The audience let out a collective gasp as the reel flashed a picture of Pierce’s funeral, his wife and young children walking behind the casket.
A single tear threatened to slip from the corner of my eye, but the cameras were luckily not on me.
There it was—no more hiding. By morning, every member of my unit would know where I had disappeared to over the last month.
Another clip showed the first time I met Robyn in Tiburon.
The voiceover cut in: “Dancing the mambo, Robyn Quintana and her partner, United States Marine Bret Lord.”
Now live, I led Robyn to the floor. “Mambo #5” started playing. I twirled her around, and she was on fire. It was a fun routine with a lot of basic actions to please the judges. I moved my hips, and Robyn shimmied around me, swishing the matching citrus-colored fringe of her two-piece dress. She swiveled in front of me, and I shook my chest. Our energy rippled through my body. We crashed our hips together and rolled off each other, never losing eye contact. I spun her into me and dipped her to the ground.
The crowd roared.
My heartbeat raced. I hadn’t made a fool out of myself, and I was one step closer to providing for Pierce’s family.
“Excellent job. The ballroom is on fire tonight,” Matt said. “That’s how it’s done. And Bret, thank you for your service. Let’s see what the judges have to say. Benjamin Brooks?”
The camera panned to Benny, who wore a yellow suit, black silk shirt, and his signature bolo tie. He looked like a bumblebee. Benny rose to fame at a time when ballroom dancing consisted of stringing together a series of cheesy poses while the men paraded around in ruffled white catsuits that were split in a long V shape to ensure that their excessive manes of chest hair showed.
“Robyn, it was a beaut’. You have rhythm, charm, and a bonzer of a body. Well done.”
“Karen Brooks Lopez,” Matt said, “what did you think of Robyn and Bret’s mambo?”
Karen leaned on her ex-husband. “Robyn, you were superb. I’m so impressed with what Bret has taught you.”
“Steve Samson, your thoughts?” Matt asked.
Steve Samson was single-handedly responsible for getting ballroom dancing on television. In the nineties, he ran and was the commentator on a successful television show on PBS, The Turquoise Pendant Ball. The entire dance industry was grateful to the exposure he had given ballroom dancing. As progressive and flamboyant as he could be, Steve provided a great contrast to Benny’s old-school traditional views on ballroom.
“Robyn, what a looker. Your spicy exoticism captivated me.”
The audience simultaneously rushed to their feet and clapped wildly.
We rushed backstage and waited for our scores. The judges gave us straight nines! A twenty-seven for our first show.
All of my hard work had paid off. What had only been a dream months ago was finally coming true. I was proud that I had made the sacrifice to go on this show.
A costume assistant came out of nowhere, pulled me behind the red room, and started ripping off my clothes. I had almost forgotten I had to dance a demonstration with Selena. The makeup girl powdered my face despite my protests. She smudged some lipstick on my lips, and before I could blink, she threw me back onstage.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” Matt said. “We’re going to start with a rumba demonstration from Season Twenty-Four winner, Selena Martinez, and our newest professional, Bret Lord.”
The band started playing a rumba, “I Just Can’t Stop Loving You,” by Michael Jackson.
I crept up behind Selena and took her arm. We slid into the rumba, and I pulled her to my chest. My white billowy shirt was only partially unbuttoned. Selena caressed my neck and gave her body over to me. I grasped her waist, and she rolled down my body. It felt like we had never stopped dancing years ago. But it was even better than I had remembered. The tension between us was electric. I craved her. She ran away from me and teased me with fleeting views of her inner thighs. The song started to taper, and I took her into my arms.
When the lights died down, and the stage was completely dark, I gave her a kiss on the lips. I didn’t care who saw us.
The lights came back on, and the crowd erupted.
Did I really kiss her? No one saw for sure. And if they had, I didn’t care. Selena was in my arms—just like old times.
