Page 6 of Grunt: A Marine Romance

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BRET LACED UPhis dance shoes. After the fog of war had burned off, he’d finally made the decision to do the show. Just one visit to see Pierce’s family, and see the look on his little boy’s face made Bret know he had to do everything in his power to provide for them.

He had requested approval from the Marine Corps and his orders had just recently been approved. Too bad he had to burn through two years of personal vacation time to do the show. He had one shot to convince the executive producer of Dancing under the Stars that he was the right man for the job. Bret was perfect on paper—a decorated United States Marine, an American Ballroom Champion—but could he still dance? He’d have to prove himself.

Seeing Selena . . . it threw him. He’d known, of course, that he’d have to see her if he was cast on the show, but he hadn’t counted on seeing her so soon and definitely hadn’t expected he’d have to dance with her, touch her, smell her. She looked so hot, all natural and not painted up. The thought of running his hands all over her curvy body made him lose his focus. He wasn’t prepared to be this close to her so soon.

He walked over to Benny. His former master coach looked just like Bret remembered: tall, silver-haired, with just a hint of sleaze. Ballroom’s very own Crocodile Dundee. An icon in the dance world, Benny was a six-time Blackpool champion, winning twice with each of his first three wives. His fourth and current wife, Dancing under the Stars’ professional dancer Vika, was a twenty-four-year-old Ukrainian knockout who was also Dima’s cousin. Benny was dressed in a blood-orange silk suit with a tightly fitted black button-up shirt. His hair was the same color as the sterling silver in his Australian black jade bolo tie.

Benny held out his hand. “This is just a formality. I told the other producers that a better man never stood in two dance shoes. Your blood’s worth bottling. It would be an honor to have a hero on our show.”

Bret cleared his throat. He never knew how to respond to someone calling him a hero. “Thank you, Benny, for giving me the opportunity. It’s great to see you again.”

The doors flew open and Bret was overtaken with the smell of strong perfume. Karen Brooks Lopez stormed in. Karen was a two-time Blackpool Latin Champion with Benny, her first husband. They had two children together, Nicole and Jared. Then Karen shocked the dance world by leaving Benny when she was thirty, at the peak of her career, for her eighteen-year-old student Carlos Lopez. Karen trained Carlos and eventually they won Blackpool, stealing the title from Benny and his then wife. Karen had a reputation for being a diva, demanding limousines and five hundred thread count sheets. She and Carlos spent all of their energy training their own little devil spawn, Gregory Lopez, a brilliant rising star in the amateur Latin world.

Karen took Bret’s face in her hands and kissed his cheeks. “Bret, wow. You have turned into a sexy man.” She ran her fingers over his biceps and Bret flinched.

“Hi, Karen. You look beautiful as always.” Bret kissed her hand, and stepped aside to create some distance between them.

“Oh, Bret. I can see you are still the charmer. I’ll tell Carlos to watch out—I might have found my next husband. Need to catch up to Benny.” She laughed.

Her cackle reminded Bret of the screaming golden jackals in Iraq.

Benny rubbed his temples. “Are we done? We have a show to cast? Don’t mind her Bret, she’s got kangaroos loose in the top paddock.”

Bret laughed. He had always loved Benny’s funny Australian slang.

Karen playfully smacked Bret’s butt. “Well I’m ready for a show.” Her fake, plumped lips curled and she flashed Bret a smile.

Bret made his way to Selena, his body clenched, nervous to touch her. “So now you know why I’m here. I’m still in the Marines—they just gave me special leave to do the show. I’m trying to raise money for my buddy’s family. He was killed in Iraq.” Bret left out the detail that Pierce was killed on a patrol that Bret was supposed to go on.

“Bret, that’s horrible. I’m sorry about your friend.” Selena’s green eyes seemed almost dazed.

It was now or never.

He reached his hand out to her. She looked sweet, exactly as he remembered her, though he wasn’t a fan of her blond hair. Selena’s skin glowed, showing off the freckles that always were airbrushed out in the magazines. Her hair was pulled off her face and seemed wet, as if she had just emerged from the shower, a vision Bret was trying to push out of his mind.

“I didn’t expect to run into you today. I wanted to make the show on my own, without any favors.”

She bit her lip, then stood up, took his hand, and got into position. “Ready?”

“Absolutely.” He forced a smile but couldn’t look her in the eyes more than a second.

Once he’d returned from Iraq, his mom started training him in secret. She had rented a small dance studio in Oceanside, and Bret was stationed in nearby Camp Pendleton. He had adopted Banjo, a pug/lab mix from a high-kill shelter in Los Angeles. Every day after work, he would practice. He spent most nights escaping with Banjo to dog beach to relax. Well, that and trying to teach Banjo to turn off the lights, open the refrigerator, and fetch him a beer. Being back on American soil and staring out at the clear ocean, Bret had regained his sanity and made peace with his time in Iraq. He had enjoyed his last days of anonymity. Now, his moment of truth had come.

Benny turned on the music. “How about a foxtrot?” George Michael’s voice began singing “Feeling Good.”

Bret pulled Selena into his arms. “Sounds good.” He adjusted her into a classic foxtrot hold.

Selena leaned her body against his. He swayed her back and forth. They took a few basic steps, and he led her into promenade. He turned his head toward her and held her gaze this time. He remembered when they had been “America’s Ballroom Sweethearts,” the entire industry pinning its hopes on their backs like a million targets. Their career was mapped out for them, with sponsors who funded their travel, their coaching expenses, their costumes. They’d been the future of dancesport. But Bret wanted to do something honorable with his life and she had initially supported his decision to enlist. And at the time, it was a practical decision. Back then, there was no future in ballroom dancing. No television shows, no endorsements, no way to support a family. She said she’d wait for him but by the time he graduated from boot camp, she was long gone.

Her thumb hooked around his right bicep as they merged together. The thump of her heartbeat vibrated off his chest. He still knew every inch of her body. It wasn’t right, to get caught up in the past like this, to remember her this way. But dancing had a way of doing that, of grabbing onto any weak flame and igniting it. Bret took charge and guided her through the steps. They flowed around the floor.

After two laps, Benny changed the song. George was now singing “Jesus to a Child.” “Rumb-er, please,” Benny called out.

Bret’s fingers traced over her wrist. They began to dance a slow, soulful rumba.

Their rumba.