Broody Brit by Naima Simone

Chapter Fifteen

Axel

“Now tell me again how things are strictly platonic between you and Zenobia.” Simon peers down at me, hands tucked into his white doctor’s coat. His blue eyes narrow on me, but it’s not irritation or anger darkening them. It’s concern.

I get it. He was on duty when the ambulance brought me in, so that had to be a bit of a… surprise. Still, I don’t answer. More specifically, I can’t. Because I’m currently sucking on the nozzle end of a nebulizer.

Which Simon is using to his advantage.

“I’m sure the dirt on her scrubs and the severe case of sex hair she’s sporting could’ve come from scrambling up in the ambulance, but somehow I doubt it.” He props a shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms and ankles. “And then there’s the hickey on your neck. But maybe that damn driver hit a pothole and your hit the gurney wrong. Or you got a little kinky with one of your tools?” He arches a brow.

I return the gesture.

And for the British, the one action can say a lot. For instance, his is current asking, What do you have to say for yourself, mate?

And mine is saying, Go fuck yourself.

We’re quite multipurpose in our language, us British.

Simon sighs. “Christ, Axel, have you thought this through?”

He pushes off the wall and paces across the room.

“What am I asking?” he barks out a laugh. “You’ve been thinking with your dick, and yet last time we talked on the phone, you assured me you weren’t letting the little head take charge. But maybe if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here in the fucking ER.” He pulls my inhaler out of his pocket. “Zero, mate. Zero. And you told me to mind my business last time we talked. What the hell? If Zenobia hadn’t been there tonight, would you even have come to the hospital?”

I don’t reply again. And not because of the nebulizer. An answer isn’t needed because we both know it.

“Shit.” He thrusts his hand over his hair, leaving grooves in it that might as well be titled Axel is My Pain in the Arse. “Before I forget.” He rubs a hand over his face, glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes.

Unease creeps through me. This is different from his previous browbeating. He’s hesitating, and whatever this is, he doesn’t want to deliver this news.

“I called your mum to let her know what happened. I wanted to let you know just in case she calls you later.”

He doesn’t continue—but he doesn’t need to. That silence tells me everything he won’t. I can just imagine how that phone call went.

I don’t know what to do about him, Simon. What is wrong with him?

He’s nothing like Blake, is he?

Why can’t he be more like you? Like Blake? I just don’t understand him.

It’s nothing she hasn’t said to me before in another version or fashion.

“No worries. She won’t call,” I croak. The nebulizer hisses as the last of the Albuterol passes through the tubing. Simon crosses over, takes the nozzle from me and switches off the machine.

Going into doctor mode, he removes his stethoscope from around his neck and orders me to take deeps breaths while he listens to my lungs. “Better. But I think you could do with one more.”

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.