Chapter 10 #2
The man-mountain Kendall called Choke strolls over and thrusts out his hand.
“Welcome to Eight.” He’s wearing the same uniform tee as the others, but it’s accompanied by a food-splattered apron.
And he’s older. Graying hair cropped short.
A slightly unhinged glint in his eye and a ton of tattoos. “You want some of everything?”
I peer at the food he’s been cooking. A huge pot of scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns, sausages swimming in grease. My stomach pitches. It’s not that I can’t put away a sizable fried breakfast when I want to, but right now I feel like I’ve swallowed a bag of staples.
“You know what, I already ate, but I’ll be sure to come in hungry tomorrow. This all looks great.” I do my best to smile. It’s tight and more than a little uncomfortable.
He doesn’t seem to care and turns back to the kitchen, leaving me still floundering by the door.
I press back my shoulders and make a concerted effort to step to the table when Brock sidles over.
I check out his face. Whereas I only have a small split in my eyebrow—which, to be honest, looks kinda cool—his lip’s scabbed-over and a yellowing bruise radiates into his cheek. I definitely came off better than him.
Holding still, I wait to see if he’s going to be full asshole today.
He surprises me with a smile that sits just on the right side of cocky. “What happened to your face? Someone get fed up with your pretty-boy good looks?” It’s still a dig, but I know Brock. His lighter tone says he’s laying down a truce.
I narrow my gaze, looking him up and down. “What’s the matter with yours? Someone get fed up with how ugly you are?”
We pause, chest to chest. I sense a hush in the room as if all eyes are locked on us.
Kendall may have demanded we keep the whole messy fight to ourselves but I have a hunch everyone here knows why we both have war wounds.
And they’re all waiting to see if we’re heading straight for round two before breakfast.
Apparently, we’re not.
Brock sniggers and backs away. “Come on, pretty boy. Meet the crew.”
The following five minutes blur into a collection of names, handshakes, and cursory pleasantries, most of which goes in one ear and out the other. And my head, normally attuned to every detail, struggles to hold onto anything.
It’s the vibe in here.
It takes things way beyond my worries about not matching up in the male stakes.
This is about being an outsider. An outsider looking in on a group of people bound together by their mission to save others.
It’s something so unique to this world it pushes my insecurities into overdrive.
Making my dad appear in all their faces.
But not the bully I’ve become hardened to. My dad from when I was a kid. The hero.
And that alone would be hard enough to process, but then there’s Savannah added into the mix. Totally at ease and joking with everyone. Not an outsider at all.
I catch a glimpse of her smile. It’s the first time I’ve seen her like this since reconnecting and she’s breathtaking.
“Brodie, don’t you and Springer have another brother on the force?” A younger member of the crew with a totally non-ironic mustache takes a bite of sausage and waits for my response. Based on his haircut, I’m guessing he’s the guy who was introduced as Mullet.
I force myself to focus. “Yeah. Brad. He’s based out of Yaletown, but he’s laid up right now. Had ACL surgery end of last year.”
“Fuck, of course. He plays for the Tide, right? How’s his recovery going?”
“Good. On target for a return next season.” I wait to see if Brad’s been the perfect deflection.
“Cool.” Mullet inhales the rest of his sausage. “So how come you never joined up?”
And there we go. The question I’ve been dreading. At least I’m getting it over with. “Had a different calling, I guess.”
“You actually like writing?” He asks the question like writing is tantamount to pulling out his eyelashes, one by one.
“Yeah. What can I say? I’m the most risk-averse member of the Holt family.
” I shrug. “The bravery gene skipped me. I’m just the wuss who writes.
” I lean fully into the stereotype. It’s the simplest way to avoid conflict, and an easy out when that’s the messaging I’ve lived every day since I was a teenager.
I’m the opposite of brave. I jerk around with a notepad, playing pretend on paper while the real men run toward flames.
Mullet chuckles and carries on shoveling in his food.
One of the other guys leans over. He’s quieter. A little older like Choke with a strong Scottish accent and a face so scarred I expect he’s done way more than fight his sibling. “Hey, brother. Trip.” He bumps my fist. “What stuff do you write?” He seems genuinely interested.
“Oh, just small-fry community pieces. Lots of heart. This should be a good feature. It’s not changing the world, but it pays the bills.”
“Amen to that.” He sips his coffee. “My sister’s a reporter for the Globe. She hated her time in the ranks doing these kinds of pieces.”
I do a double take, unsure how to respond.
He’s right. This is no reporter’s dream job.
But the last thing I want is the crew thinking I’m some hotshot journalist with an ego too big for my boots.
It’s a surefire way to be relegated to the outside looking in and that equals not getting any story at all, especially not the kind of story I need to write if I’m landing the promotion.
Sitting taller, I give him a nod. “I hear you, but I like the community work. Not sure I have the skills to be pushing for much more.”
Everyone’s attention is on me now, including Savannah’s. She isn’t smiling anymore, her expression edgy.
I keep going, distracted by the loss of Savannah’s smile. “It’s fine though. There’s the possibility of a promotion to features reporter if I do a good job. Just have to keep this one sweet, seeing as her dad—”
Savannah’s boot lands squarely on my toes.
My eyes collide with hers, her expression now crystal clear. She’s pissed as hell.
Standing, she fixes me with one of her fierce, blue-eyed glares. “We should get started.”
Her tone is abrupt, like this is the hundredth time she’s said the same thing to me and all I’ve done is ignore her.
I catch the look passing between those still eating.
One of them, a guy with a chiseled jaw and a movie-star smile—Romeo, I’m guessing, based on his looks—laughs but catches it, covering the sound with a cough.
Brock doesn’t attempt to cover his sneer. “Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise already?”
Savannah darts her glare to him. His smile evaporates. One thing’s already clear: She’s very much in control around these guys. I just catch my own chuckle as that thought lands and do the same as Romeo, covering it with a cough.
She looks back at me, scowling with even more venom. “I need to take you through basic safety training and get you some bunker gear. Seeing as you’re not eating, follow me. The alarm can sound at any moment and you need to be ready.”
Wait, what?
I go to question why I need to be ready for anything when there’s no way I’m fighting any fires, but Savannah’s already stalking out the door.
Brock whistles under his breath. “Best do as you’re told, pretty boy.”