Broody Brit: A Hero Club Novel

by Naima Simone

  The only thing this place has in common with my cottage back in Ilkey is the quiet. And even that’s different. Here, it’s a noisier silence, one pockmarked by the muted shouts of children, the distant promise of traffic, the knowledge that a congested city lurks not too far off.

  I crave the softer silence. The tickle of wind, the patter of rain and droning hum of cicadas. The faint ringing of bells at All Saints Parish Church on Sunday mornings. Even the smell differs. This air isn’t a hodgepodge of grass, storm-heavy clouds, and the faintly acidic soil of Ilkey Moor.

  Fuck. How big a mistake did I make coming here? I didn’t go into art for the fame or the money. I did it for my peace, my soul. My sanity. And right now, I’m resenting the hell outta Simon for convincing me to let it be more than that. For chasing more. I don’t want more.

  All I want is to be left alone.

  Sighing, I jab the key into the lock and twist harder than necessary. First, shower. Then food. Maybe I can find a good place within walking distance to get some take-away.

  I toss everything in my pockets on the small bedside table—change, wallet, inhaler—then strip as I cross the small apartment and enter the bathroom. Seconds later, water hot enough to scald pours down over me. I’m not as sweaty or grimy as I would’ve been if I’d worked on any pieces, because I’d spent a good part of the day trolling a couple of junkyards.

  The therapist Mum and Dad sent me to after Blake died would’ve had a field day with the knowledge that I fish through rubbish to save it for my work. If I’d opened up to her, that is. I hadn’t. Because that would’ve required talking.

  Without my permission, an image of the woman from the kitchen barges into my head. I hadn’t seemed to have a problem talking to her this morning. Of course, being threatened with a pan of hot, white, lumpy shit would probably loosen up any man’s tongue.

  “Zenobia,” I quietly say, trying out her name aloud. Rolling my tongue around it, tasting. Simon had said her name was Zenobia Hester.

  For such a little person, she was fierce as hell. Even egg sliding down my chest couldn’t keep me from noticing the light brown and gold of her narrowed eyes. The echo of that godawful shit she called music still ringing in my ears couldn’t distract me from the almost arrogant slopes of her cheekbones or the patrician slant of her nose with its wide nostrils. And nothing God had managed to create in six days could divert my attention from that damn near indecent dick tease of a mouth. Plush like the softest of down pillows. Sinful like the souls of a packed Sunday service. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something that beautiful yet lewd.

  But then, my gaze hadn’t slid down to that curvy, ripe, tight body yet.

  Christ.

  Standing in that kitchen with her murdering me in about eleven different ways with her glare, I’d had to think of walking in on my parents having sex when I was nine. My mate Rory Dunn’s sixth toe. Old man Johnson’s penchant for watering his garden naked. Fucking anything that would convince my cock not to rise like a goddamn flagpole.

  Helen of Troy’s face launched a thousand ships. This woman’s body could launch a thousand dicks.

  Breasts that had my palms itching to cup, squeeze… fuck. Oh, damn right, too easily I could imagine straddling her chest and sliding my hard, throbbing flesh between those perfect tits. And if God really existed, then that wicked mouth would greet my cock, welcoming it. Swallowing it. A nipped in waist that my big hands could effortlessly span flaring into gorgeous, wide hips. My fingers curl into my palms, as if forbidding me to grab ahold of that flesh even in my filthy fantasies. Refusing to let me test and see how hard I could grip before it bruised. Not that I would mind marking that gorgeous, brown skin. Wouldn’t mind her looking in a mirror as I am now and seeing them, knowing I’d put them there. And she’d craved it.

  Then there were those thick thighs and miracle of an arse. A man would find himself in heaven cradled between those strong, rounded legs and be consigned to hell when he clutched the flagrant curves of her arse. One glance and the insatiable urge to touch could transform a man into an animal or a supplicant.

  I’ve been both for my art. Never for a woman.

  And I don’t plan on turning over a new leaf now.

  Besides, she seems like the kind of woman who would demand flowers, fine meals, and even finer conversation. Yeah, that ain’t me. Hurried fucks against a pub wall that only require a shifting of clothes and a condom—that’s more my speed.

