Broody Brit by Naima Simone

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?”

“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.

I’m home.

Here, I always find welcome, not censure.

Not rejection.

No conditions.

Hours later, I stretch my arms above my head, tired, back and arms aching, but a good ache. A good tired. The kinds that come from a hard and productive day’s work. And as I scrutinize what I’ve created so far, I’m satisfied.

Fuck, such a weak word to describe the huge mass in my chest. That never goes away. Never gets old. That sense of awe, of fierce pride, and indescribable, nebulous joy that comes from pulling on that image in your head and somehow coaxing your hands into forming it. It seems almost… blasphemous, like you’re somehow closer to understanding God when He created the universe. Yeah, if I ever tried to explain this to my parish priest, I’d be on my knees with so many Acts of Contrition, I’d be permanently crippled.

Still…

I trace the edges of the dilapidated, frail and lonely castle of a king. Immediately, Zenobia’s face flickers across my mind, vivid and blinding in its intensity. I can pick out every emotion, every nuance in her expression last night as she stared at my drawings. They’re branded into my brain, and if asked, yeah, I’d deny it. But here, in this warehouse where I’m alone with my art, I can admit that I dreamed about the awe, the reverence, the… the passion. The glimmer of tears.

Zenobia saw me.

I agonized over every choice of subject of artwork, of show. No matter how small—even if it fit in the palm of a child’s hand—or how big—if it was intended for the lobby of an office building. A lot of artists use their work to commentate on the shite-fest of this world, but I don’t; I create for me. Does that make me selfish and maybe even a little narcissistic? Possibly. Probably.

But it’s the truth.

My specialty is fantastical and mythical creatures. Because I got lost in them. They represent the world I wished I could escape to after Blake’s death. A world of magic, myth, steel, righteous war, and yeah, the fucking happily ever after. Everything my real life doesn’t contain. But as long as I’m working, I can pretend it does.

And this show’s theme had been one I’d wanted to do for a while now. The Last Unicorn had been one of my favorite books when I’d been a boy, and still is years later. While most people rooted for the unicorn and even the wizard, I identified with King Haggard. So struck by sadness and boredom that when he found something that made him happy, he went to any lengths to amass it, keep it. Lock it away. For King Haggard, his happy had been the unicorns. My unicorn is my art.

And when Zenobia had looked up from that table and stared at me, telling me with her lips and her eyes that she heard me, I’d felt visible for the first time since in eighteen years.

It was humbling.

Intoxicating.

Hot as fuck.

And it’s the last one that has me dreading returning back to Simon and Bridget’s house. Because though I resented Simon for warning me away from Zenobia, it didn’t negate that he was right. I’m only here for a few months until my show. And I’m a poor bet for anything resembling a relationship—just ask my ex. Zenobia, with her tough mouth, brazen manner, vulnerable underbelly, and doe eyes, doesn’t need my particularly corrosive brand of bullshit in her life right now.

Or ever.

What would a successful, ball-breaking, big-hearted nurse want with a selectively mute, abrasive, socially inept sculptor?

I could offer her a good fuck, and then what?

An image of that small, taut body with its breasts perfectly created for my big hands, nipped-in waist, rounded hips, gorgeous arse, and thick, beautiful thighs sends heat racing straight to my dick. In seconds, I’m hard and throbbing.

Jesus, she’s a drug.

No. A goddam virus that stays in the blood, resistant to any and all antibiotics.

Other treatments are available to me—staying away from the house, working, fucking other women. And yet, as Nate pounds on the warehouse door, I pack my shit up, eager to return to the source of my sickness.

I’m fucked.

And definitely not in the way my cock would prefer.