BEAST: A Bad Boy Marine Romance

by Alana Albertson

  He had a wife and a beautiful little girl who worshipped him. Who missed him. Who would do anything to see him one last time.

  I had no one.

  No one would ever love me like that. No woman would ever want to look at me every day for the rest of her life.

  It should’ve been me.

  I jammed my key into my apartment, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and blasted the death metal CD I’d left in the stereo.

  San Diego was suffering from another late summer heat wave. The sun blazed outside the window, the excessive warmth incinerating my already torched skin.

  I paced around my apartment, clutching my cell phone, but my fingers refused to press any numbers. I didn’t want to burden my grandparents with my pain, my friends were in the field at CAX preparing to deploy to Afghanistan. I was jealous of those motherfuckers, training in the desert of 29 Palms, able-bodied, fearless, free. I was a prisoner of my body, my mind.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  Another swig of whiskey, and I knelt beside my bed. One shot, that’s all it would take to end my suffering, my burden on this world. My spirit would soar free, leave my battered body.

  Maybe it was my destiny. I shouldn’t have survived.

  I shouldn’t be alive.

  My life as I knew it was over. My career was finished. My best friend was dead. My body was in excruciating pain. I looked like a mutant.

  No one would even notice if I was gone.

  I grabbed my pistol, my Glock. No magazine; I always kept one round in the chamber. One click, and I’d meet my maker.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d thought about killing myself—I’d always kept my gun close by, in my nightstand, in my glove compartment. It was like a prescription that was always filled just in case I needed it.

  It was time.

  I wasn’t afraid; I was at peace. I wanted to go home.

  I placed the gun to my head, the cold steel imprinting on my temple, and squeezed the trigger.

  Click.

  Nothing. Radio silence.

  What the fuck?

  I was still here.

  Fuck, I can’t even kill myself.

  Where the fuck was that round? I always left a round in my chamber.

  Always.

  No one had been in my apartment in a while. Only person who had been here recently was Isa.

  Isa?

  No way. No fucking way.

  But it could only be her. No one had broken into my place to steal my bullet.

  How did she know how to disarm a weapon? When had she done this? While I was in the shower? On the phone with my buddy?

  I placed the gun down, debating going into my closet to get more ammo. But I just sat still on the bed, frozen.

  I couldn’t believe that bitch had stolen my bullet. What if I needed my gun to protect myself?

  If I ever saw her again, I’d make her pay. But I didn’t even know how to contact her. No last name, no phone number. Nothing. Only a memory remained that replayed daily in my mind. The sensation of her hot, wet flesh, of how being inside her erased my pain, if only for a fleeting moment.

  I buried my face in my hands. And for the first time since my injuries, I allowed myself to cry.

  One tear burned my skin, and it was like I had opened up a floodgate. I wept for Rafael, I wept for myself, and I drowned myself in self-pity. What had I ever done to deserve this fate? I was caught in an endless cycle of surgeries, excruciating pain, agony and no relief.

  I grabbed my bottle of whisky and downed it, the smooth liquid coating my throat, taking the edge off my aching. The framed picture of the President awarding me the medal came into my view, and my breath hitched. I was not worthy of such an accolade—the highest military honor in the country.

  After staring at my gun, I stood up and placed it back in my nightstand. Once again, I’d cheated death. I would make no promise for tomorrow, but tonight would not be my end.

  10

  Isa

  My hand shook, my coffee spilling through its tiny plastic slit. This bank opened at nine in the morning, and I’d been standing outside for the last half an hour. Worry gnawed through me. This was more than money—this was my life, my future, the only lasting benefit of my past.

  The teller finally opened the door at a minute past nine. I marched to the back of the bank and sat in the manager’s chair.

  A middle-aged man with a glint in his eyes and an ill-fitting suit greeted me. “Good morning, Miss. How can I help you?”

  I handed him my driver’s license and bankcard. “There’s a mistake in my account. My tuition check bounced. I looked online last night and it said there was a negative balance. That can’t be correct. I had over thirty-five thousand dollars in it a few months ago.”

  He glanced at my ID. “I see. Please swipe your card in the reader and enter your PIN, and we will get to the bottom of this.

  I followed his directions and pulled my hair.

  The manager gave me a sympathetic grin and perused his screen. After the annoying tapping of his old-school keyboard, he nodded his head toward me.

  “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? M
y 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 tightly—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.

  “What’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 chose 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 was happy—I 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.

  “We can’t 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.