BEAST: A Bad Boy Marine Romance (7 page)

A
ll fucking
day I couldn’t get Isa out of my mind. How she 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? Agreed 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.

I’d snap. I’d break. I’d humiliate myself. I thrived on routine—one of the only suggestions my therapist had made that I actually implemented. Get up, go to the hospital for forced therapy and medical appointments, return home, get drunk, get laid.

But I hadn’t been with anyone since Isa. She’d been different than the other girls I’d fucked. I wanted to claim her as mine.

I was almost crazy enough to embarrass myself on national television to find a way back to her.

Almost.

But that was a stupid fucking idea. For so many reasons. The most important being that if I had fifteen weeks alone with Isa, I’d become addicted to her. And then she’d leave me.

As a Medal of Honor recipient, I was held to a higher standard. I would not humiliate the Corps. And having a flashback on national television would be unavoidable.

Then again, blowing my brains out would clearly bring shame to the Marines, but at least the publicity might shed some light on the suicide rates of veterans. What the fuck was wrong with me to even be thinking that? Man, I needed help.

I ripped up the producer’s number and threw the card into the trash.

Maybe someday Isa and I would cross paths again, and I’d be able to show her the kind of man I was.

A beast.

A
fter an awkward breakfast
, where I spent most of my time internally debating whether or not I should contact Grady, my father turned on the television and found a football game. Once he was distracted, I told my dad I had some errands to run.

I needed to talk to Benny Brooks, the executive producer of
Dancing under the Stars.

I jumped in my car and headed to the freeway, but I didn’t have the guts to show up on Grady’s doorstep—instead I was going back to LA.

I hadn’t been back to Hollywood since my mom killed herself not wanting to be in the city where she’d taken her life. But I was desperate now. I had to finish school. I’d do whatever it took. And this option was infinitely preferable to making an ass out of myself groveling to Grady.

And the truth was, I missed dancing.

My foot pressed on the gas pedal. It was Monday in the middle of summer.
Dancing under the Stars
was not filming nor was the show on tour. And it was only three weeks until United States Dancesport Championships—which meant all the dancers should be training. I no longer had Benny’s phone number and no one ever answered the studio phone, but he was usually coaching Pasha at his ballroom.

I checked Pasha’s Instagram. At least he was there—he had endorsed a workout shake from the ballroom less than an hour ago.

Two hours, an iced coffee, and a caramel apple empanada later, I parked in the studio’s parking lot. This studio had been my home for many years. I’d done rumba walks until my toenails popped off, jive kicks until my knees gave out, and samba rolls until my back ached. But no matter how much physical pain I’d endured, I’d enjoyed every second of it.

My mouth became dry. I exited the car and placed my hand on the door. Before I could change my mind, I forced myself to walk inside.

But the second I stepped into the studio, I immediately regretted it. I didn’t belong here—I was an outsider, a quitter.

Pasha whirled around the floor with his new professional partner, a stunning Russian blonde who also just happened to be his new girlfriend. I couldn’t help but stare at her toes, the effortless way they rolled off the ground.

A bunch of younger dancers practiced their cha cha locks in the mirror. Luckily, no one had noticed me. I contemplated dashing back to my car, but a familiar voice stopped me.

“Bellichka?” Pasha had ditched his partner in the middle of the floor and walked over to me.

Bellichka, Pasha’s pet name for me. “Privet, Pasha.”

The man who stood before me hadn’t aged a day since the last time I’d seen him four years ago. Pasha’s blonde hair was slicked with gel, his eyes were a pale blue, and his body was lean and tan. I was pretty sure that his flawless skin was the result of Botox.

I expected him to hug me or at least give me one of those fake kisses on the cheek. But instead, his gaze traveled my body. I felt naked in his presence. He’d never looked at me like that, ever. All the years we danced together he’d treated me like his little sister. I had yearned for him to want me, see me as a woman and not as a little girl. I’d been so jealous of his girlfriends.

But now, when I looked at him, I felt nothing.

He took me in his arms and hugged me, attempting to kiss me on the lips, but I turned my cheek. He seemed startled and quickly released me.

“What it is you doing here?”

Well, his accent was still strong, despite being on television. “I was looking for Benny.”

“He is not here. He went to Australia to take care of something.”

Dammit. There went my plan.

“But I can help you. . .”

Doubtful. But I hadn’t come all this way to give up so easily.

Pasha said something in Russian to his partner, who had come over to investigate. Years of immersing myself in Pasha’s language and culture allowed me to loosely decipher what he had said. “Go practice. It won’t be long. She isn’t of your concern.”

Ouch. Well, it was true. I hated the way he talked to her, the way he had talked to me. But he wasn’t my problem anymore.

