Page 14 of Branded

“I’m surprised Whitney let you off the leash long enough to work an extra shift. I thought you were too good for that now.”

We all love teasing him about what a pussy-whipped bastard he is now. It’s all in good fun, of course, but that woman has him wrapped around her finger and he clearly loves every second of it.

“Sit and spin.” He raises his middle finger.

“You’d like that too much. I think I’ll pass.”

The crew we have here is much like a family, because we tend to spend more time with them than our actual families at times, and being thrown into life-or-death scenarios with only your coworkers to count on seems to build trust faster than anything I’ve encountered in my life.

I’d lay down my life for any of the men in this room, and I know they’d do the same for me.

“Did you all hear they are wanting to do a big write-up on the firehouse for the five-year anniversary of the LA Wildfires?” Graham asks.

“Why the fuck would they want to do that? No one wants to remember that shit. I did the one ridiculous interview right afterward, and I said I’d never do it again.”

Everyone around the table chimes in and appears to agree with me. It seems everyone is turning them down.

“I agree with you, Isaac, but you know how the media can be sometimes. The darker, the sadder, the better.”

“I don’t want to be part of it. We don’t do this job to be praised. We do it to save lives. If you’re in it for the accolades, my respect is gone,” I say generally.

“You sound like my damn brother,” Graham groans. “But you’re right. It’s not right. Not at all.”

That time in our lives was hard for all of us to process when we were finally able to come home. We were exhausted, of course, and on top of that, we were mentally shaken from the amount of death and destruction we were forced to face.

We all had blisters and deep marks on our faces from having to wear our masks for so many hours straight. I still have a small scar along my temple from it.

In the grand scheme, we were able to come home afterward and not face the long-lasting damage that comes with losing everything, and sometimes I do feel guilty for that, especially when all I have is a fucking scar.

People lost everything.

Reliving that pain isn’t something anyone should have to go through for a fucking newspaper article.

Ever.

Chapter 4

Sawyer

Howcantherebeso many different kinds of apples? Are they really that different?

Granny Smith. Red Delicious. Pink Ladies.

It’s just ridiculous, honestly. Some things in life should just be simple, and the rows upon rows of fruit, staring at me in the produce section of the grocery story, are anything but simple.

“I suppose I’ll choose you, Red Delicious,” I say under my breath, selecting a few bright red apples and placing them in my cart.

The rest of the section is easier to navigate, but I pause when I see a small, perfectly shaped pineapple on a display table and I stop in my tracks.

It’s so silly, the things that trigger memories, both good and bad. It could be a song, a breeze, or even a damn pineapple.

My brother’s favorite.

I take a breath, try to focus on the good memories I have of him, and continue on with my shopping.

I’m exploring the fresh bread in the bakery when I familiar voice sounds from behind me.

“You don’t have to flirt with every man you see, Grams.”

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