"Texas?" he asked her as they neared the hot dog vendor's cart.
"Pardon me?"
"Is that Texas I hear in your accent?"
"Red Branch, born and bred.''
"I'm from a small Midwest town too, a little more north. Missouri.''
"Are you vacationing here, then?"
"No. I live here, and I sure as hell hope you do, too."
Again she laughed, filling his brain with a sound he would never forget. "I do. My job's here. And what is it that you do?"
An elbow caught Blake in the belly from his swim buddy. Carlos flashed him a thumbs-up with a questioning look. You ready?
Wordless communication came easily after so many missions together.
Nodding, answers stuck under cobwebs in his throat, Blake shook off the past and stood, the boulder like weight of his gear not nearly as heavy as the weight in his chest. He disconnected from the plane's oxygen and opened his own.
What did he do? she'd asked. He was a Navy SEAL. Always. To the core. Something he should have made clear to Sydney from the start. But mentioning the full extent of his occupation to strangers wasn't safe. He'd simply told her that he was in the Navy and changed the subject while gathering up their food and popping a French fry into her mouth.
Not that he'd wanted to talk about it then, anyway, his brain still cobwebbed full of the intense months in Afghanistan.
Blake filed in with the rest of the SEALs, straddle-walk waddling under the weight of their gear. The load ramp lowered, gaped to reveal inky night sky. Four abreast in rows, they stopped at the top of the ramp. Dark sky, roaring wind and turbulence waited to swallow him.
He was a SEAL. Something he still believed in, cobwebs and all, even if somewhere along the line he'd forgotten how to believe in white picket fences.
Jack piloted his empty plane back to base, SEALs offloaded. That much closer to finished. A good thing, but also a reminder time was running out with Monica. He was making progress in getting to her by being patient, keeping some distance.
But would it be enough?
He clenched the stick, easing it forward to descend as they put miles between themselves and the parachuting SEALs. That left another half hour to relax with clear flying into the night sky before strapping on NVGs for the no-lights landing.
Rodeo flipped through pages in his flight data log before finding the correct one and pulling his clipped pen free of the ring. "You okay, man?''
"Yep."
"Uh-huh." Rodeo grunted an unconvinced response while jotting in the book. "I'm here, ya know. If you want to talk."
"You've been watching too much 'Dr. Phil' when you're TDY. There's nothing to talk about." Frustration swelled in the dark cockpit.
"Well, now we both know that's not true. You can't let it weigh you down in the workplace."
"I'm doing my job. Back off."
"Can't do that."
Anger at life overflowed toward Rodeo. "You're a helluva one to talk about spilling my guts here. You wanna talk about screwed-up relationships? Feel free to start."
Rodeo continued to write without looking up. "Since we're friends—and twenty thousand feet in the air—I won't punch you."
"Try later, if you're so moved. I haven't been in a good bar fight for at least seven months." Since Monica came into his life and he had a reason to clean up his act and better things to do with his time.
"You want me to talk first, hell, I'll talk." Rodeo stopped writing, hooked the pen on the edge of his data book. "Thing is, my situation is a no-go. No chance. I think you may have a window to fix this mess you're in if you'll try."
Jack kept eyes front on the opaque sky. "Who says I'm not trying?"