Broody Brit: A Hero Club Novel

by Naima Simone

  Bridget’s bark of laughter rings in my ear. “A Viking? Oh, I have to tell Simon that one.” She snickers again. “Like I said, I haven’t met him yet, but I have seen pictures. And yes, I’m a happily married woman with a beautiful husband. But damn. That man is hot. Like, virile, primal, gorgeous hot.”

  Annoyance flashes through me at the dreamy note that enters her voice, and I immediately slap it down. What the hell is that? All three of those blind mice could see Axel is beautiful in the way of a large, stalking lion—commanding, wild, stunning, and dangerous as hell. Why should it matter if Bridget, of all people, should notice? Or anyone, for that matter.

  Nope, it doesn’t matter, and the quicksilver spike of irritation must be a result of the coffee I never did manage to drink.

  Note to self: stock Bridget’s house with morning blend K-cups before I hurt somebody.

  “If you like that type,” I hedge, realizing Bridget had fallen quiet. “Who is he anyway?” I ask her the question that has been plaguing me since turning around to watch egg yolk slide off his chest. Damn lucky egg yolk. “I didn’t notice a familial resemblance between him and Simon.”

  “They’re not blood-related, but Simon considers Axel family just the same.” She sighs, and unconsciously, I curl my fingers around my steering wheel and lean forward. There’s a story here, and while my brain screams that I shouldn’t be this interested in it, my increasingly racing pulse begs to differ.

  Curiosity. It’s normal to be curious about the man I’m apparently going to be sharing a house with for the next two weeks.

  “Axel is the younger brother of Simon’s childhood best friend, Blake. They grew up together in England, and they, along with Calliope—you remember Calliope, right? My friend, the yoga instructor?”

  I nod, even though Bridget can’t see the gesture. I’d attended a couple of the British woman’s classes along with Bridget, but quickly determined all that stretching and posing and hurting wasn’t my thing. She’s cool people, though.

  “When they were sixteen, the three of them were on vacation at Calliope’s family’s lake house in Scotland. They snuck out one night and decided to take one of the boats onto the lake. There were only two life jackets, and Blake insisted Simon and Calliope wear them since he was the better swimmer.”

  Dread coils in my stomach, congealing into a hard knot. Oh God. I know where this is heading, and part of me wants to interrupt Bridget and tell her never mind. But the words lodge in my constricted throat, and my grip tightens on the cell phone.

  Her voice drops, and it’s barely above a whisper. “When the water became choppy, they were far out in the middle of the lake. The boat capsized, and Blake went under. Simon tried to find him, to save him, but he couldn’t. The authorities found Blake’s body three days later.”

  “Oh Jesus,” I whisper. Unbidden, an image of a younger Simon diving over and over beneath dark, rough waters, searching for his friend wavered in front of my eyes. I can’t imagine… An instant later, that picture shifts and Axel replaces it. Axel as he’d been this morning. The frown. That flash of emotion that I believed had been a fracture of light.

  I understand oh too intimately how loss could harden you, embitter you. Isolate you. Grief… I shake my head, briefly closing my eyes. It can slowly take you apart, memory by memory, organ by organ, cell by cell. And when you’re reforged, the person staring back at you from the mirror is unrecognizable. It’ll change how you live life. Or not live it. Time doesn’t matter, doesn’t lessen the pain. Not if you’ve spent the years hoarding that pain like old magazines. Pulling them out, flipping through them, indulging in them.

  “Yeah,” Bridget continued. “As you can imagine, Simon took Blake’s death hard, and it affected him. But he still remained in contact with Axel, who was twelve when his brother died. According to Simon, Axel changed, withdrew into himself and from everyone else. And he buried himself in his art.”

  Shock ricochets through me. “Art?”

  “Oh God, yes,” Bridget says, and though she’s mentioned several times that she’s never formally met Axel, I can’t miss the note of pride that warms her voice. “He’s incredible, Z. You should see some of the things he’s created. Axel works mainly with metal, and he sculpts the most amazing pieces. He’s gained a name in England and has started to become known over here in the States. That’s what he’s here for, actually. His first New York gallery opening. It’s four months away in February, and Simon insisted he stay with us while he worked on the pieces for his show.”

