Page 2 of Beast

I logged into my student services account and stared blankly at the screen.

HOLD—PLEASE CONTACT REGISTRAR

A warning in bright, capitalized red letters. What on earth was going on? My tuition was supposed to be deducted directly from my account every month. I’d taken all the money I had earned while on Dancing under the Stars and created a tuition trust. No one else had access to the funds except my father because he was the trustee. I shot my father a quick text to call me. There wasn’t much more I could do at this point—it was Saturday night and the university was closed. I briefly considered trying to find my login for my trust, but assured myself that I was panicking and should just wait until I heard from my dad.

Now what was I going to do tonight?

My nervous hand shook as I clutched my cell phone. What was it again? Swipe right if he didn’t look like a psychopath and left if he posed shirtless in a mirror selfie? These guys didn’t have a single friend in their lives who could take a decent picture of them?

Forget this.

I deleted the app. How pathetic was I?

Pretty pathetic, actually.

After living in the public eye for so long, I didn’t trust anyone. Once a man found out I was a former reality star, he treated me differently. Like I was some fame-hungry whore, good enough to hook up with but not to date.

But I refused to hide anymore. I’d spent the first year post-spotlight cowering from the media, cringing every time I saw my name on the gossip sites. “Makeup-free former reality star Bella Applebaum indulges in fattening treat.” Cue the mean tweets.

At least interest in my life had died down. I stopped using my stage name, moved, and changed my phone number and email account. I was now living as Isa Cuesta, struggling twenty-three-year-old college senior. Bella Applebaum, America’s ballroom dancing sweetheart, had disappeared.

Sighing in frustration, I reached for my Kindle—maybe I’d just throw myself into the latest bad boy romance novel.

Just as I perused my book choices, my phone lit up.

Marisol.

My gut clenched. My goodtime girlfriend was no doubt looking to recruit a wing woman.

Marisol: Phi Delt Party at SDSU. Get ready.

My fingers typed frenetically.

Me: Sorry, not my scene.

Marisol: Too late. I’m on my way!

Great, I hated parties. A bunch of drunken frat guys and vapid sorority sisters would get wasted, hook up, and then take their walks of shame the next morning. I preferred seeing a live band downtown, catching the latest indie flick, or checking out the newest ethnic restaurant. But I did need to get out. Though it was mid-summer, I was burned out from having a full load of classes all year. I spent my vacation teaching barre, doing research for my psych professor, and studying for my GRE exams. I deserved one night of partying.

My long, dark hair was still damp from the shower. I sprayed some Moroccan oil on it, dabbed my face with concealer, lined my green eyes with a metallic gold pencil, and applied nude lipstick and mascara. One glance in the mirror and my confidence came back. Despite being the offspring of an alcoholic author and a tragic, old-school Vegas showgirl, I prided myself on being natural, normal, and real, which I considered quite an achievement having spent my late teens in La La Land. Four years ago, my life had been so embedded in the Hollywood scene—filming my show, attending premieres, posing for photo shoots, raging at after-parties, and gloating at award shows. Thank God I’d escaped and regained my sanity—though I definitely had some scars from my time in the limelight. I now lived in San Diego, which while still technically SoCal was a welcome break away from the L.A. party drama.

As I picked out an outfit, my doorbell buzzed. I opened the door, and saw Marisol standing there, dressed as Catwoman, clutching a shopping bag in her hand. Her brunette ombré hair was pulled back and her heavy makeup featured winged cat eyes, a pink nose, and sparkly whiskers.

Oh, hell no.

I rolled my eyes. “The animal shelter is closed.”

“Funny, Isa. It’s a superhero-themed bash. Don’t worry—I hooked you up, girl!” She rummaged through the bag and pulled out a red wig and a black leather catsuit.

At this point, I had two choices—either go along with Marisol and embrace wearing this getup, or run like hell and lock myself in the bathroom. But she’d never take no for an answer.

“You want to go as twin Catwomen? That’s super lame, Mari.”

She let out a purr. Well, I had to give her credit for getting into character.

“No, silly. You’ll be Black Widow. You know, from the Avengers? Come on, get dressed. My parents are watching Paloma. Please don’t make me go alone.”

Well, I had to go now; Marisol rarely had a free night between school, work, ROTC, and watching her child. Paloma was her adorable three-year-old daughter, who Marisol swore was the result of a one-night stand with a famous rock star. Marisol adored Paloma, never regretted her choice to have and keep her, and never sued for child support. I’d always encouraged her to contact the father; he had the right to know he had a child. She swore that she’d tried but that he had vanished.