The Swan and The Sergeant - Alana Albertson Page 0,42

with me.

Bret

I studied myself in the mirror before I took the stage for the show’s season premiere. I frowned and shook my head.

“I hate this outfit, Sel.”

Selena laughed.

I was dead-on about this costume. An open, lemon-and-lime-colored silk shirt with orange feathers sprouting out of my arms—I looked like the mutant offspring of a parrot and a bottle of Squirt soda. If I started flapping, I’d probably lift right off the ground.

“Yeah, you do kinda look like you might fly away,” Selena admitted as she walked over to the stereo and turned on the music for Robyn and me. “But, no, it’s good. Very traditional mambo. The judges will love it.”

“At least someone will. I’ll never hear the end of this. They’ll be calling me Staff Sergeant Peacock.” I shrugged. “Well, at least my partner looks beautiful, even if she’s also covered in feathers. One more time?” I grabbed Robyn’s hand.

We started to dance our routine on the small black practice floor behind the main set. Xavier and Selena ran through some steps for their routine. A couple of random key grips and assistants roamed around.

Robyn was a perfectionist. She was the one always asking for one more practice round—my dream celebrity partner. And she could totally dance.

Robyn’s face lit up. She twisted and shook to the music in perfect beat.

We just might win. Then this nightmare show will be worth it.

The music abruptly stopped.

“Hey!” I snapped.

Dima was at the corner of the practice floor, changing the track. “Oh, I’m so sorry, guys. Were you not done? Here, I’ll put it back on for you.” He flashed a dirty look at Selena.

I needed to get through my first night without a confrontation.

“No thanks, Dima, we’re all done.” I extended my hand. “Good luck tonight.”

“Okay. See you guys out there.” Dima squinted, and then suddenly smiled like he was plotting something. He took the hand of his teen celebrity partner, Laura. “Ni pukha, ni pera,” he tossed our way as I ushered Robyn toward the red room.

Robyn cast a confused glance toward Dima. “What was all that ‘pookie knee parrot’ stuff? What did he say?”

Selena answered. “It’s like break a leg in Russian. It actually means ‘neither down from a duck, nor feather.’”

“Duck? Who’s he callin’ a duck?” she cried, straightening her back and adjusting her fluffy yellow costume. “I’ll have you know, I’m a bona fide canary.”

I laughed. “Oh, see, and here I was thinking parrot.”

Xavier turned toward Selena. “So, you speak Russian, too?”

“No. But I understand a lot. You have to in my line of work.”

We all headed back to the red room, the official backstage viewing area. Sparkly gold valances adorned the walls, and an opulent crystal chandelier blinded me as I entered. Jenny sat on one of the brown velvet couches, hugging a red pillow as if it were her teddy bear. Soothing ballroom music streamed in from the overhead speakers.

But the noise wasn’t enough to drown out Selena and Dima, who began ripping into each other. Again.

“I told to you that my lawyer will distribute your money,” Dima snapped.

“Dima, you put a hold on our business bank account. I can’t believe you did that!”

No way would Dima be stupid enough to lose his temper with the cameras on and me standing there. “Selena, we will handle this later.”

Selena gave me a “please don’t get involved” look. But I couldn’t resist.

“Hey.” I put my hand on Dima’s shoulder. “Why don’t you just cut her a check for now and let the lawyers deal with it later. There’s no need to be a jerk.”

Dima turned his charm on me as a cameraman approached. “Sure, friend. Sounds good.”

She just turned around, grabbed a brush from her bag, and started scaling the suede sole on her shoe.

When her soles were brushed out, Selena put her arm around me. “You nervous?”

“No. I just hope none of my Marines are watching this.”

“Ha! Don’t worry. I think you’re safe. They don’t know you’re on the show yet. I doubt a bunch of Marines are crowded around a television set in Fallujah, watching Dancing Under the Stars. Isn’t Monday Night Football on?”

A director ran through the door. “Okay, everyone, five-minute warning for the opening.”

A makeup girl started brushing my face with foundation as I winced.

A costume assistant eyed me suspiciously. “Do you think he’s stoned enough?” she asked Kendrick, the costume designer.

“Absolutely not. More stones. More stones!” Kendrick pushed Selena off of me and attacked me from behind with a Bedazzler and shot me up