He took me to the office and I sat down on the loveseat in the corner. There were old pictures of us hung on the walls, a trophy in a case behind a desk. “Why you come to Benny?”

“I was wondering . . . my dad has run into some trouble, and the truth is I’m tight on cash. Do you think he could get me back on
Dancing under the Stars
?” I cringed with shame the second the request left my lips. Here I sat, in my jean shorts and T-shirt, begging my ex-partner to help me out. I’d left the show and our partnership. Why would he ever help me?

“I wish I could help with you on show, but I cannot. Do you need the money? How much it is that you need, I write you a check.” He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a checkbook.

“No, no, I don’t want your money. I want to work.”

“Work? Let me be honest together with you. You will not get back on show.” He stood up from the desk and joined me on the loveseat. His hand pushed a lock of hair out of my face and I resisted the urge to recoil. “You are now beautiful to me. What we had, I will never have again. Oksana, she is incredible dancer, but you, Bellichka, when you danced, you were like magic.”

I steadied my breath. “Okay. Then if I’m so incredible, why can’t I get on the show? Aren’t you a co-producer now, you can help me.”

He laughed. “I am not head producer of show. Benny is. And he wants young dancers, more young than you. You are now twenty-three. The waitlist it is long. Unless celebrity requests to you, you will not be picked.” He inched into my dance space and this time, I retreated. “But you can come back to me, work at studio, compete together with me, I can take care of you, like you always wanted. If you work very hard, we can win again.”

What? Was he serious? I didn’t want to date him now. Back then, I’d idolized him and that life. But now, I saw it as shallow. We had devoted our lives to dancing, not ever thinking about anyone other than ourselves. After meeting Grady, a man that had sacrificed so much for something he believed in, I wanted to be with someone inspiring. Someone who inspired me to be a better person.

“That is a kind offer, Pash, but I’m not interested. Nice to see you again. Good luck at Nationals.” I stood up, and he mirrored me. I turned to leave, and he pulled me to him, kissing me on the cheek. But I felt nothing. Once there had been electricity between us, but the spark had extinguished. Until I met Grady, I’d wondered if I would ever feel that radiance from a man again.

I wanted to feel that heat again.

By the time I returned home, my father was passed out on the sofa. I crept by him and went to my room.

My bedroom was stuck in time since high school. Trophies and pictures from my dance competitions adorned the walls, pictures of me winning Nationals with Pasha.

My stomach fluttered, and I opened my laptop. Now I had an excuse to contact Grady.

But it wasn’t even a good excuse.
Hey, I know I ran off after we had sex, but will you let my alcoholic dad, who stole my tuition funds, write your war memoir so I can pay for college?
I’d be just another one of the people in his life who wanted to use him.

But it was more than that. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I had to see him again. Even if he just laughed in my face.

The worst he could say was no or ignore me. But maybe, just maybe, we could reconnect.

I moved the cursor over to the message tab on his page. “Grady Williams: Public Figure.” It even had one of those blue checkmarks next to his name so I knew it was legit.

Did he even manage his own page? Maybe I would send him a message and some assistant would respond? I was sure he received hundreds of emails daily from women in love with him.

I scrolled down his page. Mostly motivational quotes, very few pictures. One of him sharing a beer with the President outside the Oval Office, another one of him with his battalion before the grenade. And a final picture of him and his buddy off-roading. I stared at that last picture longer than I should have. The inscription read “R.I.P. Rafael.”

Damn, I’d learned from reading reports of his attack that Rafael was Grady’s friend who died next to Grady.

I clicked the message button, my heart palpitating, and started typing.

Hi Grady, it’s Isa. I was wondering if we could meet for coffee.

Once I hit Send, my insides begin to quiver. Then I saw that check mark. Grady had read my message, or someone maintaining his page had. Grady was typing.

Come by my place tomorrow night at ten.

Whoa. He didn’t even ask me when I was free, or where I wanted to meet. Going to a man’s place at ten at night was definitely a booty call. Maybe he thought I wanted another round. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t crave him. Though I’d contacted him, he was in control of the situation. I didn’t know if I should be turned on or pissed off.

Okay. I’ll be there.

I sat in my bedroom, my stomach fluttering. What had I just done? A few days ago I’d been a sexually frustrated college coed eager to finish school. Now unless I could come up with tuition, I’d end up being a college dropout who couldn’t stop thinking about her epic one-night stand with Grady the sex god. I kept replaying every moment of our night in my head. The way he touched me, the way he made me feel, the way he focused on my pleasure.

But now I had a second chance to see if there was something more between us than just red-hot chemistry, to apologize for running off, to figure out if I had been wrong about being scared of him.