Page 24 of Beast

Then again, blowing my brains out would clearly bring shame to the Marines, but at least the publicity might shed some light on the suicide rates of veterans. What the fuck was wrong with me to even be thinking that? Man, I needed help.

I ripped up the producer’s number and threw the card into the trash.

Maybe someday Isa and I would cross paths again, and I’d be able to show her the kind of man I was.

A beast.

14

Isa

After an awkward breakfast, where I spent most of my time internally debating whether or not I should contact Grady, my father turned on the television and found a football game. Once he was distracted, I told my dad I had some errands to run.

I needed to talk to Benny Brooks, the executive producer of Dancing under the Stars.

I jumped in my car and headed to the freeway, but I didn’t have the guts to show up on Grady’s doorstep—instead I was going back to LA.

I hadn’t been back to Hollywood since my mom killed herself not wanting to be in the city where she’d taken her life. But I was desperate now. I had to finish school. I’d do whatever it took. And this option was infinitely preferable to making an ass out of myself groveling to Grady.

And the truth was, I missed dancing.

My foot pressed on the gas pedal. It was Monday in the middle of summer. Dancing under the Stars was not filming nor was the show on tour. And it was only three weeks until United States Dancesport Championships—which meant all the dancers should be training. I no longer had Benny’s phone number and no one ever answered the studio phone, but he was usually coaching Pasha at his ballroom.

I checked Pasha’s Instagram. At least he was there—he had endorsed a workout shake from the ballroom less than an hour ago.

Two hours, an iced coffee, and a caramel apple empanada later, I parked in the studio’s parking lot. This studio had been my home for many years. I’d done rumba walks until my toenails popped off, jive kicks until my knees gave out, and samba rolls until my back ached. But no matter how much physical pain I’d endured, I’d enjoyed every second of it.

My mouth became dry. I exited the car and placed my hand on the door. Before I could change my mind, I forced myself to walk inside.

But the second I stepped into the studio, I immediately regretted it. I didn’t belong here—I was an outsider, a quitter.

Pasha whirled around the floor with his new professional partner, a stunning Russian blonde who also just happened to be his new girlfriend. I couldn’t help but stare at her toes, the effortless way they rolled off the ground.

A bunch of younger dancers practiced their cha cha locks in the mirror. Luckily, no one had noticed me. I contemplated dashing back to my car, but a familiar voice stopped me.

“Bellichka?” Pasha had ditched his partner in the middle of the floor and walked over to me.

Bellichka, Pasha’s pet name for me. “Privet, Pasha.”

The man who stood before me hadn’t aged a day since the last time I’d seen him four years ago. Pasha’s blonde hair was slicked with gel, his eyes were a pale blue, and his body was lean and tan. I was pretty sure that his flawless skin was the result of Botox.

I expected him to hug me or at least give me one of those fake kisses on the cheek. But instead, his gaze traveled my body. I felt naked in his presence. He’d never looked at me like that, ever. All the years we danced together he’d treated me like his little sister. I had yearned for him to want me, see me as a woman and not as a little girl. I’d been so jealous of his girlfriends.

But now, when I looked at him, I felt nothing.

He took me in his arms and hugged me, attempting to kiss me on the lips, but I turned my cheek. He seemed startled and quickly released me.

“What it is you doing here?”

Well, his accent was still strong, despite being on television. “I was looking for Benny.”

“He is not here. He went to Australia to take care of something.”

Dammit. There went my plan.

“But I can help you. . .”

Doubtful. But I hadn’t come all this way to give up so easily.