  Not many words and no commitment required.

  I finish up my shower and quickly dry off, securing the towel around my waist and slicking my hair back. Snatching another towel off the rack with probably more force than necessary, I scrub it over my head, shoulders and chest. I’m here in America now. There’s no turning back, and all my focus needs to be on creating the pieces for this art show in four months. Then I can go back home.

  To my life.

  To my solitude.

  Wrapping the cloth around my waist, I exit the loo and head back into the room that makes up most of what Simon called a mother-in-law flat. It’s small, but I don’t give a fuck about the size. It suits my needs just fine. A bed big enough to fit me, a desk, closet, tall dresser for my clothes and a bedside table for everything else. Then the door that leads to the garage and a separate entrance to the kitchen. Yeah, not thinking about the kitchen or the woman who’s occupying the rest of the house…

  My phone vibrates, jumping slightly against the wood of the desk. Frowning, I switch direction from the bed and head over to it. Not many people call me. My agent, the owners of the junkyards I haunt to let me know when a new load has arrived, and since deciding to come to America, Simon has shown up in my missed calls more often. I talked to my agent this morning and Simon last night. Pete and Bert are aware I’m not home.

  Which leaves only two people.

  My parents.

  Shit.

  Guilt punches me in the chest. If I were any kind of son—the kind of son they want and deserve—dread wouldn’t swirl and churn in my gut at the sight of the steadily buzzing phone. Tight bands wouldn’t squeeze my torso like a vise, restricting my air. No. No worthy son would react that way to just a phone call from his mother or father.

  But then, I’m nowhere near worthy.

  Nowhere near the son they desire… or lost.

  Clenching my jaw, I grab the cell, and with a cursory glance at the name on the screen, jab the answer button and haul the phone to my ear.

  “Hello, Mum.”

  “Axel,” she greets in that cool, posh tone she’s never lost, although she’s lived farther north with my firmly middle-class father for over thirty years.

  It never ceases to amaze me that my upper-class mother fell in love with a medical student and gave up her wealthy life in the “more civilized south” to reside in Leeds. Still, she’d planned for her children to eventually become doctors or solicitors. Blake had been intended to follow in our father’s footsteps. Who knows what might’ve happened if he’d lived? Maybe he and Simon would’ve opened a practice together. Or maybe not. We’ve never spoken about it, but part of me believes Simon went into medicine because of Blake’s death.

  Every hope of my becoming my father’s son died when I shit on that dream by not even attending uni. Mum bricked it when I announced that bit of information. Both her and Dad did. But her especially. She’d considered my withdrawal into art a hobby, not a passion or a lifeline. Definitely not a career. But when I told her I was going into welding instead of school, I think that was the day she gave up on me. Doesn’t matter that I’m gaining some fame as an artist or that my sculptures have been exhibited in lobbies of the poshest buildings in Leeds City Centre, have been a part of shows at The Tetley and the Henry Moore Institute, or that some of the wealthiest men in England have commissioned pieces for their homes or offices. No, none of that matters.

  I’m not who she imagined Blake would one day be.

  “What are you doing up so late?” It’s after twelv
e in England, though she has no idea I’m here in the States. Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Hopefully, this conversation will go better than our previous… hundreds. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, fine.” She releases a small sigh and I easily picture her waving off my question and concern with a flick of her fingers. “Your father was called to hospital for a long-time patient of his. Besides, I knew with how you work, this would be a good time to reach you. How has your asthma been? Are you being careful? I’ve said it before, working in that workshop surrounded by all that metal and chemicals cannot be good for your health.”

  Such familiar ground—both the inquisition about my healthcare precautions and the gripes over my career.

  “Yeah, I’ve been staying on top of the asthma. I just had an appointment with my doctor. Oxygen levels good. Steroid inhaler is managing it well, and he renewed my prescription for the emergency one as well. All good, Mum.”

