Dances with Fire: a Military Firefighter Romance

Spencer rested his hands on the barre. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. With Brook’s help, he’d managed to put together a short series of moves, but he couldn’t seem to get past a certain point.

Was it even possible to share what he’d seen—what he’d done?

He’d known this dance idea would dredge up memories, but that was the point, wasn’t it? To physically wrestle the demons out of his system.

But now he was questioning his decision to involve Brook. Perhaps he shouldn’t have dragged someone else into his personal nightmares—especially someone as good and light as Brook. She was just so damn easy to talk to… until now.

“Hey.” Her hand pressed lightly on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Her hands were so small compared to his. Every time he took them in his, he wanted to flatten them against his chest—his bare chest—just to see how they felt there.

He stalked away from the draw of her hand—the offer of comfort—to the gym bag he’d tossed in the corner of the room. “This was a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she said. “It isn’t.”

He bent over and grabbed his jean jacket out of the bag. “I never should have involved you in this. It’s too… dark.”

She crossed to him. “The fire brought you here for a reason,” she said. “You need to do this. Like Roman. Like me.”

That last bit got his attention, and he paused. What did she mean, like her?

She took a step toward him. “The first piece I created when I moved here was an attempt to make sense of my experiences in New York.”

Awareness pricked up his spine. “What happened in New York?”

“I told you I auditioned a lot but never made the cut.”

“Yeah.” He still couldn’t believe it; she was so good.

She sighed. “I didn’t make the cut because I refused to have sex in exchange.”

“What?” Anger pulsed through his veins, tightening his grip on the jacket. “Bastards!”

“Don’t be angry,” she said. “I’m not. Not anymore. Dance helped me do that. And it brought me here—to a studio of my own and a life I’m building doing something I love.”

He stared at her. She was barely getting by, but she was happy. She had what she needed. Friends. Dixie.

Peace.

God, he wanted that.

“What was it called?” he said.

Tiny frown lines appeared on her forehead.

“The piece you wrote about the sexual harassment,” he said.

“Oh.” Something gleamed in her eyes. “It was titled Goodbye New York.”

He mentally tried it out: Goodbye Nightmares.

“Your story is important,” she said.

“I don’t know, Brook,” he said. “The only people who can truly understand are those who’ve been there.” He would always be part of the brotherhood of the military, whether he wanted to be or not…

“Don’t you see?” she said. “We want to know your story. We want to understand. Someone like you can show us your world, even if it’s just a tiny part. You don’t have to tell it alone.” She placed her hand over his where it gripped the fabric of the jacket too tightly. “Let me in.”

Her eyes held a determination that called to him on an elemental level. Could he share the ugly, raw truths with her? If not her, then who?

Her gaze held his. “I can handle a brush with the dark stuff,” she said.

Of course she could. And so could he, because he was still here. Still breathing. Still feeling.

She tugged at the jacket in his hands, and he released it. “It’s harder than I thought it would be,” he admitted.

“I figured.” She dropped the jacket and wrapped her arms around his torso. She laid her cheek against his chest, sending warmth through his veins. “But you need to finish it—for yourself.”

His arms came around her, and he rested his chin on her head. This woman had become a friend, a dance partner, a beacon in a storm.

She was right. He needed to finish what he’d started.