Broody Brit: A Hero Club Novel

by Naima Simone

  He quickly steps outside, speaks with a nurse, then returns, closing the door behind him.

  “She’s your mum, and she’s concerned about you. Of course, she’ll call.” He states that like it’s fact. Like one has any correlation to the other. Like he knows what the fuck he’s talking about.

  “No,” I grind out, “she won’t. It’s Tuesday, isn’t it? Bridge night.”

  “Axel—”

  “Simon, do me a favor, yeah? Fucking shut it.”

  His mouth flattens, and he glares at me. The only thing probably keeping me from getting my arse handed to me is that I’m already in a hospital bed. But I can’t focus on that. Not when pain that has nothing to do with my sore chest is ripping through me.

  I shouldn’t give a fuck. This isn’t the first time my mum or dad have let me know how much of an enigma I am to them at best, a goddamn disappointment of a son, at worst. They’re feelings aren’t a secret. So why am I sitting here, gutted by her utter failure to give a fuck?

  And if my own parents can’t be bothered, don’t think I’m worth a fucking phone call when I’m sitting in damn hospital, what makes me think others can? Simon? Calliope?

  Zenobia?

  I was fucking fooling myself in the workshop tonight. They all leave. My parents essentially did after Blake’s death. As did Simon and Calliope, and they’ll disappear out of my life again once my gallery show is over. My ex did when she realized I couldn’t be the man she needed.

  And Zenobia? I only have to give her time. Shit, our temporary relationship was established on walking away from one another, and she’s never said anything about changing the terms of that original agreement. Only stupid me wanted more. Dared to think I could have more. Well, I’ve been reminded that’s not possible.

  Not for me.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned over and over, it’s that alone is better than hurt and rejected. Alone is better than being teased with the promise of love, an end to the loneliness, only to have it ripped away.

  Alone is better than bitter hope.

  A knock resounds on the door before it opens, and Zenobia pokes her head around the corner.

  “Hey, I have the Albuterol you asked for.” She enters, closing the door behind her. After handing it to Simon, she shifts closer to me, resting a hand on my forearm. “How’re you feeling? Better?”

  I move my arm out from under her touch. Because it hurts too much. It reminds me of what I had only an hour ago. Of what I stupidly allowed myself to consider to be mine.

  It reminds me of what I would only eventually lose.

  “I’m fine. You don’t have to stick around because of me. You’re off work.”

  She frowns, glances over at Simon, who is pretending to be incredibly occupied with the nebulizer. “I don’t mind. I can give you a ride home. It’s not a problem.”

  “It is for me. I don’t need your help. Go home.”

  Behind her, Simon growls, and behind my rib cage, my heart squeezes hard. I’m wondering if now I’m having a heart attack on top of the asthma. Everything inside me roars at me to stop this, to not be a bloody fool, but something strong—that primal self-protective instinct that is more animalistic than human—has taken control. I’m running, scared, battling for my life, and because of it, I’m scrapping in the mud like the dirtiest street fighter.

  “Axel,” she whispers, her gaze roaming my face before settling on my gaze.

  I can guess what she sees. I’ve practiced this carefully blank, cold expression for years. It’s the only way I’ve survived the emotionally barren home of my childhood.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m thanking you for your help, and I’m saying goodbye. Isn’t that what we agreed on? No strings? No demands? No regrets? And it ends when you leave the house. What else is there to discuss?”

  “Is this because I called an ambulance?” she rasps, her hand lifting toward me, but when I flinch, she blanches and lowers it back to her side.

  Simon hisses, reaching for her, but she sidesteps him, too.

  Inside, I’m cracking right down the middle. And grief, as if someone has died, is pouring out of me. But I hold firm. I have to.

  “This isn’t you, and I deserve a better explanation than you reading the terms of our agreement back to me like some contract. For the last time, what the hell. Is. Going. On? And you need to tell me before I turn around and walk out of here and don’t come back.”

  I stare at her. And don’t say a word.

  Her chin hikes up. Fire flashes in her honey brown eyes—not banked by the glistening of tears.

