Broody Brit by Naima Simone
Chapter Five
Zenobia
I would’ve let you use me, pet.
Nearly twenty-four hours later, and that grit and gravel voice still echoes in my head. That enigmatic and entirely too provocative statement has been tripping through my mind all day like the clumsiest of bitches. Not to mention, at odd points throughout the day, I could still feel the light brush of that too-full, stern mouth over my ear. Growling a curse, I rub the offending tip as I step out of the hospital into the evening air, hating that even now it tingles.
I pulled the mature thing this morning and avoided him. But I think he stole my idea, because the house had carried an empty feeling all day until I’d left for work. Which makes no sense when I think of it. I’d been alone in Bridget and Simon’s house for a couple of days before Axel showed up, and their home had never felt empty. I’m no masochist so I’m refusing to think on it. Fortunately, fevers, a couple of accidents, and a heart attack among other things had aided in that endeavor.
And if that doesn’t sound eleventy shades of shitty, then I don’t know what does. The misfortunes and poor health of others should not be a boon for my lack of concentration.
And yet, here we are.
Because without the hectic pace of the ER today, I would’ve drowned in the memory of the haunted—no, hunted—look in those blue eyes last night when I asked him if offering to fuck a woman’s pain away actually worked. I’d been teasing and had fully expected him to either shrug or give me one of those dry, sarcastic, and utterly British comebacks that I’ve become quite familiar with since becoming friends with Simon.
But he’d remained silent. And those eyes. God, those eyes…
I’d been reminded of an animal caught mid-fight or flight, frozen. Almost threatened…
Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Axel Wright, with his brutally beautiful, Viking visage, gorgeous body, this-side-of-mountain-man-hermit-grumpy demeanor, and haunted eyes is a puzzle wrapped in an enigma and boxed up in a Rubik’s Cube. And, at this moment, I just want a pizza loaded with every meat possible, a Z Nation binge on Netflix and an Axel-free zone. I don’t think that’s too much to—
“Zenobia.”
—ask.
Well, damn.
I turn, even though I know that voice that reminds me of classic rock—rough, raw yet melodic. Memorable. And it’s here. At my job. Which means the man is here.
Given he’s spent so much time in my mind today like a squatter refusing to be evicted, coming face-to-face with him shouldn’t threaten to shuffle me back on my heels. But here I am, locking my knees, praying that I don’t assplant it just from the sheer intensity in that ice-and-fire gaze. Why can’t his shoulders stoop? Or why can’t horns with deadly points thrust from his head? I smother a snort. With how my uterus is preparing to throw itself at him like a virgin sacrifice, I’d probably just stroke those horns and coo about how sharp and pointy they are.
Jesus. This is why I avoided him today.
“What’re you doing here, Axel?” I ask, shocked my voice sounds even, unbothered. And that’s a total lie.
I’m so bothered.
His face doesn’t betray any irritation at my abrupt and yes, borderline rude question. That unwavering gaze just roams over my face, brushing over my forehead, grazing over my cheekbones, glancing down my nose, dipping to my mouth. It’s almost clinical and…and sensual. How those two go together beats me, but they do. And if the beading of my nipples and quivering between my legs are any indication, it’s hot.
“I wanted to see you.”
So simple. Nothing else. It’s as if this man uttering more than two sentences at one time is against his religious beliefs.
And yet my body tightens as if he uttered the filthiest of dirty talk.
Clearing my throat, I cross my arms over my chest and shiver in the October night air. “How did you get here?” Bridget had mentioned Simon hiring a guy to drive Axel around Providence until he became acclimated to the city.
“Uber.”
I nod. “Right.” And because this seems to be my new habit, I clear my throat again. Damn, he has this effect on me. I don’t like it. “So, what did you want to, uh, see me about?”
His lips part to undoubtedly deliver the most laconic reply since the Spartans, but another voice interjects. And this voice is unwelcome. I cringe at this voice.
“Zenobia.” James appears in my peripheral vision with—of course—Jenna on his arm. “Is everything okay here?”
Gritting my teeth so hard I’ll probably develop a case of lockjaw, I turn to my ex and his new girlfriend. “Fine, James.”
As if he cares. I don’t need his pseudo-concern, and the best thing he could do for me—like a belated parting gift—is keep it moving. I have to deal with him at work. I prefer not to do it during my free time as well.
