Page 19 of Stolen By the Billionaire
Yes, Blaze Robinson could be counted on.
“Of course, Staff Sergeant Jackson,” Blaze said as he sped through the afternoon. “I’m driving so hands-free only, please. On deck,” Blaze said.
“Yes, sir. First call is Sergeant Oscar Mina.”
“Roger that.”
Click.
A man’s voice said, “Hello? Is someone there?”
Blaze put on his most matter-of-fact voice. “Yes, Sergeant Mina. I’m here. I’m glad you called today.”
“Who are you? Did you serve?” the voice from the car speakers asked.
Everyone who took calls for Vets in Crisis had served. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Blaze Robinson, DEVGRU, Blue Team. You can call me Blaze.”
A soft sigh whispered in the car. “I was in the 160th SOAR.”
“The Night Stalkers.” The 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment was an elite US Army unit on par with the Green Berets or Army Rangers with the primary mission of piloting helicopters to support various American special operations forces. “How are you today?”
Sergeant Mina said, “Honorable discharge two years ago, but it was really a medical discharge. Not so good, sir.”
They talked for over an hour while Blaze followed the black strip of the highway through the green landscape, the overhead sun curving toward his rear window as he drove.
A few veterans who called the hotline needed advice on access to resources, but most, like Sergeant Oscar Mina, were deep in their own heads, drowning, and needed a firm hand to pull them out.
Sarah Bell receded from Blaze’s attention as he drove and talked to Oscar Mina, then to Corporal Bob Manfield, Senior Airman Jeffrey Sullivan, and Marine Lance Corporal Darius Jackson.
Corporal Manfield started the call with, “I was in Fallujah.”
Too many calls started with the devastating shorthand of geopolitical locations. “I’m listening.”
Hours later, Blaze pressed the button to open the wrought-iron gate to his house in Chicago.
The sun was still shining but lower in the west as he coasted down the curving driveway and pulled into the garage.
After the calls, his heart was breaking, but he’d helped. He’d been of use. He’d offered his metaphorical strength and pulled those people out of the dark pits of their minds, at least for today.
Blaze wasn’t a useless husk of a man, at least for today.
He dragged himself down the squared-off spiral staircase in the center of the house to the bedrooms on the lower level, where the arcadia doors opened to the pool deck overlooking Lake Michigan reflecting the sunset on the other side of the house. There, he showered to get the dark brown farm soil he’d been lying in for a week out of the crack of his ass and collapsed on his king-size bed.
His household staff had gone home for the evening as it was after eight o’clock. His private chef had left Blaze some supper in the fridge when he’d texted that he would be home that evening, but the effort of going back upstairs to the main part of the house and warming the food seemed insurmountable.
Forty Percent Rule.
Damn, he hated that rule sometimes.
Down in the kitchen, Blaze found a meal prep container in the fridge with a note taped on it that read, Welcome back! Hope you enjoy this chicken parm with pasta and zucchini. Salad is on lower shelf. Bread is on counter.
Blaze followed the instructions and sat down to eat his meal at the kitchen table, wondering what Sarah Bell was having for her supper. She’d be sitting at that kitchen table, maybe, or perhaps standing in her kitchen and eating over the sink. Maybe she’d go to a friend’s house or have someone over.
Maybe that huge white dog who guarded the chickens would sit with her. That was a good dog. Blaze had watched the gorgeous beast kill two snakes and then run off a coyote and a hawk trying to sneak into the chicken coop.
Very well trained, and very responsible.
Blaze read a book while he finished his meal. After he cleaned up, he read in bed until sleep came, and he dreamed of an hourglass-shaped woman walking through tall corn and glancing back at him as he chased her.