  Okay, this is… a lot. An avalanche of information, and at the forefront streams a movie reel of Axel, long hair of his mohawk contained in a bun, shirtless, tatted skin smudged with oil and soot, muscles straining as he pounds metal into shape. As he applies a torch to iron, welding it into his own creation like a modern-day Hephaestus.

  The image is pure ridiculousness; no sane person would work around such hazardous equipment without a shirt or a helmet. But try as I might, I can’t evict the fantasy. Can’t stop the slow spiral of heat that winds its way through my veins, leaving my breasts heavy and sensitive, clenching my belly and pooling between my thighs. I squirm on my driver’s seat. Please, God, don’t let anyone walk past. Me, in scrubs and in heat.

  Not a good look.

  “It sounds like he’s going to be super busy, so I guess that means we won’t see that much of each other. Living together for the next couple of weeks should be easy peasy.” Super busy. Easy peasy. God, when I lie, I turn into freaking Pollyanna.

  “Thanks, babe,” Bridget sighs. “And again, I’m sorry for not giving you the proper heads-up. I better go save Simon. I mean, join him. Join him.” She snorted. “Take care of yourself and have a great shift, okay?”

  Code: don’t junk punch James.

  Not that I would. He, Jenna, and their fixer-upper show aren’t worth the job I love and worked my ass off to get. But damn. A girl can dream.

  “I will. Enjoy yourself.”

  We end the call, and minutes later, I enter the hospital and clock in. The next few hours fly by in a blur of asthma attacks, stitches, broken bones, fevers, and one brain aneurysm that’s rushed off to Neurology. It’s hectic, organized chaos and busy enough that I barely have time to complete a chart before another case is rushed in.

  Some days, the ER is slow like a lull in a storm. Other days, it’s like a battlefield. It’s never boring, never the same. It isn’t for the faint of heart.

  And I love it.

  Watching my grandmother suffer from diabetes—standing by helpless as first her toes, then foot, then leg was taken—might have spurred my desire—no, need—to become a nurse. But it’s the love of people, of helping where I can and offering comfort where I can’t, that keeps me here.

  “I’m about to go get dinner before another wave hits. You want me to bring you something back?” Julia, another nurse, asks as she rounds the desk I’m slumped behind.

  “No, I brought mine with me. But thanks.”

  “No problem. I won’t be long.” She smiles, but as she turns, her expression darkens. Her swift glance at me holds traces of anger, embarrassment and… pity.

  It’s the pity that burns like acid poured over an open wound.

  It’s also pity that clues me in on what—or who—I will see when I turn around. And like a masochist, I twist in my chair, bracing myself. But humiliation has a way of corroding the toughest and thickest of shields.

  And my defenses might as well as be constructed of paper-mache as I stare at my ex and his new girlfriend.

  I should look away. Suddenly become engrossed with paperwork or charts. Hell, go troll for patients. But I can’t move. Can’t tear my gaze away from the happy couple. Can’t stop my chest from constricting as he pinches her chin and smiles down at her like he used to do to me so often through the three years we were together.

  Unoriginal bastard.

  He could at least find a new PDA gesture. I bet he does the same kiss-pinch nipple-missionar
y-style combo with her in bed too. I should feel sorry for her…

  Naaah.

  “What are either of them doing down here anyway?” Julia sneered.

  “We had someone come in on a possible suicide attempt. Dr. Graham called James down for a psych eval,” I explained, deliberately turning around and facing her again. “And Jenna?”

  I shrug, grasping for a nonchalance that didn’t exist.

  “She’s here to see her man.”

  “Zenobia, I can stay here if you want to go eat dinner,” Julia murmurs. There’s that awful sympathy again in her gaze and voice, and it’s all I can do not to yell, Stop. I’m not fragile. I’m not pathetic.

  Even if, I berate myself for being both of those things in the darkest part of the night while I lie in my best friend’s guest room.

  “No.” I smile, and throw in a shooing motion, just because. “That’s all right. I’m all right. Now get outta here. I heard one of the doctors mention they have okra on the dinner menu tonight.”

