“I hate this shit,” Casey Spencer said, stretching his legs out in front of him. Sitting in the doctor’s office meant he needed to maintain a façade of calm. They loved it too much when he paced. Love might not be the right word, but Dr. James Westwood saw through him to easily.

“No one is especially fond of the process, but look at it like an obstacle course at Parris Island. Love it or hate it, you have to push yourself to achieve.” At least James understood what it was to strive and fail, then pick yourself up to do it all over again.

“I’m sitting in a pressure cooker and it feels like they dialed it all the way up. I know the lid might blow, but I can’t seem to loosen the gauge.” Exhaling a harsh breath Casey leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and clasping his hands together. “I need this job, James. The job is what I do.” Yes, he ran into burning buildings because someone had to.

“Are you ready to talk about last month’s factory fire?” James didn’t push him, but he also didn’t let him keep avoiding the reason Casey ended up in his office. The specialized rehab facility was a sanctuary for injured Marines, recovering soldiers, Airmen in need of assistance, and so much more. From physical to mental therapies, a veteran could always depend on the Allen-based facility for help.

“Not really, but let’s not stand on protocol.” Sweat beaded along his spine. He could hear the flames crackling, the weight of the intense heat surrounding him, but the worst part was the smell. People joked that some charred flesh smelled like meat in a pan. “I can still smell them. I had on my oxygen mask, but it didn’t seem to matter. You can’t mistake the smell of dead people burning.”

Or forget the contorted bodies caught in the rictus of agony. While they burned alive.

“I can still hear them screaming. We had to fight our way through the fire.” It took too long. Flames climbed the walls—a curtain of it stretched across the factory floor as chemicals and treated materials went up like so much kindling.

Leaning his head back, he grimaced at the crack of his neck. The tension coiling through him contributed to his insomnia and loss of appetite. Everything hurt.

“When a body burns, there’s more than one smell. Blood smells like a coppery, metallic component over the roasting meat…but it’s the charcoal smell of their skin burning, and sulfurous scent of their hair—it’s nauseating and it’s always there.” The scent was nauseating and sweet, putrid and steaky, or like leather being tanned over a flame. 

Perspiration beaded along his forehead. “I’ve walked through hell and back again, I’ve fought insurgents in the middle of trying to put out a fire and protect my team—I survived all of that. Why can’t I let go of these images?”

Why did those twelve sad victims seem branded into his mind? I should have been faster. I should have gotten to them.

“You told me they couldn’t escape, correct?” No judgment discolored James’ tone. The question merely sought to confirm what information Casey had already shared.

“No. They were shackled to the metal tables where they worked. If they had been wood, they might have been able to break the table legs—and the tables themselves were bolted to the floor.” If the fire had been merciful, they would have died from smoke inhalation first, but they hadn’t. A friend of his at the Medical Examiner’s office told him some of the victims had identifiable scorched throats. “They burned alive, James. They were burning as we fought our way through the flames.”

“Are you blaming yourself?”

Was he? “Yes. No—fuck.” Casey abandoned the pretense of calm and rose abruptly to pace the office. It was a nice place, offering comfortable seating, muted colors, and even the soothing sound of a water fountain. The windows overlooked an indoor atrium with lush foliage and colorful birds. “The factory fire was out of control when we were called in. They reported a two alarm, but the fire engulfed the building.” It was so much more dangerous, not to mention the toxicity in the air from the chemicals used to dye the clothing the workers were supposed to sew.

“You were working against a deadline. Is there any chance they were already dead when you arrived?”

“Does it matter?” Casey focused on a red bird flitting through the foliage. The colorful plumage arresting his attention and let him control his respiration.

“Yes, it matters, because you have claimed responsibility for the loss of those lives. Ones you had no opportunity to save.”

“You don’t know that.” The sweat on his back soaked into his shirt. The air conditioning chilled his damp skin.

“I do know that. You don’t.” A fair assessment. Instead of rising to follow him, James remained seated. “Walk me through it again, every step, every decision you made.”

