Sway

by Alana Albertson

  The deep popping sound of shots from a nearby AK-47 roused his ears but Bret didn’t move.

  As a marksmanship instructor, he could distinguish the sound of any weapon system. These shots weren’t the lighter, faster rounds of his men’s M16s. Looking past the palm trees that peppered the dismal scene of dilapidated shacks, he tried to get a location on the origin of the gunfire. Probably just some insurgents outside of base. The rules of engagement were clear—he couldn’t stop them from killing each other even if he wanted to. And he definitely wasn’t going to endanger the lives of his men.

  The sandstorm let up, and he reached into his pack to grab dinner. Spaghetti with Meat and Sauce was his favorite Meal Ready to Eat, even if it did taste like chalk. He hoped it came with cinnamon apples for dessert. He opened the box and laid out his day’s bounty: cherry-blueberry cobbler, potato sticks, wheat snack bread, plain cheese spread, lemon-lime beverage powder, and accessory pack “A”: coffee, creamer, sugar, salt, Tabasco, a moist towelette, toilet paper, chewing gum, and matches. Bret opened the cooking bag, placed the spaghetti pouch in it, filled it with water, and then leaned it against a rock to cook.

  He stared at the picture of himself and Selena winning the U.S. National Youth Amateur Latin Ballroom Championship. Selena was the star of the hit series Dancing under the Stars. His childhood sweetheart was now plastered on the cover of magazines, billboards, and advertisements. The details of his life back then had faded away from his memory. Being at war made everything a blur.

  Bret took a swig of water from his camelbak and downed two anti-malaria pills: one blue, one pink. The Marine Corps assured the troops that it was safe but Bret couldn’t help but wonder if the pills caused his daily headaches. Then again, maybe the migraines were just from the hundred-degree heat.

  Staff Sergeant Ray Wilson emerged from the tent, and sat beside him. Even though Bret had wanted to be alone, he was happy to have his friend’s company.

  “Slim Jim?” Ray offered. As Bret ripped the plastic off the snack, Ray nodded at the magazine article lying in the sand. “What’s that all about?”

  Bret grunted. “A month ago, my mom told me that the judge on Dancing asked her if I would consider doing the show. He just sent me a note.”

  “For real?” Ray took a bite of his own Slim Jim. “You’d have to be stupid to give up this paradise of sand and gunfire for the mansions of Hollywood. Your mother does realize you’re a Marine right? You can’t just leave the Corps and go on reality television.”

  “That’s what I told her. But she has this crazy idea that the Marine Corps would let me do it for one season—like a recruiting tool. I doubt that, but I could use my vacation leave. Remember that kid on American Pop Star?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t he gain like thirty pounds and fail his PFT? Can you still dance, Patrick Swayze?”

  “Good enough to teach some Teen Mom from MTV how to cha-cha. I’d be the laughing stock of the Corps.”

  “Maybe not. I mean you are the only Devil Dawg who happens to be a ballroom champion. You could be that all-American hero. The pretty face that recruits a load more boys to come join the rest of us here, and get shot at.”

  “If you think it sounds so great, I’ll tell her you’ll do it.” Bret hated the public’s obsession with the “celebrities” on these shows. Young kids who became millionaires for making sex tapes or wasting their days doing nothing but going to the gym, tanning and partying. Meanwhile, Bret and his buddies were out here in hell, dodging bullets.

  Bret checked his spaghetti. He dug into the warm, gooey meal.

  Ray shrugged. “The only dance I know is the ‘Harlem Shake,’ and something tells me I’d be more of a target for that than I am for being a Marine in Iraq.”

  Bret had no desire to ever dance again. Once he’d joined the Corps, he had found his calling. “Nah, I’d rather stay here with my men. I wouldn’t even consider it—if it weren’t for Pierce.”

  Ray blinked hard. “What does the show have to do with Pierce?”

  “I promised him that I’d take care of his family if anything happened to them. If I did the show, I could earn enough money to buy them a house.”

  “Dawg, you would do that for them? That would be crazy.”

  “He’d have done it for me.” Bret knew that Pierce would’ve done anything for him. Pierce had already proved that.

  They sat there in silence.

  Ray nodded toward Bret. “Pierce was a good dude. You should do it.”

  Bret’s hands became sticky with sweat. “I couldn’t. I’d make a fool out of myself.”

  “Man, it wouldn’t be that bad.” Ray stretched out. “And you can go check out your ex-fiancée—she is Maxim’s Sexiest Girl Alive. Even if she is with that pretty-boy dancer.”

  “Dima? That guy’s a jerk. He was one of our coaches. But I would never get back together with Selena.” Though she was sexier than ever, Bret had no desire to go there, despite the fact that he could still remember every inch of her body. A relationship between them could never work out. She was too focused on her career—always had been. He loved the Marines and wouldn’t allow himself to get tempted by the fame and money of Hollywood. But he still felt protective over her after all she had been through as a child and he hated seeing her all sexed up for the cameras. The thought of a bunch of Marines jerking off to pictures of his first love made him sick.