But he’s obviously not getting the telepathic memo to get lost, because he squints at Axel. Since I know James so well, I can practically read what is scrolling through his narrow little mind. He’s seeing this tall, huge, bearded man with a blond mohawk and tattoos painted over taut, golden skin bared by the short sleeves of a dark gray T-shirt. His lack of outerwear and imperviousness to the night chill—while the rest of us are bundled in jackets—only adds to the intimidating I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude that Axel exudes like a horny, ring-tailed lemur.
Sue me. I watch a lot of Animal Planet.
Don’t do it, James. I barely contain a snort as my ex exhibits some latent courage gene and shifts forward in front of Jenna and partly in between me and Axel.
Really?
Really?
God, what did I ever see in him? Part of me wants to cup Jenna gently by the hand and warn her, “Jenna, you in trouble, girl,” in my best Whoopi voice. But then… nah. She chose to lie in this bed—my bed, mind you—so she can damn well smother in it.
“Do you know this… person?” James insists, and this time, I do not refrain from rolling my eyes.
For the love of… “James—”
“This him?” Axel rumbles. And for such a big guy, he moves fast. Because one moment, he was several feet away from me, and in the next, he’s beside me and looming over James.
Oh shit.
“Axel,” I murmur, curling my hand around his rock-hard bicep.
Jesus, does he have a furnace burning under his skin? He’s kicking off so much heat, I could curl up against him like a milk-fed kitten and just purr.
“This him? The worm?” he repeats, his tone harder, his grit-and-gravel accent snapping the words in half like a frozen branch. Axel doesn’t wait for my affirmation, but with the smallest of movements, crowds James even more. David and Goliath. Except in this retelling, David would be squashed under Goliath’s size 14 shoe. “She’s not yours anymore, mate. So, you don’t have the right to ask her anything, yeah?”
They could probably hear James’ nervous swallow all the way on the banks of the Moshassuck River.
“I don’t know who you are,” James says, and I mentally roll my eyes. He just can’t help being haughty. Not even with an inked, scowling giant looming over him. Oh, the poor, sweet summer child. “But Zenobia will always be my concern and friend. Which gives me—”
“It gives you nowt,” Axel growls. He legitimately growls, and the reverberation of it vibrates through my chest, over my breasts, down through my quivering stomach and in my clenching, wet sex. “Friends, much less partners, don’t fuck other women behind their friend’s back.” A snarl curls one corner of his mouth, his disgust as clear as the screaming skull tattooed on his neck.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” James shoots back. But the tremble in his voice kind of robs him of his righteous indignation. As does the guilt swimming in his gaze. “That’s between Zenobia and me.”
“Wrong,” Axel grunts. “She’s my business, and there’s nowt between you and her, mate. You don’t get to dick people over, then expect their forgiveness when you haven’t even had the balls or decency to ask for it. Until you’re ready to do that and not be a right wanker about it, fuck off.”
He ignores James’ outraged gasp—yep, an honest-to-God gasp—and jerks his chin up at a silent and pale Jenna.
“Do better.”
With that, he grabs my hand in his and tows me away from the entrance, leaving James and Jenna speechless. They’re not the only ones.
I’m utterly floored.
And I’m sure I’m gaping like a fish with a hook snagged in its mouth. When was the last time someone had stood up for me like that? I’m sure it’s happened before, but an instance doesn’t pop in my mind. My mother was-old school—if someone bullied me and the teacher didn’t handle it, I better had. Because if she had to come up to the school…
I mentally shudder. I’m sure my seventh-grade nemesis Teandra Hall, her parents, and the principal still suffered nightmares from my mother having to “come up off her job.” So, yeah, I learned to fight my own battles, figuratively and literally.
But this… Half of me wants to yank my hand from his and educate him on how I’m perfectly capable of handling James, and one late night conversation hadn’t given him permission to butt in like some knight in tatted armor. By no means am I anyone’s damsel.
Yet the other half? Well, that half longs to take a running leap, jump, and wrap my arms and legs around him, so tight he could feel my heart through our clothes, skin, and bone. That half yearns to bury its face in his throat and whisper thank you. For having my back. For deeming me worthy enough to call James on his shit. For… caring.
I shake my head, silently sighing. I’m a mess. A heart-fluttering, butterflies at war in the belly mess.
“My car’s over this way.” I veer off to the left where my everyday vehicle, a bright blue Nissan Rogue, sits parked. “Thank you… for that,” I whisper.
He doesn’t reply, but his big, long fingers squeeze mine. It’s enough of an answer.
