I would probably deck him.
Breathe, Bret.
“Congrats, Sel. I’m glad I came to watch.”
Selena beamed, still short of breath. “Thanks, Bret.” She leaned forward, planting a light kiss on my cheek.
She was sweaty, and her hair was wild. I grinned, looking down, not wanting her to see my face. I’d always liked her like this.
Benny pushed in between us. “Well, I hate to cut this rip-snorter of a party short, but we’ve just confirmed your assignments. Your celebrity partners want to meet tomorrow. Sorry for the short notice, but this show business thing is highly unpredictable, isn’t it?” He opened his jacket and handed some papers to Selena and me.
“San Francisco?” Selena asked, looking up at me.
“Marin, actually. You and Bret are paired with a bloke and his Sheila. I can’t tell you their names, but they’re icons.”
Marin, of course. Benny was sending us to our hometown, where we’d fallen in love so many years ago.
Selena shook her head. “We start tomorrow? I only packed for the competition.”
“Sorry, luv. We just got word that they have to start training early because they both have a charity commitment and need to take the following week off when you were supposed to start. They’re expecting you both tomorrow evening.”
Selena stood there, blotting her head with a towel, the self-tanner staining the fabric. “But there’s no flight assignments, just an address. What time is our flight?”
Benny gave a big grin, his gray eyebrow inching up like a worm. Fuck, I knew that look from years ago.
“Well, Selena. That’s a great question. You’ll be gobsmacked. Bret, Selena, please step outside.”
I took a deep breath. I was used to Benny’s games but didn’t have a clue what he was planning.
Benny signaled to the film crew and led us outside of the hotel.
The etched glass doors separated. A lifted, shiny silver Ford truck stood there in all its glory. It had all the bells and whistles, a huge grill, custom rims, and bright, brilliant headlights.
Benny tossed me the keys. “Bret, m’boy. This is your new truck! Courtesy of Ford. They’ve donated it to you as a welcome gift for our American Hero!”
My jaw dropped. “Are you messing with me?”
“Nup.” Benny opened the truck’s door.
I stood there in awe of the truck. I didn’t deserve this and definitely didn’t want to owe anyone anything. The only reason I agreed to go on this show was to raise money for Pierce’s family—not to be showered with gifts that I hadn’t earned.
This was unreal. What price would I have to pay for this gift? This Ford Raptor was my dream truck. It had to be worth at least eighty thousand dollars.
More than I made in an entire year. More than I would make on this show.
My stomach ached. How could they just throw money at me? I wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept this “gift” when my men struggled to make ends meet while risking their lives.
The video camera was just inches from his face.
“It’s very generous, Benny, but I can’t accept this. It’s too expensive. My truck is perfectly fine.” My ten-year-old basic-model GMC Sierra needed new brake pads and a fresh coat of paint, but it was paid off and still ran.
Benny signaled the cameras to shut off. “Okay, so the deal is, Ford is sponsoring the show and giving you the truck. In exchange, we’re giving them free advertising.”
“Out of the question. I won’t take it.”
Selena butted in. “Bret, take the truck. You don’t really have a choice. Ford is one of our sponsors.”
My face warmed. I wouldn’t be backed into a corner. “I refuse.”
Benny put his arm around me. “Mate, you can always sell the ute. We can even do an auction after the season for charity. But you have to ride in it.”
“If I have no choice…” My voice trailed off—how would they manipulate me next?
“Attaboy. There’s one more thing. They want to film you both traveling in the truck.”
“Us both? What does this have to do with Selena?”
“Well, no one knows you yet. Selena’s our star! It’s just one road trip. For your dead mate.” Benny winked at Selena.
Was she in on this bullshit? So now they were going to throw Pierce in my face every time I didn’t do what they asked?
“Fuck you, man. And this truck.”
I threw the keys on the ground and walked away.
Selena came racing after me.
“Don’t, Selena. Just don’t. This was a mistake.”
She reached for my hand, and I pulled it away.
