Page 13 of Grunt: A Marine Romance

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BRET WOULD BE knockingon her door any second. Selena tossed her clothes into her suitcase. The drive from San Diego to Marin would be eight hours, at least. Would he want to drive all night? Stay at her house in L.A? It was already dark out.

Dima was still downstairs, probably flirting with his fans. She debated texting him that she had to leave but decided to write a note instead.

Dima,

Benny said I have to take off to San Francisco tonight to meet my celebrity. I’ll call you tomorrow.

Love,

Selena

She chose to omit that Bret would be driving her. It shouldn’t matter to Dima. And it wasn’t like she had a choice. Crazy as it seemed at first, she was already starting to look forward to it. Some days, she lived at the airport. She was constantly in the air—traveling to train with her celebrities, jetting off to be interviewed on talk shows, hopping on flights for competitions. How exhausting. A nice, slow drive sounded like a welcome change of pace.

Ten years ago, she wouldn’t have thought she’d still be competing at age twenty-eight. Back then, ballroom dancing was relegated to the once-yearly televised competition on PBS. There were no weekly celebrity television shows. Though the show gave her the financial security she needed to support her family and her competition career, its demands definitely interfered with the practicing and coaching that they needed to win Blackpool. Selena had imagined that by this point in her life, she’d have already won her coveted title, be retired, settled down with a husband and kids, and running a small dance studio. But she’d pushed that dream aside for now.

Despite all the insanity with Dima, slipping out of her three-inch suede Latin heels and walking off the dance floor was not an option, not yet. Selena loved her life and wasn’t ready to hang up her ball gown, though she desperately wanted to start a family. A pulsating samba, a rhythmic cha-cha, a melodic rumba, a confrontational paso doble, a frolicking jive—her body couldn’t just stop with it all. Some girls found the mink fur false eyelashes, the fake tan, the hair extensions—all of it—heavy. But not Selena. And when the music died, life was always a little less bright, waiting for the next turn on the sprung, hardwood floor.

Selena looked in the mirror. She had already scrubbed off all of her makeup, stripped off her costume, and washed the glitter out of her hair. She ran her fingers along the soft eggplant-colored terry fabric of the Juicy Couture sweats she usually saved for traveling. She folded the suit with care, slipping it into her suitcase. Instead, she reached for a simple white cotton t-shirt and a pair of worn, tight jeans.

Selena pulled her hair back into a pony tail and perched herself on the edge of her bed, but she couldn’t relax. She grabbed a magazine and flipped through it, all the while staring at the alarm clock, knowing that Bret was never late.

A strong rap at the door disrupted the silence. Selena discarded the magazine on the coffee table and crossed the room to answer it.

Bret stood there, looking stunned. “You didn’t even ask who it is. Don’t you have stalkers? I could be a sex-crazed fan.”

Selena laughed nervously. It was hard not to look at him and remember that he’d been her first love. Her first lover. And she’d been his. He’d been a shy, lean, teenage boy back then. This Bret standing before her—he was all man. His presence threw her. Made her wonder crazy things. Like what it would be like to nuzzle his neck, fondle his muscles, taste his kisses. Those strong hands exploring every inch of her body. She couldn’t let herself go there. They were about to be stuck in a truck for eight hours. She gave a playful roll of her eyes and crossed her arms.

“Relax. I checked in under a pseudonym, and no one else knows my room number. I knew it was you because you’re right on time.”

Bret slung her duffle bag over his shoulder. He glanced at the two unmade queen beds, but if he wondered why Selena and Dima slept in separate beds or even shared a room, he didn’t ask. “What’s your name?”

“What?”

“Your fake name. What is it?”

“If I tell you, I’ll have to change it next time.”

Bret just stared back at her, clearly not amused.

“Fine, if you must know, it’s Brenda Walsh.”

He gave a blank look.

Selena shot him a skeptical glare. “Oh, come on. Beverly—”

“Hills 90210, I know. I remember losing weeks of my life watching those garbage reruns, over and over, at every dance competition.”

“Well, that’s the only American show some of those countries would play. Besides, you got a kick out of the ridiculous dubbed voices.”

“Ok, Brenda. Let’s get a move on. It’s late.”

She picked up her purse, her cooler, and followed Bret out the door.

When they arrived downstairs, she focused on the new truck. She’d always liked Dima’s flashy Fanta orange Lamborghini, but there was something about this big silver truck that seemed more exciting, more masculine and less pretentious. Bret tossed her luggage into the bed.

“Um…I thought you were only kidding about putting my things in the back of your truck.”