The Swan and The Sergeant - Alana Albertson Page 0,2

Selena.” Though she seemed sexier than ever, I had no desire to go there, not to the luscious curves of her breasts, the round globes of her ass, or golden waterfall of her hair.

A relationship between us could never work out. She was too focused on her career—always had been. Then again, I was married to the Marine Corps. I wouldn’t allow myself to get tempted by the fame and money of Hollywood.

Ray rolled his eyes. “Well, you never know. Maybe she’s changed.” Ray broke out a bag of Skittles. “I’ll go with you. Can you request Beyoncé as my partner?”

I laughed. “Not sure if Jay-Z would like that. Or your wife.” Ray had one of the good ones. His wife was any Marine’s dream. Beautiful and faithful, Nia raised their four children while Ray was away. She was the head of the Key Wives’ Club, and still had time to send Ray the best care packages, hence his endless supply of Slim Jims.

After Selena, I vowed never to get close to anyone again, at least not until I left the Corps. I needed to focus on guiding my men—not get distracted wondering if another man was keeping my girl’s bed warm while I fought a war thousands of miles away.

Ray stood up. “Nia’d be cool with it. She loves the show, man. Do it.”

I didn’t answer. I stuffed the article back into the pocket containing my “If I should die” letter.

The roar of more rounds boomed through the sky. Sweat soaked my cammies, weighing them against my chest. I couldn’t see anything, but the rumbling of the helicopters overhead told me this was no training exercise.

I didn’t say a word, but I knew what was about to go down. A fire built in my chest and adrenaline took over. Moments like this made all the sacrifices of war worth it—knowing my life meant something, and that I was responsible for not only protecting my men but also ensuring the safety of Americans back home. I tossed the rest of the food into my pack and gathered my weapons.

We leaped to our feet. We raced into the tent as if hounds were on our heels.

I screamed at my men. “Grab your weapons and take cover!”

Selena

Six months later

Squinting at the bright lights, I slipped on my sunglasses even though I was still inside the airport terminal. Sunlight wasn’t blinding me—it was the flashes from those horrible cameras.

“Back in one minute,” my partner Dima said curtly and nodded to a nearby kiosk overflowing with souvenirs—leaving me at the mercy of the photographers.

A man thrust his microphone in my face. “Selena, are you coming back to Dancing Under the Stars next season?”

My seven-year contract didn’t give me much choice. “If they want me back, I’ll be there.” That was all I could say. I was under strict orders not to reveal any details of the new season.

A female reporter dressed in a fitted suit pushed her way to the front of the mob. “Selena, is there any truth to the rumor that Dima had an affair with Poppy Mabel?”

I glared at Dima, who was surrounded by sunhats and adoring fans. His personal life off the dance floor was none of my business, but I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t the victim the tabloids painted me to be. “No. But if the rumors were true, there would be no scandal. Both Dima and Poppy are single.” My eyes flicked to Dima. He took a break from posing for pictures with his fans and surged through the media swarm to pull me to his side.

“Poppy and me are the friends,” he said. “The only woman in my life that I’m committed with is Selena.” His accent always worsened when the media pressured him.

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he probably couldn’t see them through my sunglasses. I’d seen the photos of Dima and Poppy frolicking at a pool in Vegas on the cover of a few magazines as we’d passed a newsstand at the entrance to the airport. It didn’t bother me who he dated—as long as it didn’t overshadow our purely professional partnership.

A young girl ran up to us, waving a promotional photo. “Selima! I just love you guys. I’m a competitive dancer, also. You’re so amazing together! I hope you work things out and get married. The ballroom dream.”

Selima—the tabloids’ combined nickname for us—made me wince. Our identities were bound together even though we hadn’t been romantically involved in