  “Okay, if this is what you want. But I have something to say first.”

  A fierce light of battle enters her gaze, and once more I’m reminded of the Amazon I called her.

  “You’re a coward. For not being upfront with me. For using our bargain as a shield to hide behind because you can’t be honest with me. You’re running scared. And it’s not being scared that makes you a coward, Axel. We’re all scared. What I feel for you in such a short amount of time fucking terrifies me. No, it’s that instead of confronting it, you choose to hurt me. To push me away to save yourself. That makes you a coward.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry I can’t hold to those terms I made the mistake of laying out. Because I do have regrets. I regret that I believed you were someone who you obviously aren’t. I regret that I betrayed myself again and opened my heart to someone. To you. I regret that I trusted you not to hurt me. I regret you.”

  Her words land on me like body blows, pile driving into flesh and bone. Leaving me a battered, bruised, and bloody mess long after she disappears through the door.

  “You are a rank bastard.” Simon slaps on the nebulizer and thrusts the nozzle at me.

  I avoid looking at him like the coward I am, not desiring to see the disgust on his face. The disgust that is etched into my skin.

  “How could you do that to her? You fucking know what she’s been through with her ex, and you pull that shit? I thought better of you, Axel. You are better than that.”

  I let loose a hollow, bitter laugh. “Apparently not.”

  “That’s utter shit, too. I know you—”

  “The fuck you do,” I damn near shout, the nebulizer in my hand ignored. “You don’t know me, Simon. Other than I’m Blake’s brother, who am I? Other than your fucking pet project that you’ve taken on out of a twisted sense of guilt and obligation. If I didn’t share Blake’s DNA, you wouldn’t even be bothered with me. The real me. The antisocial, rude bastard whose own parents only see as the son that should’ve drowned.”

  Simon pales, rocking back on his heels. “Axel.”

  But I’m too far gone. His call with Mum. Hurting Zenobia. I’m lancing a festering wound, and I can’t stop.

  “To you, I’m a debt owed, not a person. I don’t need your pity, Simon. I don’t need you or anyone. So just leave me the fuck alone.”

  The harsh, labored bursts of my breaths scour the air, and we stare at each other. I don’t know how I can be so empty and packed with such rage and pain at the same time. I want to… I want to…

  “Breathe.” Simon pushes the nebulizer toward me. “Breathe in.”

  He waits for me to wrap my lips around the end of the nozzle and then heads toward the door.

  “You’re wrong, y’know,” he says, his hand on the knob. “You were always more. You still are.”

  He opens and leaves.

  And I’m alone.

  Just like I asked.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Axel

  I’m a miserable fuck.

  There’s no getting around that.

  Stepping out of the loo, I scrub the towel over my head, face, and body. And against my will, I glance at my silent phone. Who am I hoping will call? Mum? Zenobia?

  Both have equal chances of happening.

  Zero.

  Rubbing at my chest, I stare at it hard, as if willing it to ring. But it remains stubbornly silent. And t
he heaviness weighing my sternum down doesn’t lessen in the slightest.

  I returned to Simon’s house from hospital last night with orders to stay away from the workshop for a couple of days. So bolting there is out of the question. But at some point during the early morning hours while staring up at the ceiling, it hit me that I need to stop being a rank coward. I’ve used art as my escape hatch, my hiding place for so long that it’s become a habit. I’ve become comfortable with it and made excuses for avoiding my parents, Simon, the world.

  You’re running scared. And it’s not being scared that makes you a coward… No, it’s that instead of confronting it, you choose to hurt me. To push me away to save yourself. That makes you a coward.

  Zenobia’s words haunt me as pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. They struck me hard and clawed their way deep because she’s right. And not just about her. If I’m brutally honest, I’ve done the same—pushed people away—with others. Just look at last night with Simon. I lashed out like a wounded animal. If I can’t make it good with Zenobia, I can with him. He’s been the one person in my life who hasn’t left me.

  Yet.

