All fucking day I couldn’t get Isa out of my mind. How she sucked my cock, the image of her ass as I took her from behind, the expression on her face when I licked her pussy, the sweet sounds of her moans as she came.

Remembering how it felt to be inside her numbed my pain. The throbbing from my skin graft was intense, like being dragged around on a carpet until my skin melted off.

I sat down to my computer and Googled her.

Bella Applebaum—Dancing under the Stars.

Her face lit up my screen—hair darker, skin tanner, and body skinnier. I thought she looked way hotter when I’d met her than she had on the show—I liked my women with curves.

She’d danced two seasons, then left mid-season. No reason why. She’d obviously changed her life—instead of dancing with losers she now was sleeping with monsters.

A few pics with her ex-partner—Pasha, a fellow dancer on the show. I wonder if he ever fucked her? Looked like a pansy. I mean, the guy fucking waxed his chest.

I scanned a few more articles on the screen, until one headline sent a jolt through my body.

Inside Bella’s private hell: the truth about the night when the reality star discovered her mother’s body.

I skimmed the article—though Bella had never confirmed the story to the press, the rumor was her mom had been shot by an unknown killer.

Fuck.

Maybe that’s why she stole my bullet . . . she’d been scared I would harm her.

And little did she know I’d be dead if it weren’t for her.

My head buzzed and a devious thought passed through my head. What if . . . I accepted the show’s offer? Agreed to make a jackass out of myself—as long as I was allowed to choose my partner.

The producer had called me again last week. Said he’d do “anything” to get me on the show.

Anything.

And honestly, what the fuck else was I doing with my life, besides drinking myself into oblivion? To be honest, I needed a plan B. Now that I was about to be retired from the Marines, I’d be left at the mercy of the VA, waiting two years to get an appointment. I had no formal education, no ability to hold down a job with my injuries, no future.

The producer had offered me $125,000 to do the show, plus a weekly bonus if I didn’t get eliminated. I could make up to a half million dollars. The Corps would definitely give me leave—anything for public relations. That was who I was these days anyway. A fucking propaganda puppet.

If the public wanted a war hero, I would give them exactly what they craved.

I relaxed back in my chair and entertained the possibilities. The dancers were forced to train their partners up to eight hours a day. I could demand that she was my partner.

It was a fifteen-week season.

Fifteen weeks to fuck Isa.

Fifteen weeks to make her need me. Show her the kind of man I was.

My hand picked up my phone but my fingers refused to dial the numbers.

No. I couldn’t do it.

I wouldn’t do it.

And it wasn’t because I thought it was gay or lame or anything like that. There had been other war heroes who’d starred on it, and my staff sergeant, Bret Lord, had been on as a professional dancer on the show, and he was masculine as fuck. He’d donated his entire salary to his buddy’s widow.

But he wasn’t fucked up like I was.

It wasn’t even the ridiculous outfits I’d have to wear or the makeup they’d paint on my face.

It was the triggers.

They would be everywhere. Flashing lights, sound stages, the audience clapping.

I’d snap. I’d break. I’d humiliate myself. I thrived on routine—one of the only suggestions my therapist had made that I actually implemented. Get up, go to the hospital for forced therapy and medical appointments, return home, get drunk, get laid.

But I hadn’t been with anyone since Isa. She’d been different than the other girls I’d fucked. I wanted to claim her as mine.

I was almost crazy enough to embarrass myself on national television to find a way back to her.

Almost.

But that was a stupid fucking idea. For so many reasons. The most important being that if I had fifteen weeks alone with Isa, I’d become addicted to her. And then she’d leave me.

As a Medal of Honor recipient, I was held to a higher standard. I would not humiliate the Corps. And having a flashback on national television would be unavoidable.

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.