Broody Brit: A Hero Club Novel

by Naima Simone

  And fuck, there I go. In the next instant, my mind is barraged with images of that big, hard body doing all manner of hot, dirty things. With mine.

  I would’ve let you use me, pet.

  Dammit. I growl at myself as that seductive and taunting statement rumbles through my head again. Stop it.

  I smother a sigh. And here I was doing so well.

  “What are these for?” I squat down next to one of several buckets of random pieces of small…well, junk.

  That’s the only thing I can call it. They’re things that would litter a junkyard. And I should know, since I’d tag along with my grandfather when he’d visit them to hunt down parts for the many cars he used to work on. Motorcycle chains, clutches, scraps of metal. I hate to call them garbage, but that’s what they are. Unlike the tools Axel has schooled me on, I can’t think of why he would have buckets of scrap stashed around.

  I glance up at him when he remains quiet, dropping a rusty ball bearing back in the container. “Axel?”

  “What do you see?” he asks instead of answering my question.

  Frowning, I rise to my feet, dusting my hands on my scrubs. There’s more here than a simple question. The weight of it tells me that, but for the life of me, I can’t guess what it could possibly be. What importance could possibly be attached to a bucket full of spare parts?

  I shrug a shoulder. “Old metal and pieces. Garbage…” I trail off, because I’ve missed the real question here—I’ve missed the whole point. “What do you see, Axel?”

  Again, a long, heavy heartbeat of silence passes between us, and in that moment, I swear something like shock flashes in the icy depths of his blue eyes. Almost as if he’s surprised that I’ve asked. That I want to know.

  But that can’t be right. How can anyone spend less than three minutes in this mercurial giant’s presence and not want to dig beneath that beauty-wrapped-in-barbed-wire surface? Not hunger to discover his secrets, his brilliance, the chaotic and stunning core that creates the art I’ve seen online? Traversing the treacherous terrain, that dagger-sharp landscape to reach that particular holy land would be worth enduring those scratches, cuts and bruises.

  “What do you see?” I push. Because I can. Because I’m me.

  Because I have to.

  “What you do,” he says, and for a moment, I think that’s it. That’s all I’m going to get, and disappointment wraps around my chest like poison ivy, tight, prickly and itchy.

  But then he hunkers down, those powerful thighs threatening to split the worn denim over his legs. He picks up what appears to be some kind of gear, and he cradles it as if it was precious instead of a hunk of metal refuse flaked with oily residue.

  “There are interesting and fantastic shapes in clutches, chains, and other mechanics, which makes for equally interesting and fantastic shapes in art,” he murmurs. “But mostly, there’s pleasure in using throw-away pieces most people wouldn’t pay a fiver or tenner for. Those pieces that people see as having no value. Those pieces that are unloved. Abandoned. Rescuing rusty tools and bits of rubbish and giving them new life, granting them value again…” He rubs a thumb over one of the ridges in the gear, the caress—and yes, that’s what it is—tender, before he places it back into the bucket. “Yeah, I love the idea of taking the broken, the disrespected, and making people love and admire them again in my art.”

  Stunned. I’m stunned.

  Not only because those are the most words I’ve heard him speak at one time. But the words themselves. The power of them. Chills run through me, and I find myself battling the inane urge to weep. To fall to my knees and weep at this man’s feet and beg him to just shut up when he never fucking talks in the first place.

  Axel Wright.

  I had a premonition about this man. About his lethalness toward me. But I was wrong. So wrong. He’s not going to break me.

  He’s breaking me.

  There’s nothing I can do to stop it. And the most dangerous part? If I could, I can’t swear on my grandmother’s favorite Bible jammed full of past Sunday and Women’s Day programs that I would.

  The fatalistic realization is enough to unglue my feet, and though I’ve never been a big believer in the “he who fights and runs away may live to fight another day” philosophy, right now I’m edging back toward the door we entered.

  Panic does that to a person. Turns them into a rank coward.

  But then I pass by the table with clamps and vises attached to it, and for the first time notice the huge sheet of drawing paper spread out on top. I draw up short, my breath snagging in my throat.

