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“PTSD huh?” he finally says, and I flop back into my chair with relief.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“I’ll make an appointment.”
At that moment, my heart swells with pride for Ace. It cannot be easy, especially for a man to admit that he has a problem. My respect for him goes up several notches. There’s nothing else keeping me here. I jump to my feet.
“I better go,” I say.
Ace stands up. “Do you want to hang out…for a while?”
Our gazes lock on each other. The sexual energy in the room thickens. My body pulses with the need to be stroked. To be filled. But that’s not what I came for.
“Maybe some other time,” I tell him, and my body groans. I want him. I want his manhood filling me, pleasuring me. But I need him to be better. I need him to work on himself and for that, we need space between us.
He nods. “I understand.”
I think he does. He places his hand in the small of my back and walks me to the door. He opens it and before I leave, I kiss him gently on the mouth. His woodsy, outdoors scent comes over me and I all but jerk myself away.
“Kiss Luna for me,” Ace says. “And tell Vanessa thanks.”
“I will.”
I flee, knowing if I stay for a minute longer, I’ll succumb to temptation. I feel sad as I drive away. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Ace again. If he’ll call me. Everything feels so messed up.
It’s not his fault that he’s ill. It hurts that I can’t tell him about Luna. And yes, a part of me knows that it’s his right to know that he’s a dad. But it’s also my responsibility to protect my daughter. Nothing feels right.
Chapter 11
Ace
“How was it in Afghanistan?” Jason Cooper asks me.
He’s a big compact man, all solid muscle as most firefighters are here at the station. I thought that soldiers and athletes are the two professions where people really work out, but firefighters rank up there too. I haven’t seen a single overweight firefighter, in training or here at the station.
Several of us are in the day room drinking coffee. We’re all on a break after completing most of the morning chores. So far, there have been several calls, the majority of which were false alarms.
I give Jason Cooper my standard answer. “Tough. Had to be done.”
He nods. “We’re proud of you. Thanks for serving.”
And every one of the guys in the room says the same thing. Since returning home from Afghanistan, I’ve been told thank you quite a few times, but none have touched me as this one coming from these guys. In saying thank you, they’re also saying that they understand my behavior the previous week. They’re accepting me with all my faults. My throat is tight with emotion when I mumble a response. Thankfully, minutes later, the PA system blares, and the dispatcher’s voice comes on.
There’s a fire on Delta Street in a private home. In thirty seconds, we are in the truck, blaring our way toward the scene of the fire. I’m less anxious now that I know that the guys don’t hold my PTSD episode against me. Like the military, we have to have trust between us. The guys need to know that they can trust me and vice versa. I’m in tune with all my thoughts. The moment I feel myself slipping into another place and time, I’ll do all I can to keep a grip on the present. I can’t fuck this up.
As we swing into Delta Street, thick dense smokes curl up to the sky. There’s a crowd gathered at the front of the house and a woman is waving her hands.
She comes running toward the truck. “My boy is in there, please…”
I’m immediately filled with a sense of purpose. We jump out of the truck and immediately see the fire hydrant across the street.
“I got the hydrant,” Michael, one of the crew says.
The ladder guys are already there, and they are already raising their ladders so they can break the windows. Stan and I are in breathing apparatuses. Stan is the search and rescue guy and I’ve been assigned to work with him. The front door is unlocked and, despite my breathing equipment, I can smell the acrid smoke.
The source of the fire is the back end of the house, but the thickness of the smoke prevents me from getting an exact location. The other guys deal with the fire while Stan and I start scouring the house for any trapped victims.
“Help!” a voice calls from somewhere on the second floor.
“We’re coming to get you,” Stan yells.
The next few minutes seem to drag as we crawl upstairs behind one of the guys with a hose. It seems forever before we find the teenage boy. He’s in the bathroom in the tub. The bathroom window is small but open and it lets in oxygen.