  After last night, I’m not sure I can say that. But I need to find him and apologize. Fear is a leaden weight in my gut, but I leave the flat and head toward the kitchen entrance. Since he worked the later shift at hospital, I’m hoping he’s here. Because this newfound bravery? It might have an expiration date. Like twenty minutes.

  The kitchen is empty, and I nearly stumble to a stop, the hollow ache in my chest like a solid punch. For the first morning since I arrived in the States, in this house, there’s no Zenobia. And the loneliness that had throbbed like a toothache until this moment yawns into a mortal injury.

  I push through the kitchen on bare feet and move into the living room. And find Simon reclined on the couch, a cup of coffee and saucer balanced on his flat stomach and Grey’s Anatomy on the television.

  “You know George dies, right?”

  He flicks a glance at me.

  “Yeah, hit by a semi. Such an undignified way to go out.” He arches an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You got roped into girls’ night?”

  When I nod, he snickers, then a moment later, sobers.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  Nodding, he raises his cup to his mouth and sips. “Are you going to follow doctor’s orders and rest for the next couple of days?”

  “Yeah.” I scrub a hand over my beard and drop in a chair next to the couch. “Can we talk?”

  He eyes me, shifting his cup and saucer to the coffee table in front of him and sitting straight. “You? I don’t know. Can you?”

  His teasing smirk steals the sting out of the ribbing words, and that tight thing squeezing the hell out of my ribs relaxes a fraction. “I’m going to give it my best shot, mate.”

  At “mate,” Simon’s eyes widen, and I sigh, dropping my elbows onto my thighs.

  “I’m sorry.” I laugh, and it’s rusty to my ears and throat. “I probably need to be more specific for what, yeah? First, I’ve been a dick. You were kind enough to invite me to stay here in your home with your family, and I’ve been an ungrateful ass. I’m sorry for that. And I apologize for last night.”

  It requires a lot to maintain his gaze, but I do. Because this man, who has been a better friend to me than any other person in my life, deserves that much.

  “Zenobia was right when she called me out on my shit. I’m using this as an excuse, but I’ve become so accustomed to not measuring up to who I believed people wanted me to be, that I used it as a wall to keep people out. To push them away before they could reject me. That’s what I did with you and Calliope. In my mind, as soon as you felt your debt to Blake was paid in full, you wouldn’t want anything to do with me. So I distanced myself first. Only you refused to go away.”

  I shake my head.

  “Part of me was afraid to come here. Because I believed the more time you spent around me, the faster you would realize I wasn’t worth your trouble and you’d finally reach that breaking point. And I’d lose the one person who hadn’t given up on me.”

  I swallow hard past the constriction in my throat. Admitting that truth that I’d just now acknowledged to myself—my fear of losing Simon, of having him see me as unworthy—was difficult.

  And liberating.

  “Last night, at hospital, with you seeing how weak I was, how much of a burden I could be, I panicked. And I resorted to what has become a pattern for me. I hurt you, Simon. And I’m sorry.”

  He bows his head, studying his loosely clasped fingers between his thighs. “Thank you for that. It took a lot for you to come find me and say it.” Another few moments of silence beats between us before he leans back and looks at me. “But it wasn’t necessary. I forgave you last night. When I said I knew you, those weren’t just words. I meant them. You might believe I’ve remained in contact with you all these years because of my friendship with Blake—and yes, that’s part of it—but it’s not the whole reason.”

  He rises with a heavy sigh, crossing over to the big window on the other side of the living room. Standing in front of it, he stares out of over the front yard, his back to me.

  “Before Blake died, he would sneak your drawings out of your room and show them off to Calliope and me, because he knew you were much too shy to share them with anyone. God, he was so proud of you. Where most big brothers found their younger brothers annoying, that wasn’t the case with you. He genuinely adored you and bragged about how brilliant and gifted you were. And when he died…” His voice thickens on those last two words, and my throat tightens in sympathy.

  Then Simon clears his throat, his shoulders straightening.

  “When he died, I lost a best friend, but you lost a brother. And true, Blake would’ve wanted me to watch out for you, but Axel, you have it all wrong.”