  “Holy shit,” I rasp, my fingertips hovering over the pencil drawings. Like it’s a revered relic of antiquity, I want to touch the paper but am afraid to. But not because of some red braided rope or a security guard that’s on standby to drag me out if I do. It’s because of reverence, respect, awe… Because it shouldn’t be touched by mere human fingers that can taint it with not just our oils and dirt, but our cynicism and realism.

  And yes, I’m completely aware of how mystical and woo-woo I sound. But I don’t care.

  Because it’s true.

  “You did this?” I whisper as if we’re in a chapel with vaulted, stained-glass ceilings with depictions of God connecting with man instead of a warehouse in the industrial section of Providence. “You drew this?”

  He stares down at the collage of characters and scenes that all emanate from the fantasy classic book and animated film The Last Unicorn. His fists are stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans, but I catch the slight flex of his fingers under the denim. To what? Drag me away from the table? Snatch the paper away and out of my sight? Part of me can’t blame him. It’s almost too personal to let another person glimpse.

  Still, I don’t look or step away. I can’t.

  The Red Bull. The castle. The forest with its animals. Schmendrick. Prince Lir and Lady Amalthea. The harpy. Molly Grue. King Haggard. And, of course, the Unicorn.

  I’m transported back to Saturday afternoons during my childhood—sitting on my grandmother’s plastic-covered couch, snacking on her coveted peanut brittle, and sipping on my grandpa’s ginger ale, watching The Last Unicorn. Knowing that as soon as the haunting song hit the chorus, my mom would shut whatever textbook she happened to be studying for her master’s degree in accounting and come sit next to me, dig into the pilfered candy, and watch the cartoon with me.

  Every time.

  Tears sting my eyes, and my fingers flutter to my throat where a hot, thick ball of emotion lodges.

  “Zenobia?” Axel edges closer, and his clean cedar and fresh air scent teasing my nose, both provoking and comforting me with his presence.

  It’s a struggle—an out-and-out battle—but I drag my gaze from the drawing to him. And here I didn’t think I could find anything to compete with his fierce, wild brand of beauty.

  But Axel Wright has been proving me wrong since I met him a little over twenty-four hours ago.

  “I take it back,” I breathe. “Last night I said you weren’t much of a talker. I was wrong. You say a ton.” I wave a hand over the drawings. Over the renderings of a rampaging bull, an elegant, lovely unicorn, a magical forest, a decrepit, crumbling castle. “Right here. And every word is beautiful. Magical.”

  Clearing my throat, I turn and head toward the exit. Again. Determined to make it this time before he can surprise me with something else. Before he can show me another side of himself that will have me throwing aside the rule I’ve lived my life by since I was sixteen, lying in a hospital bed and sobbing as I handed my newborn baby girl over to my adoption counselor.

  Don’t fuck up.

  I’ve never been an eloquent soul. But the sentiment is as profound as if Maya Angelou had penned or articulated it herself. Fucking up doesn’t just affect me, doesn’t just spin my life on its head so it’s unrecognizable—so I’m unrecognizable. It changes everyone who loves me, who’s connected to me.

  Getting pregnant and turning my baby over to s
trangers to raise her as their own didn’t just transform me from reckless, selfish teen to cautious adult, but it changed my mother and grandparents from trustful protectors to watchful, suspicious wardens. I no longer peered at the world through rose-tinted, carefree Ray-Bans. I wore—still wear—jaded, crystal-fucking-clear contacts that judge the cause and effect ratio to determine if the consequences are worthy enough of the actions.

  In other words, I don’t do impulsive.

  And Axel? He’s the very definition of impulsive.

  He’s wild. Reckless.

  Temporary.

  Knowing this—judging the cause and effect ratio as incredibly imbalanced—I’m still so tempted to wheel around, run back to him, and jump.

  Which is why I keep walking.

  Maybe by the time he joins me in the car, I’ll have figured out a way to ignore the fact that I can’t walk away from myself.