Selena
Xavier and I stood nervously onstage next to Eric and his partner, reality star Aubrey, awaiting our fate. Last night, Bret and Robyn had received an amazing score in the mambo, so they were safe. But someone was about to get the ax.
“And the couple leaving us tonight—Eric and Aubrey,” Matt said.
Xavier gave me an excited hug. We would live to dance another week.
After the usual onslaught of interviews, Eric and Aubrey hopped into a limo to take them to the airport. They were booked on the redeye to New York for the losers’ round of morning talk shows.
Dima had cut me a check for some expenses. Even so, we hadn’t had a real conversation since he’d ended our dance partnership. But he had agreed to a joint statement, which our publicist released last Friday afternoon—after all the tabloids had already gone to press.
“We have been partners on and off the floor for ten years. Unfortunately, we have come to the conclusion it would be in our best personal and professional interests to end our partnership after this year’s Blackpool Competition. We will stay close friends and coworkers. There were no third parties responsible for the split, and we ask for your respect and privacy during this difficult time.”
Selima was dead. Our agent had tried to convince us to wait until the season was over to announce our split, but I had refused. If Bret wasn’t in the picture, I would’ve agreed to pretend, but I wasn’t going to jeopardize my newfound happiness.
That evening, Dima and I had been scheduled to dance a show for our studio. But because we’d broken up, Vika offered to dance in my place. Which meant that tonight, I could spend the entire night with Bret and not have to worry about dealing with Dima.
Backstage, Jenny rushed over with my phone and purse in hand. “I can’t believe we made it! One more week. I thought for sure this time I’d be gone. Let’s go celebrate. Here.”
My phone flashed as Jenny handed it to me.
Bret: Meet me at my hotel room in one hour.
Elizabeth came bounding up from behind. She gave Jenny a big hug. “See! I told you everything would be fine. Where do you guys want to go? I want to have a girls’ night. Let’s go to Nobu. I’m craving abalone.”
I stashed my phone in my purse. “You guys go ahead. I’m not in the sushi mood.” The reporters started exiting, so we moved to the side of the stage.
“Fine, no sushi. Let’s go to The Ivy.” Jenny picked up her phone and started dialing. “Not a raw fish in that place.”
I winked at Jenny. “Not tonight, Jen. I’m super tired. I have an early drive to San Francisco tomorrow, so I’m gonna just go home so I can get some sleep.”
Jenny knowingly nodded, but Elizabeth was so happy-happy-joy-joy she didn’t give it a second thought.
“Then it’s just Jen and me,” Elizabeth chirped. “Sel, you call us later. I need to par-tay!”
“Oh, God,” Jen muttered as Elizabeth pulled her over to the lingering media. “We’ve created a monster, Sel,” she called over her shoulder.
I shrugged and gave her a thumbs-up, watching them disappear around the corner with the reporters.
Bingo! Exit, stage right!
Jenny was right, though—just last season, Elizabeth had never set foot inside a dance club. Life as a Mormon is wild, isn’t it? When we hit the clubs in Cabo, Elizabeth ordered sparkling water. Sometimes, when she really cut loose, she’d add a slice of lime. And no Starbucks? Where was the joy in that? Jenny and I had vowed not to corrupt her; I respected Elizabeth’s lifestyle and religion. Elizabeth reminded me of myself at eighteen—madly in love with Bret, worshipping Dima, and unaware of a world outside the dance studio
. I just hoped that Elizabeth was stronger than I had been back then.
But I wasn’t eighteen anymore—I was a grown woman, and I couldn’t wait to be alone with Bret.
I ducked out the back of the studio, called my driver, and told him to meet me in forty-five minutes.
I rushed to my trailer across the back lot and shimmied out of my dress before the door had even closed. Shower!