“No, Bret, wait. You know Benny. He didn’t mean anything by that. This is just how the show works. Reality is real, you know?”
Yup, I knew.
I exhaled. I knew I couldn’t quit. It was too late to go back. I’d signed the contract knowing full well what Benny was capable of.
I turned and walked back to Benny.
“Sorry, Bret.”
I didn’t have to accept his apology. I just wanted to get this over with. “So, what’s the plan? Any other surprises?”
“There’s a camera in the back of the truck that will record your trip. You need to leave tonight.”
“Tonight? I have to stop in Los Angeles to get my clothes.” Selena bit her lip.
“You two can work out the details. Have a great night.” Benny gave me a final handshake, kissed Selena, and sauntered back inside the hotel.
I turned to Selena, whose gown was glowing in the moonlight. “Well, I guess we’re leaving tonight.”
“I can’t believe we have to drive there.” Her brow was furrowed like it was the craziest thing ever.
My own forehead crinkled with amusement. “Why?”
“Well…because.” She placed her hands on her hips. “I mean, no one drives. They arrange first-class seats, and then a limo picks us up.”
“Well, maybe a nice, peaceful drive isn’t your thing, but it’s mine. Especially in this truck. I don’t need a plane ticket, and I sure as hell don’t need first class.”
A thinly painted eyebrow rose while her eyes narrowed. “You’re saying I’m high-maintenance?”
Yup, exactly.
I laughed, holding my hands up in protest. “Hey, I never said that did I? I haven’t seen you in ten years. But from what I’ve read in the magazines…yeah. I’d say you seem like a diva.”
She pouted, but her eyes twinkled. “Okay, fine. I can handle a road trip. As long as we can stop tonight at my place so I can get my stuff. And, of course, my bags from the hotel.”
“Fine. But only if you don’t try filling up the back of my truck with all your fancy luggage.”
Selena’s gaze hovered to the left, and I saw Dima walk by the lobby with a group of girls. Her eyes darkened, and she whipped her head back with a shrug and a tiny smile. “I’ll have the bellman bring it all down, and you’ll see for yourself.”
“Never mind the bellman. Just give me your room number, and I’ll go get it.”
Selena’s mouth opened, but she didn’t answer me.
“What, Selena? Are you on some secret celebrity floor? Do I need a special key?”
“No. It’s not that. Are you sure you don’t want me to call the bellman?”
I frowned. “Why do I need some other guy to grab stuff I can carry myself?”
Selena lit up and smiled. “I know. It’s just…never mind. It’s room 632.”
I fondled my new keys. “I need to run home and pack. I’ll meet you at your hotel room in two hours.”
I walked Selena back to the hotel and watched as she went into the elevator. She waved goodbye.
I left the hotel, climbed into my truck, and turned the stereo on. Caressing the leather steering wheel, I flicked on the headlights, roared the engine.
I would enjoy this gift for the season and could sell it for my buddy’s family.
But that was the easy part.
Selena
Bret would be knocking on my door any second. I tossed my clothes into my suitcase. The drive from San Diego to Marin would be nine hours, at least. Would he want to drive all night? Stay at my house in LA? It was already dark out.
Dima was still downstairs, probably flirting with his fans. I debated texting him that I had to leave but decided to write a note instead.
Dima,
Benny said I have to take off to San Francisco tonight to meet my celebrity. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Love,
Selena
I chose to omit that Bret would be driving me. It shouldn’t matter to Dima. And it wasn’t like I had a choice. Crazy as it seemed at first, I was already starting to look forward to it. Some days, I lived at the airport. I was constantly in the air—traveling to train with my celebrities, jetting off to be interviewed on talk shows, hopping on flights for competitions. How exhausting. A nice, slow drive did sound like a welcome change of pace.
Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have thought I’d still be competing at age twenty-eight. Back then, ballroom dancing was relegated to the once-yearly televised competition on PBS. There were no weekly celebrity television shows. Though the show gave me the financial security I needed to support my family and my competition career, its demands definitely interfered with the practicing and coaching that we needed to win Blackpool. I had imagined that by this point in my life, I’d have already won my coveted title, be retired, and settled down with a husband and kids. Maybe I’d be running a small dance studio like Bret’s mom. But I’d pushed that dream aside for now.
Despite all the insanity with Dima, slipping out of my three-inch suede Latin heels and walking off the dance floor was not an option, not yet. I loved my life and wasn’t ready to hang up my ball gown, even though I desperately wanted to start a family. A pulsating samba, a rhythmic cha-cha, a melodic rumba, a confrontational paso doble, a frolicking jive—my body couldn’t just stop with it all. Some girls found the mink fur eyelashes, the fake tan, the hair extensions—all of it—heavy. But not me. And when the music died, life was always a little less bright, waiting for the next turn on the sprung hardwood floor.
I had already scrubbed off all of my makeup, stripped off my costume, and washed the glitter out of my hair. Would Bret like the soft terry eggplant-colored designer sweats I usually saved for traveling? No. I folded the suit with care, slipping it into my suitcase. Instead, I reached for a simple white cotton t-shirt and a pair of worn, tight jeans.
I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and perched myself on the edge of my bed but couldn’t relax. I grabbed a magazine and flipped through it, all the while staring at the alarm clock. Bret was never late.
A strong rap at the door disrupted the silence. I tossed the magazine on the coffee table and crossed the room to open the door.
Bret stood there, looking stunned. “You didn’t even ask who it is. Don’t you have stalkers? I could be a sex-crazed fan.”
Well, if my sex-crazed fan was as hot as you, he’d have a shot.
I laughed nervously. It was hard not to look at him and remember that he’d been my first love. My first lover. And I’d been his. He’d been a shy, lean teenage boy back then. This Bret standing before me—he was all man. His presence threw me. Made me wonder crazy things. Like what it would be like to nuzzle his neck, fondle his muscles, taste his kisses—those strong hands exploring every inch of my body.
I couldn’t let myself go there. We were about to be stuck in a truck for eight hours. I gave a playful roll of my eyes and crossed my arms.
“Relax. I checked in under a pseudonym, and no one else knows my room number. I knew it was you because you’re right on time.”
Bret slung my duffel bag over his shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“What?”
“Your fake name. What is it?”
“If I tell you, I’ll have to change it next time.”
Bret just stared back at me, clearly not amused.
“Fine, if you must know, it’s Brenda Walsh.”
He gave me a blank look.
I shot him a skeptical glare. “Oh, come on. Beverly—”
“Hills 90210, I know. I remember losing weeks of my life watching those garbage reruns, over and over, at every dance competition.”
“Well, that’s the only American show some of those countries would play. Besides, you got a kick out of the ridiculous dubbed voices. The Spanish Dylan was hilarious.”
“Okay, Brenda. Let’s get a move on. It’s late.” Bret stared at Dima’s bags in the room. Ugh, now he knew we had shared a room. At least there were two queen beds in it.
I picked up my purse and cooler and followed Bret out the door.
When we arrived downstairs, I focused on the new truck. I’d always liked Dima’s flashy Fanta orange Lamborghini, but there was something about this big silver truck that seemed more exciting, more masculine, and less pretentious. Bret tossed my luggage into the bed.
“Um…I thought you were only kidding about putting my things in the back of your truck.”
“No, princess, I wasn’t. Otherwise, there would be no room for Banjo.”
The valet handed Bret his keys and a leash. Attached to the latter was a tan, smooshy-faced dog, around thirty pounds, with a goofy smile. Bret slapped a five-dollar bill in the valet’s hand.
“You’re bringing . . . your dog? I’m not sure the hotel up there will allow it. What is he, anyway?”
Banjo sniffed me and slobbered all over my jeans. “He’s a pug/lab mix. Got him at the base shelter. Great dog. Anyway, I’m not staying in the hotel. Get in, Sel. I’ll put a tarp over your bags, so they don’t get too many dead bugs.”