Moments later, I press the unlock button on my key fob and the flash of lights greet us. I pause near the rear bumper, half expecting him to demand the keys. Every man I’ve dated hated to ride in the passenger’s seat. As if riding while a woman drove somehow sucked their manhood out through a straw.
But not Axel. He doesn’t even pause but strides directly to the other side of the vehicle, pulls open the door and slides in. No cajoling. No argument. No grandstanding.
For a man who could be a walking campaign poster for a Viking marauder, he seems to possess little to no ego. It’s shocking. It’s disconcerting.
It’s dangerous.
“Dinner.”
I glance over at him, my keys hovering over the ignition. The streetlamp from outside casts half of his face in shadow, creating a mask of light and dark.
“What?”
“That’s why I came down here,” he explains in his brusque, almost clipped tone. “You bought dinner last night. I got it tonight.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I protest. “You don’t have to—”
“Dinner.”
We’ve known each other for a little over twenty-four hours and he uttered only one word, but it’s enough to let me know he’s not budging. Not only is he broody, he’s apparently stubborn as hell.
“Fine,” I grumble, jabbing the key into the ignition. “Dinner, it is, I guess.”
If only I felt as irritated as I sound.
Things would be so much simpler.
“This is your workshop?”
Brilliant, I mutter to myself, staring at the small warehouse in East Providence in the Waterfront District off Interstate Route 195. One, I’m the one who had the impromptu and utterly unwise idea of him showing me his temporary workshop after we finished dinner at the pub over on Wayland Avenue. Evidently, fill my belly with some truly excellent banger and mash—who knew sausages and mashed potatoes together was a thing?—and my gums start to flap. So, after a brief, but very noticeable hesitation, at least to me it was noticeable, he drove the ten minutes over to Valley Street.
Two, I’m lying to myself about the banger and mash. Not about its deliciousness, but about its magical loquacious potency. The truth is, as we walked out of the pub, I hadn’t wanted to return home just yet. No, Axel hadn’t suddenly transformed into this talkative stranger who revealed all his likes, dislikes, secrets or his opinion on Brexit. I did the heavy-lifting conversation-wise and yet… Yet, even how stripped down earthy and raw he is, there’s something so calming about his presence. Like a bottomless, refreshing pool of water with barely a ripple disturbing its seemingly placid surface. Seemingly, because I suspect a storm whips beneath. Axel Wright strikes me as the Times Square billboard for Still Waters Run Deep.
And something inside me hungers to dive into that pool.
To see how far I can go before my lungs scream for air. To discover if I’ll be swept up in the current and left battered and bruised. Or to find out if maybe, just maybe, it will quench an unquenchable thirst and leave me floating, satisfied.
It should alarm me that none of these options alarm me.
“Yeah.” He jerks his head in the direction of the squat brick building, and I follow him as he moves toward the gate that surrounds a parking lot and loading dock area. With a display of strength that leaves my mouth hanging open and, okay, fine, watering, he heaves up the metal sliding door with barely a flex and roll of his arm and back muscles. “Through here.”
He steps inside and flicks on the lights. I would say it’s a typical warehouse, but seeing how this is my first time inside one, I can’t. Small windows march high along all four prefabricated walls. Several beams stretch from the floor to the ceiling, and a couple of thick, industrial looking fill the space. And ooh. Tools. I’m a nurse who can identify medical, life-saving machines that would probably appear like space-age technology to most people. Still, staring at the plethora of machinery mounted to the tables and set around the area, I’m fascinated and awed. And more than a little intimidated.
“What’s this?” I ask, almost-but-not-quite touching a piece of equipment that looks like a huge amplifier with knobs, coils, clamps, and nozzles.
“A MIG welder,” he rumbles, standing a couple of feet away from me, hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans. “I used it to melt and join pieces of metal together.”
Realizing that’s all the info that was forthcoming, I moved on to the next machinery, my curiosity in this side of Axel not in the least bit dissuaded or appeased. On the contrary, being here has only fed it.
“And this?” I touch a metal disc resembling a weight plate that slides onto a dumbbell.
“Flap disc. For grinding, sanding, and blending.”
For the next twenty minutes, I pepper him with questions, and he answers them in his abrupt manner. But there’s no hint of impatience about him. And man, do I ask questions. Angle grinder, four-inch vice, Grizzly cutter, air compressor… So much goes into his art that my head is spinning, even with his minimal explanations. Still…damn. No wonder his body is jacked. The labor seems intensive. And hot. And dirty.
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 strangers 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.