Scrubbing the orange tanning cream off myself under the hot water, I marveled for the millionth time that a Latina had to paint her skin like some kind of coloring book. It was the dumbest thing ever—and God, did I hate the smell of the stuff. I nearly grafted my skin trying to loofah it off, but I still had orangey running streaks all over my body. I swore I looked like a stubby giraffe. I slathered on Palmer’s Cocoa Butter to mask the smell. Sure, I could afford the expensive creams and all now, but I loved my Palmer’s, so it stayed. My mane of hair was all over the place, so I scrunched in some spray gel and stuffed it under a big, floppy hat.
Just as I finished up, my phone vibrated.
Twenty-three new messages? What the heck?
Half of them were from Jenny—in the past twenty minutes. What was her problem? I’d already told her I didn’t want to hang out.
Jenny: Sel, check this out
Selena Martinez Cheater
Oh no.
I clicked on the link.
Not So Blind Item
Which Dancing Under the Stars hoofer recently dumped her partner for her ex? This spicy salsa queen seduced the newest professional dancer on his debut season. Developing…
3 COMMENTS:
DUTS addict: it’s that slut Selena Martinez.
Reina Rumba: Can’t blame her! Bret’s fine.
Dima’s lover: Dima’s better off without her.
How did the gossip sites know everything? I’d been back together with Bret for less than two weeks. I hadn’t told anyone other than Jenny. Someone must have seen us. Maybe it was that room service guy—he had looked at us funny yesterday morning when he’d delivered our breakfast. Or the waitress at Mustards? What would Bret say?
Or . . . it was Dima.
Yes. It had to be. Dima loved the limelight and wouldn’t waste a chance to paint himself as the victim.
That bastard.
What if Bret left me because of the gossip? Or my fans believed I cheated on Dima even though we hadn’t been dating?
I took a deep breath. I needed to calm my ass down. I knew this was going to happen. I just didn’t think I would have to deal with it so soon.
I wonder if… I leaned toward the window in my trailer and peered outside. They are!
There were at least thirty paparazzi on the sidewalk outside the lot with video cameras and those long extender things.
Wait, was that one guy pointing the lens at this window?
Flashes went off.
I slammed the curtains shut.
I was trapped.
My driver was due to pick me up now.
Think.
I poked my head out of the door and looked down both sides of the backlot. Coast was clear. Thank god for our security. The Mission Impossible theme song played in my head as I slinked through the door. Super quickly, I ran through the maze to the garage. No cameras.
But my celebration was short. When I got to the garage, my driver wasn’t in sight.
I texted him again, hoping the voices around the side of the building weren’t the paps. But of course, they were. Driver, where are you?
The cameras started going off as my limo cruised down the parking ramp. I ran to the car while it was still moving and pounded on the door for the driver to unlock it.
“Girl, you trying to get yourself killed?” he asked.
“That would be one solution.” I scrambled into the limo and reached for the Don Julio Blanco bottle. I took a swig of tequila, straight out of the bottle. Who needed the glass? “Sorry about all that. Just take me to the hotel. Fast. And try to lose those guys on our tail.”
The tires busted outta there. “Aye, aye, boss!” he squealed, yahooing for good measure.
I left the glass in the rack and continued chugging from the bottle.
Another text appeared.
Mom: Are you back with Bret?
Oh Lord. My mom wanted me to stay with Dima for the financial security and, as she’d once said, “to not be a broke military wife.”
I couldn’t deal with her right now.
The driver turned onto the street of the hotel. Dammit. There were more paps waiting in the lobby. I almost told my driver to take off again, but I didn’t know if I could survive another mile with this Mario Andretti wannabe.
Breathe, Sel. You can do this…
I put on my oversized Chanel sunglasses and opened the limo door before the driver could get there.
Immediately, a TMZ reporter shoved a camera in my face. “Selena, are you having an affair with Bret?”
I pushed past him to the steps. A hundred feet more, and I would be safe.
A Star writer blocked the entrance. “Selena, Selena, is it true that Dima walked in on you and Bret having sex backstage on the show?”
Are you kidding me?
