Broody Brit by Naima Simone
Chapter Eight
Zenobia
A couple of days later, I start another workday with Axel’s voice and words echoing in my head. Is this going to be a thing? He says random, heartbreaking statements that send me mentally reeling, and I just have to deal with it? That doesn’t seem fair. At. All.
Especially if it means I’ll have to spend hours, freaking days trying to recover. Case in point, the night before last. Of course, in my twenty-eight years, someone has told me I’m beautiful. Even James has during our relationship. But no one—and I mean no one—has ever told me while basically worshipping my hands with their lips as if they were God-given gifts. Leaving me shaken, awed, and hot as fuck.
Thank God I didn’t have to come in the day after girls’ night with Calliope. Because I’d been a mess, vacillating between avoiding Axel and convincing myself that a fling with gorgeous, sexy almost-stranger was a time-honored tradition.
Jesus. I shake my head, finishing up charting a patient’s medical history and updating his record. I don’t know if I’m going or coming with this man. Well… That isn’t exactly true. Since that night in the garage when he offered to let me use him, I’ve been doing a lot of coming…
Why, yes, I have become a depraved, horny heffa.
“Hester. Dr. Lowry.” Charge nurse Brenda Shannon strides over to the desk I’m sitting behind, a tablet in her hand. Immediately, I stand and round it, meeting her and Dr. Adam Lowry, the physician on call, on the other side. “Trauma room twelve. We have a rig coming in. Five minutes out. They’re faxing over the demographics now, Hester.”
I nod, waiting on her to deliver more instructions and information.
“Twelve-year-old female with trauma and obvious deformity to right lower arm following a fall at school. pulse, 100 bpm. Respiration, 18 bpm. Blood pressure, 135 over 85. Temperature, 98.7. She’s alert. One of morphine on board for pain.”
The facts running through my head, I move toward the fax machine to grab the sheet from the ambulance containing the patient’s information. It would contain everything from the little girl’s biographical data, to her parents’ contact info so we can call and request verbal permission to treat their child, to known allergies and anything else the parents included when they completed the school paperwork.
As soon as I stop in front of machine, I grab several papers off the receiving tray, shuffling through until I spot the one I need. Dropping the other sheets, I head back to the desk, scanning the top. The fall occurred at a middle school about fifteen minutes from us. Accident during gym. Patient name Bethany Ma…vis.
I stumble then slam to a halt. Shock plows the air out of my lungs in a frigid blast that leaves deep, icy furrows. I’m too numb to bleed. Yet. But once the freeze thaws, I know, I fucking know, the bloodletting will be relentless, merciless.
Sooner than I want, than I can hand, the shock starts to melt and the pain creeps in, an insidious, gleeful intruder. The paper trembles in my grip, and I’m not sure, but I think the wounded animal sound that reaches my ears isn’t from one of the bays in the ER. If I’m not mistaken, it’s from me. From my throat, scraped raw from holding back a horrible, grief-stricken scream.
“Hester,” Brenda snaps, and that no-nonsense voice prevents my headfirst, downward spiral into anguish. “Zenobia.”
Long fingers circle my wrist in a hard grip.
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t—” I rasp, then shake my head. Get it together. You have to get it together. Giving my head another abrupt shake, I scan the immediate area, but no one seems to have noticed my skirmish with a breakdown. I can’t afford to do that here. No, I just can’t to do that, period. I did that once. At sixteen. Not again. Especially not now. Not when…
“Zenobia, what’s going on?” Brenda demands impatiently. “Do you have the demographics sheet? I need you in twelve after you make the call to the parents—”
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I interrupt. When Brenda narrows her eyes, her face hardening in displeasure, I force my throat muscles to work so I can rip myself open and expose my deepest secrets to my supervisor. “I can’t work on this patient. Because she’s my daughter.”
Hours later, I stare at the room where my biological daughter had lain, arm iced, pain meds administered after receiving permission from her parents, waiting for them to arrive. So they could offer her comfort. So she could cry on their shoulder. So they could ease her fear.
All the things I couldn’t because I had surrendered all rights to do that twelve years ago when I’d given her up for adoption.
Unbidden, tears sting my eyes, and I blink them away, battle them back.
I don’t have any rights to those either.
“What’re you still doing here? You’re not on shift.” Brenda walks past me with her ever-present tablet, and her brusque tone helps me grasp onto the scraps of control I’ve been struggling to maintain all shift. She glances at me, and it might be my imagination, but there’s a slight softening of her dark eyes. “Go home and get off my floor before I assume you being here means you want a double.”
“How is she?” I murmur.
Brenda doesn’t pretend to misunderstand my question. And in the same practical and straightforward manner that she took in my news about an until-then-unknown daughter, reassigned the room, and ruthlessly squelched any resultant whining from nurses and doctors due to the out-of-order rotation, she turned and faced me.