  Shit, I’ve only been dealing with the respiratory disease since I was a young’n. It’s been three years since an attack landed me in the hospital with pneumonia. Nothing I could’ve done to prevent it; with asthma, shit happens, and the shitty, wet British weather doesn’t help. Of course, I could’ve gone to hospital as soon as it felt like a damn anvil sat on my chest. But I didn’t, and I haven’t heard the end of it yet.

  This thing—the disease, my lungs—always leaves me feeling defective. Weak. I didn’t play football with other kids. I didn’t run around the playground with them. I couldn’t because too strenuous exercise of any kind could set off a coughing and wheezing attack. So, I withdrew into my art. It was my friend and never made me feel frail or different. When I got older and my parents couldn’t dictate my actions, I started working out, got into mixed martial arts, though I never fought professionally, and went into a career where the appropriate precautions mean the difference between life and death. Literally.

  Yeah, neither of my parents is happy with my choices.

  But living by their rules and their expectations could also mean death for me. Maybe not physically, but definitely emotionally, mentally.

  Still, as her question came from a place of concern, I keep the irritation out of my tone. Barely.

  “That’s good. I’m glad you’re taking your health seriously, Axel.” She pauses. “Especially with you nowhere near your doctor since you’re in the United States and didn’t see fit to disclose this to your parents.”

  Fuck.

  “Can you explain to me why I had to find out about this relocation out of the country from Simon?”

  Jesus.

  Pinching the bridge of my nose—hard—I tip my head back, open my mouth and silently yell to the ceiling. Fuuuuuck.

  My parents and I talk so rarely that, sadly, it didn’t occur to me to call and inform them about my show here in Rhode Island.

  “Sorry, Mum,” I grumble, suddenly feeling like a disobedient young’n caught in a lie. Whether the lie is being sorry I didn’t tell her or that Simon did—yeah, I don’t know. Either one makes me a complete shit. “I forgot.”

  I didn’t think you’d give a damn.

  I didn’t want to hear your indifference.

  I desperately want you to care and be proud of me and didn’t think my soul could take another blow when you did neither.

  But I said none of those much too revealing declarations; my mother wouldn’t have appreciated the vulgar display of emotion, and I wouldn’t have appreciated the rejection.

  So, “I forgot” would have to do as way of explanation.

  She sighed, and its beleaguered God what have I ever done to deserve such a son? sentiment rang clear like a church bell on a Sunday morning calling worshippers to service. Can’t blame her. Sometimes I ask myself—and God—the same question. Why take the wrong son? My parents would never admit it, but I’m sure they have asked themselves that. Blake… As brilliant, kind, and driven as he was, he would’ve changed the world. Even at sixteen, he’d been a force to be reckoned with.

  Me? I’m not trying to take anything by storm. Finding a place to wait it out would do me just fine. Much to my agent’s annoyance.

  “So, when is this show supposed to happen?” she asks, the emphasis on “this show” along the same vein of “this root canal” or “this gynecological appointment.” And fuck. Jesus. I need to bleach the thought of my mum in stirrups out of my bloody brain.

  “Three months.” Don’t ask. Don’t you fucking ask. “Think you and Dad can make it?”

  You bleeding-heart bastard.

  She sighs. And that’s all the answer I need. Shit. I’m like a living punching bag when it comes to her. She delivers that jab, and I just swing back for more.

  “I can’t see that happening, Axel. You know your father can’t leave his practice for any length of time. He has patients who depend on him.”

  “Yeah.” I nod, scrubbing a hand down my face. “I have to go, Mum. I’ll ring later, yeah?”

  After hanging up, I drag on a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. The neckline is stretched to hell and there’s a hole near the hem, but hell, it’s clean. That’s pretty much all I require. Padding barefoot out of my apartment and through the connecting garage, I twist the knob on the kitchen entrance and enter the empty room.

  Relief rushes through me in a cool cascade. After the phone call with Mum, I don’t feel like encountering the prickly nurse who threatened me with a bowl of whatever-the-hell-grits-are. I shake my head and walk toward the huge, steel refrigerator. Still don’t know if that white shit was supposed to be some kind of porridge—and I don’t care to find out either. Some American things need to stay right fucking here on this side of the pond.

  “Oh, good, you’re here.”

