Branded (Fall of Angels #1)(3)

“You and that Indian can kiss my ass!” Derek says, sticking out his tongue.

“Go away!” She bends over and scoops up some dirt with her hand, throwing it in their direction. They dodge, so she picks up more and keeps chucking it at them until they run off. And even then, she continues chasing them, picking up dirt along the way.

Everyone’s gone again, leaving me in peace. But for some reason, it doesn’t feel good to be alone anymore. The relief I normally feel has made place for something else … an emptiness and longing … a longing for a friend like her.

And for that fire behind me to burn those little shits to ashes.





Chapter Two





Brandon



Age 16



“Go on then … do it,” Hanson eggs me on as we stand in front of the trash can outside the back of the shop.

With a smug smile, I chuck a few ounces of oil into the trash can. I nudge him back and lean away too as I say, “Watch this.”

Then I light a match and throw it in as well.

A fireball erupts.

Hanson’s eyes light up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Fuck …” he says in awe. “Nice.”

It wasn’t a big explosion, but I don’t wanna ruin the building either. My papa owns this Stop & Shop, and he’d be really pissed if I did something to make the place look like shit. But when the show is over, the walls aren’t black, and everything still looks pristine. Except the trash can of course.

“What are you two doing out here?”

My eyes widen, and my heart kicks up a beat as I hear my papa’s voice behind me.

“Making a mess again, are you?”

Fuck. He caught us.

Hanson ducks away while I close my eyes.

SLAP.

The force of his palm against the side of my head always makes me clench my teeth.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to play with fire?”

“It’s just a trash can, Papa,” I say as I turn around.

“Just a trash can …” he repeats, shaking his head. “Can’t believe this. And what’s this then, huh?” He holds up the canister of oil I left on the steps leading up to the door.

“It’s just oil,” I say, frowning.

“Just oil?!” he scoffs, trying to slap me again, but I avoid it this time. “Do you know how dangerous this stuff is? And you’re setting it on fire?”

I sigh. “Papa…”

“No. No excuses. I’m tired of you playing around with your friend here.” He grabs my arm. “It’s time you two got to work.”

“I’ve got to go back to the ranch, sir,” Hanson explains, backing away slowly. Coward. “My folks asked me to clean up the shed.”

“Sure they did,” I say, making a face.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you, sir,” he adds, scratching the back of his head, ignoring me.

“Fine, go. But I expect you back tomorrow, four o’clock sharp,” my papa says.

“Got it!” Hanson says, saluting him. He throws me a quick wink before running away.

The fucker got off easy.

I’m stuck with my papa always breathing down my neck, trying to control me.

“Let’s go,” Papa says, and he drags me back inside by my arm.

“Why can’t I just have some time off?” I say, shaking him off when we get to the counter.

“I told you to go eat your lunch. I didn’t say you could burn down the shop,” he shouts.

“I wasn’t,” I reply, trying to downplay it. “Me and Hanson were just having some fun.”

“Fun …? Blowing up the trash can is fun?” he shouts. “How many times have I told you not to hang out with that … Hanson boy? He’s nothing but trouble.” He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead, sighing out loud. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug, staring off into the shop.

I don’t like it when he talks to me like that. It makes me feel as though something’s wrong with me, but there’s not. I’m just bored. Have been ever since we moved to this town. There’s nothing to do here, especially not when you have a limited number of friends. Hanson’s it, mostly. And he ain’t always around to do shit with.

The rest of the townsfolk … they don’t like people like me and my papa. With our long black hair and dark eyes, we stand out in a crowd of mostly blond-haired people. Sometimes I like to call them rednecks, but my papa usually smacks me in the back of the head if he catches me saying that word.

But they call us names too.

Indian.

Redskin.

I’ve heard all the terms, and my papa just ignores them. It’s like he doesn’t even care, and I don’t understand why. All he cares about is berating me for my choices. And for being friends with Hanson. As if he’s the worst friend I could have.

“You’ve been acting out ever since you became friends with Hanson,” Papa mopes. “Is he pressuring you?”

“What? No. Of course not,” I reply. “I’m just … bored, I guess.”

I don’t even know what to say. Part of me wants to explain it to him and tell him how I feel, but another part of me feels like he wouldn’t even understand.