“We had the X-rays done and called in Dr. Taylor.” I nod, relief flowing through me, Dr. Rachel Taylor is one of the state’s best pediatric ortho surgeons. The X-rays showed an open radial fracture with wrist displacement. Which, as you know, requires more than Dr. Lowry or our ER doctors are comfortable performing. A fracture? No problem. But something like this? No. We arranged for her to be admitted to PEDs, and Dr. Taylor performed a C-Arm setting of the fracture under fluoro. They didn’t put her fully out for the procedure but administered Versed so she would be sleepy and Zofran for any nausea. They also had respiratory therapy there to monitor her. The procedure took about forty-five minutes, and she’s now recovering in her own hospital room. If no complications arise, she should be released the day after tomorrow.”
Okay, those tears? Eminent. Nothing I can do to hold them back now. To someone outside the medical field, all those technical details might not mean much or would be confusing jargon, but to me? They’re everything. They tell me Bethany was given excellent care, that she’s doing fine, and is on the mend. Brenda gave me a step-by-step walk-through of my daughter’s care because I couldn’t be there for her treatment.
Just another thing I couldn’t there for.
Stop it!
Giving Bethany up for adoption had been the best thing I could do for her. The best gift I could give her. Parents who could not only provide for her financially, but could offer her a stable home—a settled one without uncertainty and hardship. One a scared, unprepared sixteen-year-old couldn’t.
Logically, I know this. But sometimes, especially now when the guilt is like a hammer pounding at my heart, shattering it into so many pieces they resemble grains of sand, reason isn’t winning.
“Thank you,” I rasp. “For everything today.”
She waves off my thanks. “Get out of here.”
In spite of the emotional storm whipping me to shreds, I summon a smile and head for the exit. But as I clear the ER doors, I turn, my feet carrying me back toward the hospital before my mind catches up and agrees to the plan that’s already in forward motion.
Moments later, I’m on the PEDs floor and, after a quick chat with the nurse on duty, I find out Danielle Mavis has run home for a change of clothes for herself and her daughter since she will be spending the night at the hospital. Grabbing an apple juice and graham crackers, I offer to take them in to Bethany. Since it’s pretty busy, the nurse okays it.
My hearts floors it for my throat and lodges at the base of it. Breathing is a commodity that is above my pay grade as I near Bethany’s room. Yes, I’m violating her parents’ wishes. I’m breaking all manner of hospital rules. I have no legal or moral rights to be here.
And yet, my feet keep moving. And they don’t stop until I stand before the closed door and my hand is curled around the handle. Inhaling a shuddering breath, I press the bar down and enter. Suddenly, the apple juice and graham crackers weigh down my arm like a fifty-pound dumbbell. My heart is just as heavy, and only by sheer will do I keep my arm by my side instead of press my free hand to my chest and massage the ache.
Unlike the bland, functional layout of the ER rooms downstairs, the pediatrics rooms are designed with providing as much cheer for children as possible given the circumstances. Murals are painted on the walls, brighter-colored blankets cover the beds, stuffed animals and a couple of other toys are stored under the mounted television. The medical equipment and its muted beeping can’t hide what the room is or delude a child into forgetting where they are, but the hope is to offer them a little more comfort than the clinical rooms on the other floors do.
Again, logical brain absorbs all of this.
But that messy, emotional side of me? Doesn’t give a damn. Every bit of me is focused on her.
And oh my God, she’s beautiful.
The last time I saw her other than in photos was a day after I’d given birth to her… just before I’d given her to Gregory and Danielle. And though a box in my closet—well, now my suitcase—contained a picture from every birthday, a part of me still envisioned her as I’d seen her last. This tiny, vulnerable, wrinkled infant.
But no. There’s nothing tiny about her. Even lying down, I can tell she inherited her father’s height, not mine. As well as his pretty hazel eyes. But the oval shape of her eyes—my mother and grandmother’s eyes—the nose, wide mouth and stubborn chin? All me. Fear flashes through me. What if she notices the similarities? What if she knows who I am and orders me out of her room?
What if I’ve royally fucked up by being so damn impatient and selfish?
Turn around. I should drop the juice and crackers off, and turn around now before it’s too late—
“Hi,” Bethany greets me with the friendliest smile and a wave with the arm not encased in a cast. “You’re not my nurse. But you have food and juice, so come in.”
Oh God. Part of me wants to admonish her for being so open and trusting, and just inviting strangers into her room. Even if said strangers are wearing scrubs. The other half, though? That half desires to crumble to its knees at her sweet voice and weep.
But I do neither. Instead, I scrape together the remnants of my professionalism together and wrap them around me like a tattered but still-serviceable coat.
“Hey, Bethany.” I smile, praying it doesn’t appear as unsteady as I feel. But the frantic prayers I’m sending up must be catching God on a really magnanimous day for sinners because my voice remains even, and she doesn’t eye me with suspicion. Rounding her bed, I pull the tray over her lap and open the juice and crackers for her. “Here you go. These should help further settle your stomach if you’re still feeling any nausea.”
“Nope.” She grins, the green in her eyes glimmering bright with her humor.
If not for me staring at the evidence of her recently broken right arm wrapped in a hot-pink cast, I might question it. She’s in a remarkably good mood.