Gross. The thought of slimy insects smashed over my luggage made me ill. But I wasn’t going to make a big deal out of it because I didn’t want to endure Bret’s teasing.
He helped me into the truck and hoisted Banjo in next to me, and the mutt scampered to the backseat. The fresh scent of new leather tickled my nose. I stole a glance at Banjo, now making himself comfortable by turning in circles on the seat until plopping down. Where would they be staying, if not at the hotel? For all I knew, Bret could have a girlfriend in Marin.
Bret climbed into the front seat, and we were off.
“Are you hungry? We can stop at In-N-Out.”
Memories of a fifteen-year-old Bret egging me on to cram the rest of my Double Double Burger Animal Style in my mouth hovered in my mind. Before In-N-Outs were all over California, we once drove two hours away to find Bret’s favorite burger. Winning a competition meant a greasy reward we’d never be allowed to eat during training.
Back then, I could eat anything and not gain an ounce.
I pointed at the cooler resting between my feet. “I have my dinner packed.”
“I don’t even want to ask. Cooler?”
“Uhm yeah. My nutritionist has a chef prepare my meals for me. It’s vegan and gluten-free. But super yummy.” I reached between my knees, pried the lid open, and pulled out a clear plastic container. “It’s this amazing quinoa grilled vegetable salad with lentils and lemon-basil vinaigrette. Wanna try?”
Bret turned his nose up. “I’ll pass. Thanks.”
He pulled into the drive-through and ordered a few burgers. When he received his food, he unwrapped a plain hamburger and tossed it to Banjo.
Back on the road, we were both silent. The music coming out of the car speakers grew louder, now that Bret had turned up the volume. Eddie Vedder’s deep voice belted the song “Black.”
Sitting next to Bret was surreal, especially without the buffer of mindless banter to keep my awkwardness from settling over us. He was right there, inches away from me. Years ago, I might’ve placed my hand on his thigh. Now, Bret stared ahead, navigating the road with a determined expression on his face. Maybe that precise focus was something he’d developed ove
rseas, driving a tank through dusty streets bordered by dilapidated homes. Or perhaps that was just some image I’d picked up from a movie somewhere. I knew nothing of what he’d experienced in Iraq. I wanted to ask about his life. But none of my questions seemed the right one to lead with.
Banjo had finished his burger and was rolling around in the backseat, tan hairs shedding everywhere. I picked at my healthy salad. The tiny grains tumbled off the fork, and I pouted, almost wishing my hands were clutched around a foil-wrapped Double Double instead.
There would never be a perfect moment, so I reached over and lowered the music. “So, Benny mentioned to me about your friend. What happened?”
He sighed. “My buddy, Landon Pierce, was killed in Iraq. He had volunteered to go on a patrol, a patrol that I had been scheduled for, and his Humvee was hit with an IED.”
I gasped. “Oh, Bret, that’s awful! I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, it sucks. It should’ve been me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true. He had a wife and two young kids. When Benny wrote, I figured the show would be an easy way to make a bunch of money in a few months. Then I can help Pierce’s family out.”
A few months? I had assumed there was a chance he would become a regular dancer. That he’d be around for the next few years. At least. “Why only one season? It’s a great lifestyle—you only have to work for fifteen weeks twice a year. Dima and I stay on the show so we can afford to compete. We want to win Blackpool within the next two years.” I paused, realizing that Bret probably didn’t want to hear about my competition plans. “You can raise money for other Marines—if you like it. You should stay on the show.”
“No, I can’t. This is a one-shot deal for me. I had to get special permission from the Marine Corps. I’m still under orders for two more years. After that, I’ll have twelve years in—I can retire at twenty, so I’ll just reenlist for eight more.”
I lowered my head. “But I’m sure if you wanted to, they could make an exception.”
Bret shook his head. “That’s not how it works. The military doesn’t make exceptions. And I don’t want to. I’m just doing this for Pierce. Otherwise, there’s no point.”
The Swan and The Sergeant Page 5