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
Get a life! That’s what I have to say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Bret and I are just friends, and we’ve known each other for over twenty years. Dima and I haven’t been in a romantic relationship for three years. We just ended our dance partnership. There is no scandal. Please leave me alone.”
I headed into the elevator. The ride up took forever. Fifth floor…sixth floor…seventh floor. Ding! I stepped off.
Breathe, baby.
Room 715…717…719… I looked to the next door and spotted Bret, looking sexy as all hell wearing Calvin Klein pajama bottoms and no shirt, wedged in the doorway, waiting for me.
But before I could do or say anything, he seized me, pulling me into the brightly lit room, and started kissing my neck.
“What took you so long?” He clasped my hands in his.
“The paparazzi. They know about us.”
“Who cares? Come here.” He tossed me down on the bed.
I rolled on top of him. Our bodies were made for each other. He slowly undressed me, taking his time exploring my body. We kissed for what seemed like forever, just like when we were fifteen years old.
“I love you, Selena.”
Euphoria pulsed through me. “I love you, too.”
“You smell even sweeter than I remember,” he whispered.
Another star for Palmer’s Cocoa Butter.
Selena
I had to be camera-ready in forty-five minutes to film the new fitness video, Dancing Under the Stars: Cardio Tango. How incredibly lame was that? What was a Cardio Tango anyway? And with the gossip about me everywhere, I would rather do anything but this.
Bret left the hotel early this morning to take a day off. I couldn’t blame him.
I bolted out of bed, tripping on the comforter and landing on my butt.
Good God, almighty! I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror. My hair was all matted together like cotton candy. I couldn’t even get a comb through it. I whipped through my patented ten-minute beauty routine—showered, put on deodorant, brushed my teeth, and lathered some conditioner through my hair, then wrapped it in a towel. Thank God they had makeup people on set. I threw on some sweats and grabbed my purse.
I texted my driver to meet me in the service garage then headed for the door, taking one last glance in the mirror. Oh, good Lord—I still had the towel wrapped around my hair. I reached up to take it off but stopped myself; I’d look like a babushka just in case anyone saw me. Perfect disguise. The towel stayed.
Luckily, there were no cameras to be found, and I slid out the back door of my hotel and found my driver.
Six minutes later, he pulled up to the studio. A few cameras lingered outside, but I just shoved past them. It took all my strength to pl
ow through the front door.
The other girls were sitting on the couch in the lobby in matching blue and white dance shorts and halter-tops, like a trashy version of the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. Nicole had her arms draped around Vika, with Jenny sitting close. Strangely, Elizabeth had removed herself from the group and was at the other end of the couch.
Jenny hustled over to me. “How are you? Stupid tabloids.” She put her arm around my shoulders and ushered me away from the paps in the window. “Don’t worry, Sel, it’ll all blow over. I told everyone it’s not true.” She winked at me. Jenny always had my back.
Time to come clean. I didn’t want Jenny to have to lie for me.
Vika walked over to me. “So, it is true? You dumped Dima?”
I stepped from Jenny’s side and faced Vika. I could understand why Vika was upset. Though we weren’t as close as Jenny and I were, Vika and I had become like family when I was with Dima. She had always assured me that Dima loved me, and we would end up together.
“Vika, I…” I still had my sunglasses on. I couldn’t face them yet. “I…” Oh, God, they could all see right through me. I couldn’t lie to Vika’s face. “I…I’m sorry, but it’s true. I’m with Bret.”
Vika let out a gasp. “Dima told to me that he wanted to get back together with you, but you dumped him because he didn’t want the kids,” Vika said, getting up from the couch and walking straight at me.
“That’s not true. But Vika…Dima and I have been broken up for years. I didn’t want to get back together with him, so he ended the partnership. It really has nothing to do with me dating Bret.”
Vika stabbed her finger at the paps through the window. “I actually defended you to the sleazy reporters.” She straightened up and set her jaw. “You’re so stupid, Selena. No one will ever dance together with you again.”
The Swan and The Sergeant Page 12