  Chapter Six

  Axel

  My phone buzzes against my thigh, and I ignore it, focused on finally getting started on the first piece for my show. I don’t know about other artists—I’ve never asked them—but for me, there’s this period of fear. Of doubt that attacks me. Makes me question if I can drag what’s in my head, what I’ve drawn on paper, out of me to my hands, to steel, to metal.

  Some people might call it stage fright. Some might call it freezing.

  I call it getting Mum’d.

  Fucked, ain’t it?

  But for those moments, I embody every disappointment, every crushing fear, every staggering grief and rage, and almost buckle under it. Almost walk away.

  Then, I get my shit together and get to work.

  Slowly at first. Always slowly. Like a snake, sloughing off the negative emotion, the whispered words, the harsh sentiments.

  Then gradual speed. Focus. Determination.

  Right now, I haven’t hit that spot where I’m lost in the work, in the piece yet. That won’t come for a day or two yet. But, I’m close. I’m nearing it.

  If not for. The. Fucking. Ringing.

  “Shit,” I growl. Straightening, I shut off the MIG welding gun, carefully set it down on the table, remove my helmet, and snatch off my gloves. For a couple of seconds, I stare down at what’s shaping up to be a skeleton-like tower that will top the castle. A piece of motorcycle chain provides the illusion of rickety stairs that could be one careless step away from crumbling—

  “Dammit,” I bark, digging into the pocket of my cargo pants and tugging the vibrating phone out. Without really sparing a glance at the screen, I press the green answer button and snap, “What?”

  A pause, then a crisp and amused, “Well, cheers to you, too, mate.”

  I barely suppress another growl. Then, what the fuck am I holding it back for? He interrupted me. “What do you want, Simon? I’m working.”

  My brother’s best friend laughs when most people would’ve been put off my deliberate arseholishness. “Ah, Axel, you’re always such a joy. I’ve missed you.”

  He teases, and yet his words strike as sure as a chipping hammer. Part of me believes—has always believed—that he only keeps in touch with me because of Blake. It’s what Blake would’ve asked of him if he’d survived that lake long enough to give a last request. Because that’s the kind of mate my brother was. Kind. Considerate. Loyal. Simon’s the same; it’s why Mum and Dad love him. He reminds them of Blake. Allows them to hold onto the last pieces of him. While I…

  Well, fuck. I really am a fucking daisy today.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” I say, my leg jumping. Like a damn addict craving his next hit. Only I’m jonesing to get back to work. “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation? What’re you calling me for?”

  Simon sighs, and guilt shoves against my rib cage. Fuck, that was me trying to be more pleasant. “Just checking in on you, mate. I wanted to make sure you’re settling in okay. That the warehouse is to your liking.”

  “Yeah, everything is fine. The house. The warehouse. Fine. That Nate fellow talks too damn much, though.”

  Simon chuckles, and relief flows through me. The band that I hadn’t even realized had my chest in a vise grip loosened a fraction of an inch. I can be a dick—sometimes purposefully, but most times, people take my lack of communication and preference to be by myself that way. And it’s that behavior that’s driven them away. Only Simon has refused to leave. Permanently, anyway. He’ll give me space, but he’s never abandoned me. Even when I’ve given him plenty of reasons.

  Which explains why I’m here in Rhode Island.

  “I thought you’d enjoy him.” Simon’s laugh has an evil edge to it.

  Bastard. He knew what he was about when he hired Nate to drive me about. I smirk.

  “How is your health? Has your asthma been aggravated since arriving? If you need me to arrange an appointment with a doctor while I’m away, I can do—”

  “Jesus, you’re as bad as Mum,” I snarl, annoyed all over again. Dragging a hand through my hair, I clench the strands in my fist, tugging hard. “I’m not an invalid or an idiot. Or your patient. I got a doctor, Simon.”

  “Forgive me for being concerned about a friend,” Simon replies, a distinct chill in his voice.

  I want to apologize. But I want to rail more. Not at him. But at the part of me that makes him view me as weak. I’ve battled that perception all my life. I bend and manipulate fucking metal for a living, for Christ’s sake. And still, I can’t get people—my parents, Simon—to see me as anything other than Blake’s younger, sicker, weaker brother.