  I force a laugh as Julia scrunches her face into a disgusted moue.

  “I know how much you love it.”

  And her let-me-watch-the-bitch-just-in-case-she-leaps-over-the-desk eyes are making me itchy. I mean, she’s not wrong. But still… itchy.

  “Right.” She studies me for a moment longer before tapping the top of the desk. “I won’t be long.”

  “I’ll be here,” I shoot back.

  She disappears down the hall, and I exhale a long, hard breath. Okay, I’m an adult. A full grown one. I can handle being cordial to my cheating ex and my replacement. Not a problem.

  “Hey, Zenobia.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and control the wave of panic and anger that spasms inside me. You can’t throw syringes at him like darts. You can’t throw syringes at him like darts. It’s unreasonable, if you ask me. Obviously, whoever in HR came up with the rules never had a douchebag ex.

  “James,” I greet, giving my chair an unhurried spin. “Jenna.” I nod at the blonde who looks like she would rather be elbow deep in an expectant mom’s vagina than standing here with her new man in front of his old girlfriend.

  I’m so sorry she’s uncomfortable. Unfortunately, I had a freshly baked batch of fucks to give this morning, but now I’m all out.

  Sigh. Damn, that was bitchy.

  James squints and runs a hand over his hair, and I bite my tongue to trap the snarky reminder of how that speeds up thinning. Not true, but I think God will forgive me the little lie. Instead, I meet his gaze with an unwavering stare of my own. He repeats the nervous gesture, and I take no mercy on him by breaking the silence. I didn’t ask him to come over here and be polite. Fuck polite. Polite can go get gang-banged like an adult star on Pornhub.

  He clears his throat. “So, I—”

  My cell buzzes against my hip. Relief blasts through me so hard. My stomach seizes, and I shoot up a finger, reaching for my phone. “Hold that thought.” But a glance down at the name on the screen, and excitement edged in fear replaces the relief. My heart slams hard against my sternum and then races. Almost lightheaded, I surge to my feet, phone clutched in my numb fingers. “Excuse me. I need to take this.”

  Not waiting for either of them to reply, I stride away from the desk, signaling to another nurse that I need a moment. With trembling fingers, I press the screen and lift the phone to my ear.

  “Hey, Sabrina.” I close in on the nearest on-call room and charge in. A swift scan reveals it’s empty and thank God. Whatever she’s is calling to tell me, I don’t relish an audience for it. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m fine, Z. Busy today?” Sabrina Lorenzo replies, her warm tone that I equate with kindness and compassion echoing in my ear. But today, nothing can pierce the cacophony of emotions clashing and clanging in my chest, my head.

  “It’s been pretty non-stop, but…” I swallow, and the air whistles out of my lungs. “Have you—” My voice is almost soundless, a whisper of the painful anticipation ricocheting inside me. I swallow again. Try again. “Have you heard anything from the Mavises?”

  Sabrina doesn’t immediately reply, but we’ve been together since I was sixteen years old. First, when I, pregnant and scared, met with her to discuss adoption. We started as counselor and client, where she guided and supported me through the semi-open adoption process. She held my hand after I turned my baby girl over to Gregory and Danielle Mavis after holding her only once. Inhaling her baby scent that even twelve years later, I can still smell. She sat with me, comforted me, laughed with me when I received pictures of and updates on Bethany from Greg and Danielle. Through emails and digital images, I’ve watched my little girl thrive and grow. And Sabrina has been with me every step of the way. And now, years later, I count Sabrina as a friend, as family.

  And, so, when she doesn’t say anything, I interpret that unspoken words in that silence.

  Burning grief and fanged disappointment burrow so deep into my heart and soul that I’m unable to smother the gasp of pain. I press my hand to my chest, fingers splayed wide. But nothing can contain the hurt, the grief. It’s pouring out of me with every sluggish beat of my heart, and as I glance down, I’m partially shocked to not see it coating my scrubs, my skin.

  “Z,” Sabrina says, her voice gentle but firm. It barely penetrates the crimson, pulsing haze surrounding me. “Z, I want you to listen to me. This is just a no, for now. They don’t think it’s a good time for you and Bethany to meet. When we sent the request, we knew this could be a possibility. But, honey, this doesn’t mean they can’t change their mind a year from now, even a month from now.”