Casey would rather pull out his own teeth. “It was nearing end of shift,” he began, because he wouldn’t let fear choke him. “We’d had a pretty quiet twenty-two hours. I was working out when the call came in. It was an intense upper body, so my arms were sore. I suited up and rolled out of the station within three minutes. We were five minutes from the scene of the fire. Another station was already on site, they called us in for backup.”

Flames jetted out from shattered windows—even the roof was on fire. A sea of red-orange raced over the tarred roof and soot was everywhere from the billowing black smoke.

“We rolled in, got the hoses hooked up, but there was something wrong with the hydrant. It had been damaged. We had to run extra hose to a secondary hydrant. It cost us…three minutes.” Screams ripped through the roar of the flames. “Oxygen masks were necessary. We couldn’t see shit inside. We moved in two men teams. It’s easy to become disoriented inside a nightmare like that—it was the screams that sent us in. Chief didn’t rate it a safe extraction and wouldn’t order us to go inside.”

“So you volunteered.” It wasn’t a question.

Turning away from the atrium, Casey met James’ knowing gaze. “It’s the job.”

“The job means we lose sometimes.” James held a pen in his hand and a notepad on his lap, but he didn’t take notes. “The job means we accept those losses, and we move on so we can be there for the next guy.”

“You think I don’t know that?” The factory fire wasn’t the first time he’d lost someone.

“I think you do intellectually, but you’re struggling emotionally.” Despite the patient note in the doc’s calm observation, the statement landed like a physical blow to Casey’s solar plexus.

“I’m not cracked.” If the doc listed him as mentally defective, he’d lose his job. “I just need to get some sleep.”

“I didn’t say you were cracked. I said you are struggling—and struggling is normal.” Mimicking holding a container, James raised his right hand several inches above his left. “Take a pressurized container and you pour into a different color liquid for every emotional response you have—some are green, some are blue, some are red—you get the picture. You keep jamming them in, good or bad, and eventually its gets dark and there’s only a smidgen of room at the top. You pour out some of the layer on the top, then the next layer bubbles up.”

It was an interesting mental image. “Your point is?”

“My point is, just because you alleviate one stress, doesn’t mean there isn’t more below the surface. The longer it stays there, the more it might fester. And when it makes it to the surface, it’s even more uncomfortable.”

“You’re saying what? My upset isn’t at this fire but at something else, and it’s coming out all shitty like an infection?” There was a reason Casey preferred to put out fires and leave the mental hoodoo to the doctors.

“A rather base description, but yes. You’re alleviating some of the pressure by simply being here…and you asked for my help remember?”

“So sit down and shut the hell up?” Casey blew out a breath. He forced his hands to unclench and set them on his waist, arms akimbo. One of his instructors in high school stressed deep breathing to open the chi and force the body to achieve a sense of harmony.

Made no damn sense then, but it helped now.

“No,” James said with a smile. “I don’t want you to shut the hell up. You need to talk. You need to make room so the next layer can bubble up and then the next.”

“Talking is not my thing.” Casey scrubbed a hand over his face. The stubble on his cheeks reminded him he needed to shave.

“Maybe not, but are you backing down Marine?” Challenge etched every syllable. The doc knew him well.

“Hell no. But do we have a way of doing this that doesn’t make me feel like a chick flick-dear diary moment?” Casey needed to get back on the job, he needed to be there for his guys. He had to be the one going into those fires. If he didn’t have the job, what the hell did he have left?

A frown appeared between his brows as though he considered his answer. The lack of outright rejection provided a sense of hope. “You know, I might have one idea. It would help you and help others at the same time.”

“Group therapy?” The idea left a hard rock in the pit of his stomach. Maybe pressing for an alternative was a mistake. He was better on his feet in the middle of a high-pressure situation. Offer him too much time and he could see the problems on every angle. Not necessarily the best place to achieve problem-solving status.

“No,” James said with a half-laugh. Rising, he shook his head. “You would have more issues with group therapy than you do here. Admitting vulnerability doesn’t come easily to any Marine, not even to a fellow Marine.”

At his desk, James set the notepad down then flipped open his laptop and keyed in his password.

“You’re not wrong there.” Casey went for a self-deprecating tone. It suited him. “The idea made me want to vomit. So what’s plan B?” Give him an assignment, and he’d tackle it. Anything to get rid of this shaky, uncomfortable feeling wobbling in his insides. He wasn’t that guy, and he wouldn’t be that guy.