  Simon turns around, and the stark emotion—pain, grief, love—etching his face has me rising to my feet. “The way Blake loved you, the way he saw you, it wasn’t you who should’ve been worried about measuring up. I was afraid—have always been afraid—that I wasn’t good enough for you. I’ve been scared I failed you. Because you deserve better.”

  Shock petrifies me. Nothing and everything roll through my head in a deafening roar. How could successful, smart, proud Simon Hogue feel unworthy of me? It doesn’t make sense. And my mind can’t wrap around it.

  “Axel.” Simon recrosses the room and stops in front of me. “I’m sorry too. Because instead of thinking you knew that my actions spoke for themselves, I should’ve told you all of this before. Starting now, let me make it abundantly clear. I love you. Not like a brother. Because to me, you are my brother.”

  He hauls me into his arms.

  His tight embrace cracks the ice on my paralysis, and I hug him back. Just as tightly. Just as fiercely.

  As a brother.

  “I love you, too.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Zenobia

  I glance down as an elbow knocks against mine, and Bethany tips her head back, smiling up at me as we and her parents step outside of Roger Williams Park Zoo. This isn’t my first trip to the small zoo south of downtown Providence, and apparently it isn’t hers either. By far. But it’s one of her favorite places in the city, and she wanted to spend a couple of hours with me here.

  When Bethany, with Danielle and Gregory’s permission, called a couple of days ago and invited me to meet them here, I leaped on it. After the breakup—can I call really call it a breakup when we weren’t technically together in the first place?—with Axel four days earlier, I desperately needed the distraction. Even the controlled chaos of the emergency department hadn’t provided enough of one to totally evict him from my mind. And, though I love them, having Bridget and Simon back haven’t helped either. It’s required every tattered and tested scrap of pride I have not to ask about him.

  But I haven’t done it.

  Yet.

  This week, I’ve
held on.

  Next week is another matter.

  Because it seems like in the battle between pride and love, there aren’t any clear winners, and the outcome is muddy as fuck.

  Jesus, leave it to me to fall in love with an emotionally and geographically unavailable man in a number of days. Like some really sappy and bad romance novel. And not even the good sappy, bad ones where there’s a happily ever after or happily ever after for now. Nope, the awful novels where the hero dies or falls for the heroine’s best friend, and the heroine is writing about that shit thirty years later in a dusty journal.

  Except no one’s died.

  It’s just felt like it.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, falling in love with Axel has turned me into a maudlin, depressing bitch who is getting on my own damn nerves.

  I hate love.

  I hate men who look like Vikings with ice blue eyes, tattoos, and wounded souls.

  I hate that I’m lying.

  “Did you have a good time, Z?” Bethany nudges me again.

  Even though my heart is aching, and my chest feels like someone reached in and snatched out a vital part of me, leaving me rattling and hollow, I summon up a smile. Honestly, for her, it’s no hardship at all. Looking at her brings me joy.

  “I sure did. Your mom told me you like to come here and sketch the snakes.” I overexaggerate a shudder. But only a little. Those things are evil as fuck. “Brave girl.”

  “I do. Getting down all the details in their scales and eyes is fun and a challenge.” She grins, and it strikes me as a little wicked. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the snakes?” She snickers. “I might’ve noticed you hiding behind my dad.”

  “A healthy respect for them. Not fear.”

  “And she wasn’t hiding, Bethany,” Gregory adds, sliding an arm around her shoulders and squeezing. “You were just taking in the aerial view, right, Zenobia?”

  “Exactly.” I nod and return his grin.

  There have been surprisingly easy moments between the Mavises and me through the day. Not a lot of them. Our—well, relationship is too strong a word—alliance is too new to enjoy a true camaraderie. There’s also still a sense of… possessiveness they have over their daughter when it comes to me. And I get it. As much as Bethany must have assured them about only wanting to get to know me as a friend, they probably still feel a little threatened about my intrusion into their lives. Fingers crossed, the more time we spend together, the easier it will become for them. At least I hope so.