  Who am I kidding?

  I just want to be seen.

  Last night I said you weren’t much of a talker. I was wrong. You say a ton. Right here. And every word is beautiful. Magical.

  Zenobia sees me. I don’t know how a woman who I’ve known less than two days sees what my parents, people I’ve known most of my life, and women I’ve slept with haven’t.

  That both unnerves me. Saddens me.

  Sends lust roaring through me.

  “Forgiven,” I bite out, shaking my head, physically trying to rid it of Zenobia. The woman has taken up entirely too much real estate there lately. And I didn’t come all the way across an ocean for a fuck or a fling.

  My art. My career. The two things I have any control over in my life. They’re owed every bit of focus I have. Especially since they saved me.

  “Now, are you getting back to your vacation, or did you have something else to talk to me about?”

  “Y’know, Axel…” A pause and another sigh, but Simon doesn’t complete the sentence, and thank God. I don’t want to hear it. “How’re you and Zenobia getting along? Has she stabbed you with a needle yet?”

  I snort. Because he’s obviously joking but he has no idea how close he is to the truth. Grits—still sounds terribly nasty—aren’t a needle, but she still threatened me with bodily harm.

  “No, but the week is still young.”

  Simon chuckles, but then adds, “Go easy on her, yeah? She’s had a rough go of it lately.”

  “I know, she told me.”

  A long, deafening pause. One where I want to pick up my welding torch and pound it against my big, thick fucking head. Shit. I can practically hear all the questions and admonitions pinging around in his head before they pour out of his mouth.

  “She told you,” he carefully enunciates, sounding ten times more posh. Like my mother.

  “Yeah.” I flatten my hand on the table, staring down at my scarred and nicked hand.

  Another pause packed with accusatory silence. “You’ve known each other less than two days, and she told you her life story?” he drawls, and it carries a hint of bite.

  That thing about someone’s bark being worse than their bite? Yeah, that ain’t me.

  “No, arsehole, not her life story. Just the part about the cheating ex, shitstorm of a flat”—still have no idea what that really means—"and having to work with the ex and the woman he fucked around with,” I growl. “Anything else?”
<
br />   “I love you like a brother, Axel, and no offense, but it’s kind of hard to imagine you as confessional type.”

  No, no offense taken there. Still, he’s not wrong.

  “Is there something going on there, Axel?” Simon continues in a low murmur. “I’m asking because it wouldn’t be wise. Like you said, she’s just coming out of a bad breakup, and you’re only going to be around for a few months. I don’t want either one of you to get hurt.”

  My temper, fed by frustration, irritation, and—if I was a man more in touch with his feelings who could admit it—yes, hurt, snaps. “But here’s the thing, Simon. You’re not my brother. He’s dead. And I don’t need another one. Or a guardian. I can control my actions, decisions, and dick just fine without your advice. So just back off, yeah? But to answer your question, there’s nothing going on with your precious Zenobia,” I lie. “Now I got work to get back to. Cheers.”

  I hang up before he can reply.

  Because I was a bitch to my brother’s best friend who hasn’t done anything but try to be there for me. And the little boy in me resents him for that. For Simon, I’ll never be more than a charity case, a survivor’s guilty burden. It’s enough that in my parents’ eyes, I’m the booby prize. I’m so goddamn tired of being that with everyone else.

  Stuffing the mobile back in my pants pocket, I jam back on my gloves and helmet, switch on the torch, and turn back to my piece. Soon, everything—Simon’s call, memories of Blake, this grinding, inconvenient lust for Zenobia—is drowned out by the scent of sweat and iron inside my helmet. Even through the head gear, I can catch the smell of burning metal. Like brimstone, and I’m the devil, reigning over my own corner of hell. And I love it. There’s nothing like it. The vent hoods above suck out the fumes, but by the end of the day, tiny shards of black and silver metal shavings will litter the floor and a thin layer of fine ash will coat everything, including me.