Page 10 of Grunt: A Marine Romance

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SO FAR, THE competition hadn’t been as painful as Bret had thought it would be. He’d run into some of his mom’s students, and the producers filmed a segment with him talking about being at his first competition in over ten years. It wasn’t dodging land mines in the desert, that was for sure.

Bret clutched his beer bottle and headed into the ballroom for the final round. The bright lights reflected off the rhinestones, blinding him. After regaining sight—his eyes fell on Selena in the on-deck area.

Dima came from behind her and took her hand. The eleven judges strutted around the floor in formation like Marines in boot camp. The female judges displayed no emotion, probably from all that Botox they were always shooting their faces up with. The sweat-filled room reeked of fake tanning spray and ripe feet.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said. “We are now going to proceed with the final round of the Closed Professional International Latin Championship. The judges have recalled the following six couples to the final round. From California, Couple 187—Dmitri Volkov and Selena Marcil.”

The crowd erupted in applause. Dima led her to the floor and Selena’s eyes scanned the audience, landing on Bret. It was like she could feel his intense stare always landing back on her. She wore a yellow-fringed dress that was open on the side, revealing her perfectly toned body. A far cry from the conservative black dresses she used to compete in when they were teens.

Bret sat down at a round table and surveyed the crowd. Never had he thought he’d be back at a dancing competition, sitting amongst the spectators, pretending that he hadn’t once been part of the show. How could he never have seen how gaudy this whole scene was? Both female and male dancers committed immigration fraud and married dancers they didn’t love just to stay in America. Older women paid tens of thousands of dollars on costumes and lessons to compete with younger professional male dancers. To think of how much good that money could do for injured Marines and their struggling families—the whole dance world made him sick.

This time it would be different. Instead of heartache and broken toes, Bret planned to leave the season with enough money to change the life of his friend’s family. After another swig of his beer, he relaxed in his seat.

It was show time.

“From California, Couple 201—Jared Brooks and Viktoria Volkova Brooks.”

Bret choked on his beer. Benny and Karen’s son was Benny’s latest wife’s partner? Vika was Jared’s step-mom, for God’s sake. It was worse than any daytime soap opera Bret’s ex-girlfriend had forced him to watch. This type of incestuous couplings was one of the many reasons that Bret left this world without looking back many years ago. Not even his love of Selena had made him want to stay.

“From New York, Couple 216—Ricardo Mancini and Elizabeth Young,” the announcer said and then called three more couples to the floor.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s put those hands together for our Closed Professional International Latin Championship Finalists. Congratulations, competitors. And places for your first dance. The Cha-Cha-Cha. Music, please.”

The beat of a cha-cha song filled the room and Selena brightened. She swirled her hips, flashing her thighs. Dima’s jaw went firm; his back straightened like a pole. He gave her a fierce animalistic look, grabbed her hand, and they glided into their routine.

Selena started with a simple cha-cha lock, into fan, as she flirted with the audience. She embraced Dima and draped her arms around his neck, then ran her hands slowly up and down his chest as she did lightning-fast swivels. Dima threw her down into a deep split while caressing her legs. Bret had been away from ballroom for so many years, but he could still appreciate how sharp and connected Dima and Selena were. Every inch of their bodies, every step of their feet, every flick of their toes and every arm movement were perfectly in sync.

Dima pushed Selena into another deep split and then lifted her up to his lips. Bret’s breathing got shallow, quick. She was so alive, on fire, in her element. Maybe she had been right many years ago, choosing dancing over him. Watching her out there, seducing the judges, dancing as if on air—it was clear she belonged on the dance floor. Bret was glad he’d left the lights behind. Joining the Marines was the best choice he had ever made. He didn’t want this life, the lifestyle of the famous. And, she’d made it clear that she didn’t want his.

Bret studied Selena’s face, looking for where the performance stopped and the real feelings for Dima began. When the song was over, she pushed Dima’s face away. But maybe that was just part of the choreography. Bret clenched his fist—why did he even care whether Selena and Dima were in a relationship or if their affection was just an act for the cameras?

Seeing Selena compete took Bret’s thoughts back to his childhood. His parents were ballroom champions, and Bret had grown up on the competition circuit. They had forced him to dance, but Bret had never really enjoyed it. As a kid, it was exciting, traveling around the world like gypsies. But deep down he’d always wanted something stable. The kind of life he had imagined the other kids had. Boring, predictable. Normal. Play little league, join Boy Scouts, try out for the football team. When the kids at school discovered that instead of spending his free time playing video games and throwing eggs at houses, he was dancing, that's when he learned what it was to be a target. Fag. Sissy. Girl. The taunts never had let up. But he’d been willing to endure the teasing, for Selena.

After she’d left him, he turned all his focus to the Corps. He’d become a different man. And that man had vowed never to step on the dance floor again. On the other hand, that man now had a plan. One season of this show and he'd get the money he needed to fulfill a promise to his best friend—a man who had saved Bret’s life. It seemed like a small sacrifice.

“The Cha-Cha-Cha. Thank you, competitors.”

Dima presented Selena to the audience and judges. The crowd exploded.

“Who’s your favorite couple out there, Ladies and Gentlemen?”

“Couple 187!” someone yelled.

“And places for your next dance. Ladies and Gentlemen, samba, please.”

It had only begun, but Selena was on fire.

AN HOUR LATER, all the competitors were lined up in the on-deck area. They’d run through the samba, rumba, paso doble, and jive. During the applause, Bret had left the table and gone to the back of the ballroom to get another beer.

“And the results of the Closed Professional International Latin Dancesport Championship are as follows: Ladies and Gentlemen, our runners-up. Placing second in cha-cha, third in samba, second in rumba, second in paso doble, and second in jive: From California, couple 201, Jared Brooks and Viktoria Volkova Brooks.”

Jared kissed his stepmother on the cheek and she giggled. Bret was grateful that when his own father had remarried, his new wife wasn’t as young and sexy as Vika was.

“And Ladies and Gentlemen, placing first in all dances, your Closed Professional United States International Latin Champions: From California, couple 187, Dmitri Volkov and Selena Marcil.” Selena jumped up and down, and kissed Dima on the lips. An ache twisted in Bret’s stomach.

Spinning four times, the couple bowed and thanked the crowd. Selena took her place for the event photo. The competition organizer handed her a dozen red roses and their check for the prize.