TRITON: A Navy SEAL Romance (Heroes Ever After Book 2)

by Alana Albertson

  “I’m sorry to say that unfortunately your balance is in the negative. It seems a transfer of funds was made into another account last month.”

  “No, that’s not possible. This is my college fund. I don’t ever transfer out of it.”

  He turned the screen towards me. My eyes registered what I was seeing, and I could feel my heart drop. “It seems the other owner of the account went into a branch in Temecula and transferred the money to a personal checking in his name.”

  Temecula.

  My hometown.

  My temples throbbed with rage.

  “I see. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” I stuffed my cards in my purse, grabbed my coffee, and dashed out of the bank, praying I would reach my car before tears welled in my eyes.

  My father had stolen my money.

  All of it.

  No wonder he was avoiding my calls.

  I slammed the car door and hunched over the steering wheel. I knew my dad was an alcoholic and hadn’t written anything worth publishing in years. But to steal from his own daughter?

  I turned my keys in the ignition and pressed on the gas pedal.

  My father would not get away with this. He better pay me back every damn penny, or I’d have him arrested.

  But no matter what I had to do, I’d find the money to graduate.

  11

  Grady

  Another fucking waiting room. Man, I was sick to death of doctors. Probing my flesh, their compassionate yet condescending smirks, insincere offers of hope. Today, I’d get another skin graft, fuck my life.

  I shifted in my seat, wishing I were anywhere but here. This place was stuck in the eighties, like I was on a Miami Vice set: Kenny Loggins played over the speakers, the walls were painted pale peach, the air reeked of baby powder and bleach, and a vase of plastic flowers was placed on the floor, not even worthy of a cheap coffee table.

  I pulled out my phone but had no fucking reception. Dammit. My hand shuffled through the basket of magazines; a Playboy would’ve been nice, but I’d settle for a Men’s Health.

  I grabbed a pile of crap—last year’s Good Housekeeping, Star, Vogue. I was about to give up and just stare at the cracked paint when something caught my eye.

  A “Ten Years of Dancing under the Stars” special edition. And there in the corner of the cover was a small picture of a girl dancing. Black hair, incredible body, killer smile.

  Isa.

  The hot chick from the one-night stand I couldn’t stop thinking about, the girl who stole my bullet.

  What the fuck?

  I focused on her face, her body, her hair. It was fucking her. I’d bet my medal on it.

  I knew I’d seen her before. I’d even fucking asked her why she looked familiar but she lied to me. Couldn’t for the life of her know where I could’ve possibly seen her? How about fifteen million people watched you every night for two years? My grandma loved that show—used to force me to watch it every fucking week. And now I remembered that Meemaw’s favorite dancer was “that sweet American girl.”

  I thumbed through the magazine, desperate for some more intel.

  Bella Applebaum won the 5th and 6th seasons of Dancing under the Stars. She left the show in the middle of the 7th season, with no explanation. Her current whereabouts remain unknown.

  Isa. . .bella?

  Why did she leave the show? Unknown whereabouts? Why the secrecy? What was she hiding from?

  A reality star—of course she’d never want a relationship with me. She’d probably run off and marry some liberal war-protesting Hollywood pretty boy.

  She was like one of these goddamn celebrities who pretended to support our troops but actually charged the charities to make appearances. Give back to your country, fuck a war vet.

  My mind raced. Who the fuck did she think she was, trying to disarm me? I needed to see her again—get some kind of closure. I’d fucking flat out ask her why she slept with me, then ran the fuck out the door the first chance she got.

  Man, I sounded like a bitch. I just couldn’t accept that I’d read her so wrong. I honest to God thought she was into me. The sex was incredible, and she hadn’t abandoned me after my PTSD freak-out at the party. She seemed to want to get to know me even if it was only to help me since she claimed to want to become a psychologist.

  And that damn bullet. Maybe the episode at the party had been tolerable to her, piqued her psychobabble curiosity, but once she found herself trapped in an apartment with a PTSD war vet with a loaded gun, she bolted. I can’t honestly say I blamed her. I was a fucking mess.

  “Mr. Williams, we’re ready for you now.”

  I glanced up. A hot young nurse waited to escort me back to a room so I could be tortured. My flesh would be manipulated and scraped so I could pass for a human and not an alien. A swig of the whiskey hidden in my water bottle took the edge of my pain.

  Across the room, I recognized a fellow Marine, his leg amputated, his wife clutching his arm, attempting to comfort him. I wondered what it would be like to have someone like that in my life who would love me no matter what.

  I stood up and followed the sexy nurse down the barren hallway. Meeting Isa, having her take my bullet, seeing her in the magazine, these incidents couldn’t all be coincidences.

  I had to see her again.

  12

  Isa

  I sped on the freeway and drove an hour and a half north to confront my father in Temecula.

  Normally, I loved going home, but not today when my anxiety was burning through my body. How could he take my college money—money I had earned on my own? And why? Was it a gambling debt? I’d worked so hard to graduate on time. The mere thought of having my entire future destroyed because I’d trusted my father was unbearable.

  Our home was nothing extravagant, just a simple three-bedroom, two-bath, ranch house. But there was comfort knowing I could return to the place where I’d taken my first steps, spent merry Christmases, and had learned how to dance from my mom.

  My hometown wasn’t well-known—it had a few vineyards, and a bunch of motocross racers and UFC fighters lived there. But it had a strong community network—it was a place Ronald Reagan made famous by praising its hardworking citizens for rallying together to build a sports park.

  As I pulled on our street, I noticed that our grass was unusually brown and patchy—more than was even normal in this drought. The trim on the door was faded, and the annuals I had planted in spring had already wilted. Even so, our bright pink crape myrtle was in full bloom and the lone avocado tree was bearing fruit.

  I grabbed my bag, and as I headed up the driveway, my dad greeted me at the door. He wore his classic uniform of a wrinkly flannel shirt and worn jeans, and his strong, woodsy cologne mixed with his alcohol-spiked breath quickly hit my nostrils. His face was unshaven and his salt-and-pepper hair was unkempt. I winced—I hated seeing him so broken. In my memories, my father had always been strong, proud, and attractive. I knew he blamed himself for my mom’s suicide, no matter how many times I told him there was nothing we could’ve done.

  He quickly surveyed my face. “Don’t give me that look; I’m fine.”

  Every muscle in my body tensed. I followed him inside the house.

  “You look wrecked. Why did you take my money?”

  He paused, his eyes pained.

  I knew that look.

  “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.

  “W
hat’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.

  13

  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 few 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? Agr
eed 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.