  Ray rolled his eyes. “Well you never know. Maybe she’s changed.” Ray broke out a bag of Skittles. “I’ll go with you. Can you request Beyoncé as your partner?”

  Bret laughed. “Not sure if Jay Z would like that. Or your wife.” Ray had one of the good ones. Ray’s wife was any Marine’s dream. Beautiful and faithful, Nia raised their four children while Ray was away. She was the head of the Key Wives’ Club, kept her body tight, and still had time to send Ray the best care packages, hence his endless supply of Slim Jims.

  Bret had tried to have that family life once, but it didn’t work out. After that experience, Bret had vowed never to get close to anyone again, at least until he left the Corps. He needed to focus on guiding his men—not be distracted wondering if another man kept his girl’s bed warm while Bret fought a war thousands of miles away.

  Ray stood up. “Nia’d be cool with it. She loves the show, man. Do it. Big shot reality star will need security. I got your back.”

  If Bret did it, he’d want to have Ray by his side to handle the entertainment world. But it wouldn’t be to get back with Selena. Bret had no desire to live in the spotlight, and from what he could see, she had no desire to leave it. He stuffed the article back into his pocket containing his “If I should die” letter.

  The roar of the rounds boomed through the sky. His cammies were soaked in sweat and felt heavy on his chest. He couldn’t see anything, but the rumbling of the helicopters overhead told him this was no training exercise.

  Ray and Bret didn’t say a word; they knew what was about to go down. A fire built in Bret’s chest and adrenaline took over. Moments like this made all the sacrifices of war worth it—knowing that his life meant something and that he was responsible for not only protecting his men, but also ensuring the safety of Americans back home. Bret tossed the rest of the food into his pack and gathered his weapon. They raced into the tent.

  Bret screamed at his men. “Grab your weapons and take cover!”

  Buy Swing

  Blue Sky

  Blue Sky

  Copyright © 2018 by Alana Albertson

  Cover design by Aria Tan of Resplendent Media

  Cover Photography: Wander Aguiar

  Cover Model: Jase Dean

  Bolero Books, LLC

  11956 Bernardo Plaza Dr. #510

  San Diego, CA 92128

  www.bolerobooks.com

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any mea
ns (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  To my parents—the late Joseph Chulick Jr., an officer and a gentleman, and Diana Viramontes Chulick, the love of his life

  For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.

  Leonardo da Vinci

  Foreword

  This book has been a labor of love for me. As a biracial Mexican-American woman, I was hoping to shine a spotlight on the economic hardships in border towns. I hope you fall in love with Paloma and Beck the same way I did.

  Love,

  Alana Viramontes Chulick Albertson

  Blue Sky

  Blue Sky

  There’s a bright lining to every dark cloud.

  For ten weeks every year, the Blue Angels descend from the heavens and land in heEl Centro, California. The residents treat the pilots like gods. The city council members host black tie galas, little old ladies bring them homemade pies, and groupies wait by their rooms to satisfy their desires. Everyone worships them—everyone, that is, except for me. I hate the way they waltz into my poor town and romance all the residents only to vanish into the sky.

  But even I can’t afford to say no when I’m offered the chance to be the nanny for sexy, cocky pilot Beckett Daly’s baby girl, Sky. The job is my only hope to feed my family and maybe one day leave this town.

  No matter how close I grow to Beckett, no matter how much I hunger for his embrace, I’ll never let down my guard for this Devil in a Blue Angel’s disguise.

  1

  Tomatillos

  I stood in my mama’s kitchen, peeling back the husks of the ripe tomatillos my neighbor had gifted to me. Even though I lived only miles away from the Mexican border, fresh produce was expensive, and purchasing my beloved tart, green fruit was definitely a luxury I couldn’t afford.

  Not when there was a constant, gnawing ache in my belly. Not when my little sister Ana María cried every morning because she wanted more food, but I had none to give her. Not when my other sister, Mónica, would often eat her only meal of the day at school because she had free lunch. Not when I had to feed a family of four on fifty dollars a week.

  If only I had a job.

  But my employment status wasn’t from the lack of effort. No, not at all. I had literally applied to every job in the border town of El Centro, California, which had just recently been anointed “the worst place to live in America” by some huge national website. With the highest unemployment rate in the country at twenty-seven and a half percent, my prospects were bleak. I lay awake most nights, terror gripping my body, shivering despite the sweltering desert heat, trapped in the hell that was my life, dreaming of an escape route.

  In reality, I doubted that I would ever be able to leave my hometown. Instead, I would probably end up being buried here, but these days, even that wasn’t a certainty. El Centro’s cemetery recently went into foreclosure.