  Tension shoots up my spine like the crackle of lightning, settling in my shoulders and buzzing in my head. I don’t need to glance behind me to identify that voice. And not because there’s only one other person living in this house with me. The instantaneous hardening of my cock and the almost painful clenching of my gut and chest clue me in on who just entered the kitchen. I close my eyes and just resist not tipping my head back and demanding God confesses to whatever the hell I’d ever done to Him to torture me like this.

  Six months. That’s how long it’s been since I was last balls-deep in a woman. After my ex-girlfriend broke it off with me, I’ve been taking a hiatus from women. Up until I saw this woman standing in a kitchen with that gorgeous face and hot as fuck body, screwing my fist had been doing me just fine. I have a feeling my cock is going to rebel, and my fist is going on strike.

  Traitorous bastards.

  Dragging in a deep breath, I steel myself and slowly turn around.

  And glimpse that beautiful arse bent over the kitchen table. Blue scrubs tighten over her firm, full flesh, and my fingers curl into my tingling palms at my thighs. Jesus fucking Christ. She’s trying to kill me. Simon’s the doctor, but I’ve never heard of death by blue balls. And it never seemed a possibility. Till now.

  Simon had called me earlier while I was at the workshop and informed me who my new flatmate was, apologizing for forgetting to tell me about her emergency situation. Something to do with a flooded flat. He’d also assured me that her schedule as an emergency room nurse meant we wouldn’t be running into each other too much.

  Apparently, his definition of “too much” greatly differed from mine.

  ‘Cause I was thinking more along the lines of not at all.

  But here we are. Me ogling her arse like it’s the bloody Mona Lisa, and her not even aware that I’m struggling not to be that arsehole who doesn’t respect a woman’s personal space. Or the right not to have a fucker’s cock rubbed against her.

  “I don’t know if you’ve eaten yet, but I stopped and bought Chinese food for dinner,” she carries on, straightening from setting a couple of plastic bags on the table. With a deep, low groan that sounds way too carnal, she presses both hands to her lower back and stretches. Thrusting those gorgeou
s tits forward. The light blue top pulls across the mounds, highlighting the shape of them. Fueling every fantasy of how perfectly they would fit my hands. And I have big fucking hands.

  Shit. She’s definitely trying to kill me.

  But I’m not above begging for a quick squeeze of that worship-worthy arse and those gorgeous tits before I meet my Maker.

  “Axel?” She drops her arms and cocks her head, peering at me. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah.” I scrub a hand over my damp hair and down one shaved side of my head. “Chinese food. Cheers,” I mutter and amble over to the table.

  She huffs out a breath, and a wry smile curls one corner of her lush mouth. My fingers curl around one of the forks that spilled out of the bag, and the plastic bites into my palm. I welcome the tiny flair of pain. Anything to bank the tingle in my fingers. I recognize that herald of sensation. My fingers are itching to grab hold of a pencil and draw. Draw her face, a conglomeration of proud angles, regal slants and lascivious curves. As an artist, I’m fascinated by that face.

  As a man, I want to fuck it.

  “I had no idea what you would like, so I bought a bit of almost everything. Lo mein, sweet and sour pork, beef and peppers, shrimp egg foo young, fried rice and egg rolls. Some egg drop soup, too.” She frowned, tapping a finger against bottom lip. “Well, damn. I hope you’re not a vegetarian. But seriously, the kind of day I had calls for straight carnivore eating habits. When assholes be assholing, only meat will do.”

  She crosses the kitchen to one of the cabinets and removes a stack of paper plates while I’m staring at the mountain of takeaway containers, trying to decipher what the fuck she’s talking about.

  On a good day, words are a struggle. Not because I don’t have them. In my head, they’re there, streaming through my mind like a live news feed. But talking? To people? Yeah, not my thing. As a kid, I was shy, awkward, and kept to myself a lot. And after Blake… It just got worse. I didn’t want to talk. Just wanted to be left alone, and I withdrew into my own world. Let my art speak for itself. What it had to say was much more eloquent and important than any words I could ever string together. They spoke from the soul, the heart.