“Her name is Jane Harmon. She’s General Harmon’s daughter, and she’s here working with our physiotherapists.” James wrote down a name and a number onto a sticky note.

“What happened to her?”

“I’m not at liberty to say—privileged information. However, one of the things she needs is a physio buddy. She’s not working well with others. She needs your help, and I think you need hers.” Straightening, James handed him the bright yellow note. “She’s in a session right now. I’m going to call down to get you an introduction.”

Mystified, Casey stared at the name on the sticky note. “What am I supposed to do? Babysit her?”

“Why don’t you start with hello, my name is Casey…and go from there.” Wearing an amused mien, James held out his hand. “You got this. Consider it a mission, Marine.”

Hello? Really? Gripping James’ hand, Casey nodded. “See you next week?”

“Or sooner, call anytime.” With that enigmatic signoff, James walked him to the side door. Patients came in one side and left through another. It provided patient privacy. Outside, he studied the note and the time on it as well as which quadrant her PT session took place in. According to the facility map on the wall, her quadrant included the hydrotherapy chambers and swimming pool.

Sliding the note into his pocket, he headed across the campus. He’d made it as far as the landscaped garden, with its thick hedges and twisting walkways crossing each other either to connect to one of the other buildings or winding off to where the apartments were located. The entire facility, built by former Marines and run by them, focused on the whole health of a veteran and their family. The apartments made it more comfortable for long-term stays for out of city patients.

They’d grown over the last five years, or so Damon claimed. Damon was one of Casey’s oldest friends. They’d known each other before the Marines, though their paths had taken dramatically different routes. Last time they spoke, Damon told him he’d gotten engaged to some hot lawyer…finally.

The doors to the swim gym opened and three people exited—two women and one man. The man’s scars indicated an old burn, long since healed. One of the women, dark haired and moving with a limp, took the man’s hand and their laughter echoed over the quad.

Those two were together, so that left the third woman. She was easily 5’9, rangy build, and moving with a slow, deliberate pace. Her long dark hair fell along the right side of her face, but the left was considerably shorter.

When she paused to study the area, he felt more than saw her gaze land on him. The sun illuminated the left side of her face. Red, enflamed skin stretched from her throat to along the edge of her hair.

Casey recognized the pattern of the scarring. Fire had kissed this woman and left a mark. Her expression tightened, then her chin raised as she started toward him. The uneven gait warned him of further injuries.

Galvanized, he increased his pace to meet her. It didn’t matter that Jane Harmon was the daughter of general. The last thing he planned to do was make anyone struggle to reach him.

At his rapid approach, Jane hesitated. Her dark eyes narrowed.

“Afternoon, Miss Harmon. I’m Casey Spencer.” It sounded lame to his ears, but he extended his hand anyway. This close, he couldn’t help but see the area of missing hair on the right side of her head. Angry scar tissue on her neck extended to her skull and around the shell of her ear.

The fire had done more than kiss her.

“Doctor Westwood asked me to talk to you,” she said quietly. “Said you needed to hear a story.”

That wasn’t what James said to him. “All right. Can I buy you dinner?” Maybe a step too fast, but he was hungry and would kill for a drink.

“Not really sure my story is conducive to eating.” She kept tilting her head, angling her face away to give him her unblemished profile. Everything in her manner declared she was uncomfortable with staring at him.

“Maybe not, but if you have even an ounce of adventure in you, I have an idea.” All of his earlier discomfort shuttled aside, the only thing that mattered was she was in need.

“What did you have in mind?” Interest flickered in her tone. The corner of her mouth curved into a hint of a smile.

“You’ll see…” He held out his hand, a rush of adrenaline flooding him. It was like those moments before he dashed into the fire. He knew it would be dangerous and there was every chance he wouldn’t come out the other side. None of that mattered, only confronting the flame.

“Just a heads up, Mr. Spencer,” Jane said, her husky voice a sexy promise. “I’m not usually a fan of surprises.”

“Me neither,” he said with a wink. “Let’s call it an adventure.”