Free Next to Die by Marliss Melton Page A

driving history, that she had some serious skeletons in her closet. “You have a good day, ma’am,” he called, turning away.
    He wondered how she handled surprises.
     
    “The therapist will be in shortly,” smiled the petty officer who’d taken Joe’s pulse and blood pressure and left him to change into a patient’s gown.
    Once changed, Joe eased onto the hip-high table, grimacing at the pain that simple act caused him. The room was chilly, and the gown barely reached the tops of his thighs. A draft blew down the back where the ties failed to meet.
    He hadn’t wanted to seek medical help, but the spasms in his back had prompted an appointment with a doctor, who’d subjected him to an MRI, informed him that his serratus posterior inferior was strained, and written him a prescription for physical therapy. Joe didn’t know what the future held for him beyond his R&R, but if he wanted to continue as a SEAL—and there wasn’t any question about that—he needed to recover fully.
    Light footfalls approached the closed door. He pictured the therapist, Lieutenant Sparks by name, pulling his chart from the holder. She gave a knock and stepped in briskly. Only total mastery of his facial muscles prevented Joe from revealing his dismay as his neighbor stepped into the room.
    “Lieutenant Commander,” she greeted him with poise, having had the advantage of seeing his name on the chart. “Lieutenant Sparks had her baby early,” she explained, “and I’ll be standing in for her.”
    Her tone was so impersonal, so professional, that it threw Joe even more off balance. “I’d like to be seen by another therapist,” he croaked.
    With the slightest firming of her lips, she answered coolly, “I’m the only therapist available until Lieutenant Sparks comes back. If you’d like to wait three months . . . ?” She shrugged to convey that was his choice.
    Joe hunched his shoulders, thinking hard. He could go to a civilian therapist and pay out of pocket, or he could suck it up and keep their exchange impersonal.
    He cut a critical glance at her khaki uniform. She wore standard work attire for officers: a tan-colored blouse and skirt. Her hair was in a tidy bun. Navy-issue pumps made her look a little taller. Aside from those eyes, and that soft mouth, she was unremarkable. So why did she rattle him so much? “I’ll stay,” he muttered.
    “Let’s talk about your back,” she invited, frowning down at the referral sheet his physician had given him. “It says here that you’ve strained an intermediary muscle, the serratus posterior inferior. How’d you do that?”
    “I hurt it in a fall,” he admitted.
    She laid the chart down and walked around the table. Stepping onto a stool, she unlaced the ties at the back of his gown and slipped a cool hand to through the opening. “How far was this fall?” she asked.
    Her touch made him jumpy. “I don’t know. A long way.”
    “You don’t remember?”
    He ground his molars together. “No,” he said shortly.
    She pressed her thumb into muscle, making him flinch. “I’d say you’ve gotten an accurate diagnosis. Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said, stepping off her stool. “We’ll start with moist heat packs on the affected area for twenty minutes, followed by a brief ultrasound treatment, then a fifteen-minute massage to increase blood flow and relaxation.”
    She was going to massage him? Joe’s mouth went dry. His heart palpitated.
    “Have you been taking the meds you were prescribed in Afghanistan?” she asked, picking up his chart again.
    “No.”
    “Good,” she said with a quick, pitying look, “because you’re not supposed to mix that stuff with alcohol.”
    A humiliated flush heated Joe’s face. He looked down at his healing hands, clenched and unfurled them.
    “I’ll send in a corpsman to set you up with those heat packs. See you in twenty minutes,” said Lieutenant Price, snapping the file shut and heading for the door. It closed