wanted someone innocent. Not a virgin, fuck no, I wanted some girl to ride me like a Harley. But I wanted a good girl, a girl who didn’t sleep around, a girl who would never dare indulge in her rock star fantasy. A girl who would remember me forever.

  What people didn’t get about rockstars was that everything was handed to us. Yes men surrounded me, my every whim catered to. I wanted a challenge. For once in my life, I wanted to have to work for something.

  My drummer Callan battled the bass drum, and my throat tightened. This was it. My final note. I plucked the last string, the sound soaring in my ears. A lump grew in my throat, and my eyes watered, but it wasn’t from the smoke filled air. It was over. I clutched my beloved guitar, the instrument that had been my lifeline for so many years, and smashed it on the ground. Every bang, every slam, every crack filled me with rage. Chips of wood flew on the stage, strings popped, and I destroyed my prized possession. I glanced back at the audience, my heart pounding in my chest. I gave them a final wave goodbye, flicked off my traitorous bandmates, and exited stage left.

  Publicists milled backstage, reporters shoved microphones in my face, and girls screamed when I walked by. Too easy. I wanted something real, a connection. Even
though I would never be good for anything more than a one-night stand.

  I grabbed a bottle of jack and took a swig; the smooth liquid coated my throat. I was hungry, but wasn’t in the mood for the butter-poached lobster waiting in my room backstage. I figured I had a few seconds to make a break for the concessions, before the fans filed out. I dashed out the back door, and entered closest food stand.

  Carnal Asada. Kick ass. What a cool fucking name. Mexican food in San Diego was always amazing. I was grateful to have my last show here, one of my favorite cities. I slid to the counter to order some tacos, when something besides food whet my appetite.

  Jet-black hair that skimmed her back, huge tits that filled out her t-shirt, jeans that hugged her phat ass. Her plump lips were painted pink, but besides that she didn’t seem to have a hint of makeup on. Wow—did this woman have any clue how naturally beautiful she was?

  She barely looked up from the register. “What can I get for you?”

  “I’ll have two carne asada tacos and your number.”

  Her head straightened and her eyes met mine, her lashes rapidly blinking. “Oh my god! You’re Dax, aren’t you? I’m so sorry I didn’t notice you there. What are you doing out here? You’ll get mobbed.”

  People starting exploding out of the concert hall, and she was right, I had to get backstage. “It’s cool. Bring me my food to my dressing room.” I threw down a twenty-dollar bill and handed her a laminated back stage pass.

  She brushed her hand through her hair, and rubbed the back of her neck. I winked at her and gave her my signature head nod. Before she could say a word, I disappeared backstage.

  I stalked passed my singer, Trey. Motherfucker, tried to shake my hand. Fuck him. Fuck them all. Guy was a dick, always had been. Long time suffered of LSD, Lead Singer Disease. I was honest to god glad to be free of these fuckers, I just wished I could’ve left on my own terms.

  I opened my dressing room, grateful that the bullshit statement about my departure wouldn’t be released until tomorrow. Creative differences my ass. But I refused to be a sob story to the media. I had a plan. Tomorrow I would vanish, and I would make my own path. I was twenty-one, I had my whole life ahead of me.

  I peeled off my leather pants and hopped into the shower. The hot water scalded my skin, and I scrubbed the concert off of my chest.

  I heard a knock at the door. Great—dinner had arrived. And dessert.

  “Dax, uhm it’s Marisol, from Carnal Asada? I brought your food. I’ll just leave it at the table.”

  Not so fast sweetheart. “Hey, hold up. I’ll be out in a second.”

  I wrapped a towel around my waist, and opened the bathroom door. “Thanks, babe. Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

  Her eyes scanned my body, dropping briefly to my cock but then focusing back on my face. “I have to clean up at the restaurant and then I was going to head home.”

  I walked over to her, careful to maintain eye contact. “No, you’re not. You’re coming to Vegas with me.”

  Her jaw dropped, wide enough for me to imagine my cock in it. “Vegas? You’re out of your mind. Don’t you have groupies or something?”

  I laughed. “Groupies bore the fuck out of me. My bandmates are assholes, everyone in my entourage is paid to tell me how fucking awesome I am. I want a good girl who wants to be bad. Are you game?”

  Order Now:

  The Angel & The Rockstar

  About Alana

  ALANA ALBERTSON IS the former President of RWA’s Contemporary Romance, Young Adult, and Chick Lit chapters. She holds a M.Ed. from Harvard and a BA in English from Stanford. She lives in San Diego, California, with her husband, two sons, and six rescue dogs. When she’s not saving dogs from high kill shelters through her rescue Pugs N Roses, she can be found watching episodes of Cobra Kai, Younger, or Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team.

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  Acknowledgments

  I WOULD LIKE to thank my amazing editors on this book:

  Kelli Collins who ripped the earlier version apart and helped me reshape the entire thing.

  Gwen Hayes who is my arc goddess.

  Deborah Halverson, for not giving up on this book and my writing.

  To my husband, Roger, a real Marine hero. Thank you for watching the boys while I write and tolerating my endless “what if” conversations about my characters. I couldn’t have written this book without you.

  To my two beautiful sons, Connor and Caleb. You are both the best part of my day.

  To my critique partners:

  M-E Girard, for your insightful edits into the characterization of Bret and Selena. You are the reason I won so many contests!

  Juliette Sobanet, for all your spot on critiques and guidance. I’m so happy you moved to San Diego!

  To my agent, Jill Marsal, for believing in this story in its many different versions.

  To my brother, Joe Chulick, for convincing me to publish it. My sister-in-law Susie Chulick, for your uplifting encouragement.

  To my mother, Diana Chulick, for fostering my love of reading.

  To my three favorite romance writers, Kristan Higgins, Lauren Willig, and Susan Donovan. Thank you for taking your time to give me brilliant critiques on this book.

  To all my fellow RWA members, for supporting this book, teaching me how to write, and critiquing this manuscript.

  To my brilliant cover designer, Aria Tan. I heart you!