  When I chose a semi-open adoption, I’d believed I was choosing the best course for all of us. My baby would have mature, loving parents who could provide for her emotionally and physically. She would have the time to bond with her new family without feeling confused or torn in two between her adoptive parents and me. And through letters and pictures, I could be a part of her life, witnessing her milestones and go on, buoyed by the knowledge that she was safe, protected and loved.

  But I always had the promise that one day, when Greg and Danielle deemed it appropriate, I could meet Bethany face-to-face and get to know her. With my daughter about to enter her teens, I thought maybe they would agree to this being the time.

  But no. And I ached with the disappointment, the emptiness of another year going by and my little girl not in my life.

  “Did they say why?” I rasp.

  “No, honey. They didn’t,” Sabrina murmurs. “I’m so sorry. I know how much you wanted this. We’ll try again. Bethany’s birthday is in another eight months. We’ll approach them again and see if they feel differently.”

  “Okay.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to shove back the tears that sting my eyes.

  “Okay,” I repeat, hating the quiver in my voice. Hating myself for hoping. I should’ve known better. “Listen, Sabrina, I need to go. It’s been really busy and… and…”

  “I understand, Z,” she whispers. And for the third time tonight, that fucking pity. I squeeze the bridge of my nose harder. It’s either that or rage, scream… sob. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Call me tonight if you need me. I don’t care how late.”

  “Will do,” I answer briskly, needing to end this call. To immerse myself back in the chaos of the emergency room so I can’t think. Can’t break down.

  I end the call and rush out of the on-call room back to the floor desk.

  Back to my job, my calling.

  All that I have left to call my own.

  Chapter Three

  Axel

  New England Patriots. The Red Sox. The Boston Bruins. Or Brutes.

  Fuck if I know ‘em. Or care to. Yeah, American football teams have played over in England a few times, but as much as the US would like for it to catch on, sorry, mate. It’s just not going to happen. It’s annoying as hell that they that they keep trying. It’s Leeds United or fuck off.

  Since Nate Gr
anger is the guy Simon hired to drive me around Providence—or at least until I learn to drive myself since I’m not some old nob—I’ll keep my opinion about his inferior football to myself. It’s best not to piss him off too soon. Especially when I still need him.

  “Just let me know if you want to come over this Sunday for the game, Ax,” Nate offers, as excited as a puppy. I’m half surprised his arse isn’t wiggling on the seat. He’s a younger guy, about twenty-two. And even though he talks too damn much, he’s a nice kid. Which is the only reason I don’t snap at him to not call me fucking Ax. “Me and the guys get together to watch the Pats play, and we wouldn’t mind one more. We’ll grill out, drink some beers. It’ll be fun.”

  My balls might’ve actually crawled up into my gut at the invitation.

  Get-togethers. People. Talking. On their own, they send shivers charging down my spine in a death march. Together?

  Oh fuck no.

  Thankfully, he pulls up in front of Simon’s house, and as soon as Nate shifts the gear into park, I shove on the passenger side door and damn near leap out. It’s indecent, and I should be embarrassed with how fast I’m out of the truck and rounding the hood. But then I think of him issuing another invite, and yeah, I’m good with being a coward.

  “Cheers, mate,” I call out, flicking a wave as I head toward the separate entrance to the in-law apartment off the main house.

  “Mate. Hah! That’s so cool!” Nate cackles. “See you tomorrow, mate!”

  Shaking my head, I lift my arm in another wave. Why do I get the feeling that he’s going to be calling me that from now on? Oh well. Better than Ax.

  Only one person used that shortened version of my name. And hearing it on the lips of anyone else is like railroad nails jammed into my chest.

  With a beep of his horn, Nate pulls off, the loud engine of his truck fading, and the quiet of the neighborhood sinks in. I jerk to a stop in front of the side door, my key hovering meters from the lock. Closing my eyes, I inhale, hold my breath. Seconds later, I release it, but a wave of longing crashes into me, catching me unaware and damn near knocking me on my arse.