Page 16 of Grunt: A Marine Romance

7

BRET MANEUVEREDHIS brand new truck up the winding Hollywood Hills. Towering trees framed the street and it was difficult to focus on the road. Being this close to Selena unnerved him. Despite the fact that she drove him absolutely crazy with her spoiled and selfish outlook on the world, she looked and smelled incredible. He tried to keep his mind on the road and not on thinking about kissing her neck, tasting her lips, and caressing her body.

“It’s the next driveway. Just enter Code 0114 in the keypad.”

Bret eyed Selena. January fourteenth was the anniversary of the day he and Selena won Nationals. Did Dima know the significance of Selena’s password?

Selena seemed to understand his questioning look. “Don’t get all weird on me. It was just the first major competition I, I mean we, ever won. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Whatever, Sel.”

Bret turned into the driveway and pressed the numbers into the black alarm pad. A huge gate opened and Bret drove to the front of Selena’s house. It was less extravagant than Bret had expected: just an old Spanish-style bungalow with talavera tiles framing the entrance, not some sprawling Hollywood mansion.

Selena took the keys out of her purse and opened the door. “It’s super late and I’m beat. Are you sure you don’t want to crash here tonight? We can leave as early as you want tomorrow morning.”

Bret hoisted Banjo out of the backseat of the truck, attached his leash, and led him to a bush to pee. It was dark so Bret couldn’t read Selena’s face. She had just invited him to spend the night. He wasn’t sure he could sleep in the same house as her. “I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

Selena just laughed and turned on the lights. “Relax, Bret. It’s really not a big deal. You can use the guest house out back.”

Guest house? Bret should’ve known that there was more to her house. It sure made his tiny place off base look like a slum. She’d probably laugh if she saw his small apartment, which was about the size of her living room.

In the main house, there were red tiles on the floor and dark wooden beams on the ceiling. Her yellow painted walls had pictures of Dima and Selena everywhere: winning competitions, on the television show, on the red carpet. But Bret was taken aback when he noticed a framed picture of him and Selena winning Nationals. The same picture from the magazine cut-out Benny had sent him.

“Why do you still have this picture up?”

Selena smiled. “It was my first national win.”

Bret remembered that night well. After they celebrated with Dima, who had coached them, Bret proposed to Selena.

Banjo jumped up on Selena’s brown leather sofa and curled into a ball.

“Well, I’m tired too. So just show me the guesthouse and I’ll get out of your hair. We have to leave at zero six hundred tomorrow morning.”

Selena laughed. “I’ll assume you mean six a.m. But it’s okay, Bret. You can relax—we don’t have to be there until five in the evening.”

“Well I don’t like to be late. Punctuality was never your strong suit, if I remember correctly.”

Selena walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. “Do you want a beer? Dima mostly stocks Vodka but he does have some Russian beer.”

“So Dima fills your fridge too? What else do you do together? File taxes? You sound married.”

“Stop Bret. I have a place here and he has one closer to the studio in Glendale. Sometimes he crashes here—in the guest house. How about that beer?”

Bret would’ve loved a beer to relax and take the edge off the tension in the room. But he didn’t trust himself alone with Selena. Before he could decline, Selena popped off the cap of a bottle and handed it to him.

Why was she being so nice to him? If it were any other woman, he would be certain she was flirting with him. He studied the label, written in Russian letters. “Peba? What’s this crap?” Bret took a swig. It tasted like vinegar. “You don’t have a Corona? I guess Dima’s taste hasn’t changed. I’m good, thanks.” Bret poured the bottle out in the kitchen sink, then sat on the sofa and pet Banjo.

“Peva. Yeah. It’s not the best, but Dimka loves it.”

Dimka? Hearing his old coach referred to like that was . . . . well, creepy. Dima had been a twenty-year-old man when he started teaching them as kids. A twelve-year age difference wasn’t a big deal now that Selena was a woman in her late twenties, but Bret couldn’t help be disturbed by the way Dima had groomed her to be his.

Selena took her own bottle and settled in next to Bret, who inched his way over to the other end of the sofa.

He looked around the room. He had been wrong; this place was sick—must be worth at least a million dollars, hidden up in the hills. This could’ve been his home, his life, his sofa, his woman, but the fridge would be stocked with craft beers. At the time Bret gave up his dancing, there was little hope for a career besides running a studio and spending all the revenue on competing. Now Selena and Dima were millionaires. He wasn’t jealous; he hated competing and truly loved being a Marine. But he never thought for a second that he would be struggling to make ends meet, with little hope of ever buying a house in San Diego or Marin, while Selena and Dima wasted their money on needless luxury items.

She took a long sip and then sighed. “So, I know it was ten years ago but I just really want to say how sorry I am about what went down. It was the hardest decision . . .”

“Selena, don’t. It’s fine. It was forever ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

She pursed her lips. “But I just really want to say how sorry I am. There was so much going on and . . .” her eyes looked up at him.

Bret didn’t want to hear her excuses for walking out on him. Plus for all he knew, she was miked and this pathetic apology would play out on television. “I said it’s cool. Just forget it.”

She put her hand casually on Bret’s leg.

He imagined her hand sliding up his thigh. He moved her hand off him, and stood up.

“Thanks for the beer, Sel. I really need to get some sleep.” He motioned to Banjo, and the dog jumped down.

“Oh, sure. I’ll show you the casita.”

“I’m just gonna grab my bag.” Bret opened the front door and went to his truck. He looked up to the dark blue, starry sky. He hadn’t signed up for this emotional drama. Those producers were trying to make a punch line out of Bret, and he wouldn’t allow it. There was no way he was going to play into this twisted love triangle. He didn’t believe for a second that Selena and Dima weren’t still hooking up. Bret wanted to jump into that truck and head back down to his place, and rip up the dance contract. But Bret was a man of his word, and wouldn’t go back on his promise to Pierce. Bret was now sure of one thing—being this close to Selena for the next fifteen weeks would require some serious self-control.