  I clutched the tomatillos in my hands, rinsed them under the cool water, cut out their stems, and tossed them in a pan to roast. This spicy sauce would coat the chicken enchiladas I had just made from scratch. Along with a pot of cumin-spiced pinto beans and a batch of arroz rojo, we would be blessed with a rare, hearty dinner. Over the years, I had learned how to make delicious meals out of scraps. These enchiladas, along with oatmeal for breakfast and tortillas for lunch, would have to last my family for a week.

  Ana María walked into the kitchen and clutched on my apron. “Where’s Mama?”

  At six years old, Ana María was a precocious little girl with amber-colored eyes and long brown hair that I made sure to braid every day, since Mama was usually too hung over to move, and that was if she even came home from her one of her frequent benders. Ana María was too young to learn the truth about our lives, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to protect her forever.

  “Baby, she’s out working.” And that was true, in a way. But Mama didn’t have a real job, either. Her version of “working” was flirting with men at the local bars and offering them favors for a bit of cash.

  “I am not a prostitute,” Mama would swear up and down. “I just love men.”

  I didn’t even try to argue with her anymore. The fact that Mama had three children with three different dads, none of whom she married, let her decisions speak for herself. Not that there was anything wrong with a woman enjoying a healthy sex life. But she lavished attention on these countless men while she neglected her children, which was deplorable.

  At least I didn’t know who my father was, so I could sometimes close my eyes and pretend that he was a good man. Maybe he didn’t even know that I existed and that if he found out that he had a daughter, he would rush to me and take me away from my mom.

  If only Mama would tell me his name, I would be able to figure it out.

  But my fantasy dad was the only good man in my life. Mónica’s father was a deadbeat and a womanizer who cheated on Mama all the time before she kicked his sorry ass out. And Ana María’s father was a hot-tempered alcoholic who would beat Mama until she could cry no more. The only other man around was my uncle, who also waged a losing battle with the bottle.

  But growing up around these jerks, none of whom stuck around, told me all I needed to know about men.

  Men were trouble. Untrustworthy. Only after one thing. At twenty years old, I was proud to say that I had never been distracted by a man, even though my soft curves and plump lips often made me a target for their leers. Sure, I had messed around with boys in high school and had even lost my virginity to a good friend of mine who had wanted to date me, but I told him that I was not looking for a relationship. I vowed that I would never let any man get in the way of my dreams of leaving this town, and this life, behind.

  But Mama had never known another way of living. She was only eighteen when she had become pregnant with me. Did Mama once have dreams of her own? Mama used to tell me, “El sueño es alimento de los pobres.”

  Dreams are the food of the poor.

  Mama’s future had blown away with the dust in this desert town. But my dreams were still real. Sometimes I closed my eyes and practiced creative visualization, something I had read about in a book. I pictured myself running a successful restaurant, living in a cute apartment, even owning a car. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fathom a scenario where I would get an opportunity to change my life.

  I just need a break.

  I sat Ana María down in front of a coloring book and turned my attention back to the salsa. I sliced half a white onion while blinking back the tears that were not only from vapors but also from my despair. After I pulled myself together, I crushed two garlic cloves, chopped fifteen sprigs of cilantro, and halved and de-stemmed a serrano pepper.

  My tomatillos were now ready, and when I removed them from the oven, their smoky scent filled up the tiny kitchen. I chopped the tomatillos and grabbed the molcajete to grind the salsa when my other sister, Mónica, burst into the room.

  “Paloma, Paloma!” Mónica shrieked.

  “What?” At fourteen, Mónica was definitely the rebel of the family, and already boy crazy. I worried that Mónica would end up just like our mother. To make certain that she didn’t, I’d forced her to go on birth control this year. If only I could take custody of my sisters and get out of this town.

  “Omg! Look at this!” She thrust a copy of the Imperial Press in my face.

  “Ay, Mónica.” I d
id not have time to read some gut-wrenching story in the newspaper. Just last week one of my high school classmates had been murdered in her apartment, which was only one street over from ours. The cops suspected drug traffickers, but it didn’t matter. Another reminder that the only way out of this town was in a body bag.

  “It’s your dream job!”

  Dream job? My dream was any job—I’d clean toilets, I’d mop floors, no job was below me. But with no car and nothing but a high school education, my prospects were bleak. And we needed the money now even more desperately than ever. The little help my mom received from the government went to food, and the rest was often squandered by her on alcohol. I choked back a sob. I didn’t know how much longer we could all survive like this.

  I grabbed the paper cautiously, refusing to get my hopes up again.

  Looking for a full time live in nanny for my infant daughter. I’ll be stationed in El Centro for ten weeks. Must be CPR certified. No drugs and no drama. Pay is $1000 a week. Will be taking applications in person January 4th at 4 p.m. at the Navy Lodge, El Centro, room 101.

  I dropped the temolote I had been using to grind the salsa from my right hand. Did that say one thousand dollars a week for ten weeks?

  Ten thousand dollars?

  That money could be life-changing for my sisters and me. I could move the girls to San Diego and leave my mother and her destructive ways behind. I could rent a small apartment and send them to school out there, even get a job at a local restaurant to support them.