“I’m not sick anymore. But I’ll still take the snacks,” she announces, snagging the apple juice and sucking noisily from it. Then she nabs a graham cracker and pops it into her mouth. “No offense, but dinner sucked. And my mom won’t bring me McDonald’s. You’d think after a girl breaks her arm, it’d earn her some nuggets, right?” She rolls her eyes.
“Believe me, no offense taken. If you tell anyone, I’d deny it ‘til my last breath, but the suckage of this food is why I bring my lunch every day,” I pseudo-whisper.
She giggles. “I promise not to tell… if some more graham crackers happen to find their way in here tonight.”
I laugh. “You do know that’s blackmail? Who knew that cute face hid a Babyface Finster?” I wince, belatedly realizing which generation I’m speaking to. “Never mind. You probably don’t even know who I’m talking about.”
Bethany slides me impressive side-eye. “Of course, I do. Bugs Bunny. I’m young, not stupid.”
“My apologies,” I murmur, smiling. “I’ll make sure you get those crackers for utterly disrespecting your cartoon knowledge.”
“Apology accepted.”
We grin at one another, and I’m struck with a realization. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this… happy. Content. At peace.
Whole.
Pressure builds and thickens in my chest, shoving against my rib cage, and once more, tears prick my eyes. Dammit. To conceal my reaction which will come across as creepy and weird to a twelve-year-old, I turn around on the pretense of filling her water glass. But my gaze snags on an open drawing tablet next to the water carafe.
Water forgotten, I stare at the pencil sketch of a woman, most of her face hidden by a floppy hat, kneeling in a garden. The picture engages all of my senses. Though no sun is included on the page, I swear its heat beams down on the woman as her hands dig in the earth. I can smell the loamy aroma of the dirt, the sweeter fragrance of the delicate flowers sitting next to her, waiting to be planted. The buzz and drone of insects reach my ears, and I just manage not to swat their annoying presence away. My tongue is dry, ready for water after a hard day’s work outside that has stained my skin, gloves and clothes.
Inhaling deeply, I lift my head, tugging myself outside the pull of the drawing. It’s been years—almost thirteen, to be exact—since I’ve seen Danielle Mavis. But I’d bet my favorite wrench that the woman captured on this sheet is her.
“You drew this?” I ask Bethany.
“Yep.” She lifts her left hand, wriggling her fingers. “Thank goodness I didn’t break my left arm. Not being able to draw for the next six to eight weeks would’ve been miserable.”
“You’re amazing,” I murmur. “Truly. I’ll freely admit, I don’t know much about art, but anyone can look at this and tell you’re talented.”
“Thank you.” Bethany grins at me. “Neither of my parents can draw. Like, they’re not even a straight line.” She snickers. “I’ve always wondered if I get it from my bio mom or dad. It’d be nice to know.”
Your grandfather. He might’ve been a gearhead, but he had the heart and fingers of an artist. He could sketch out the parts of a car engine and build one like they were sculptures.
The words rebound against my skull as ham-size fingers wrap around my throat and squeeze. Tight. Strangling me. Oh God. Please don’t let me lose it. I need to keep it together. Let me keep it together. I haven’t prayed in so long. Maybe since I asked Him for help in making the decision in what to do—keep Bethany or give her up for adoption. But now I need Him, and it doesn’t escape me that, again, it has to do with my daughter.
An image of Axel wavers in front of my mind’s eyes, and I grasp onto it like a drowning victim about to go under for the third and final time. My translucent fingers trace the dark brown furrow of his eyebrows, dance over his slashing cheekbones, caress the arrogant slope of his nose, brush the carnal, almost cruel curve of his mouth…
I suck in a breath. One more. And another. Center myself on that scowling, brutally beautiful visage with its laser-bright stare.
Is he God’s answer? I don’t know. But I send up a “thank you” all the same, and when I turn back to Bethany, I face her without any hint of the hole she’s punched inside of me with her innocent remark.
I’ve always wondered if I get it from my bio mom or dad. It’d be nice to know.
She’s wondered. About me.
Clearing my throat, I pick up the carafe and pour water into a glass although she still has juice left in her cup. Nothing wrong with her staying hydrated, and my fingers need something to do.
“I’m hopeless when it comes to anything artistic, too. But I have a friend who’s fantastic.” Well, friend was using a bit of creative license. “His name is Axel Wright, and he—”
Bethany gasps. “The Axel Wright?” She gapes at me. “The sculptor Axel Wright? You’re friends with him? Shut. Up. You’re lying.”
Yeah, maybe about the friends part. “Nope, not lying. I take it you’re a fan,” I say, dryly.
“Are you kidding me?” She ignores the glass I set on the tray and gawks at me as if I’m Moses and I just brought down two twin tablets. And that she might tackle me if I even think about taking back what I’ve said about Axel, broken arm and all. “He’s one of my favorite artists. My mom bought me a book of his sculptures with his drawings he worked from. They’re amazing. He’s amazing!”
Eyes round with excitement, she turns and glances at her sketch.
“I hope to be as good as him one day. He’s supposed to be having a show in New York next year. I’ve been trying to convince Mom and Dad to take me, but so far, no luck. But I figure I have four more months to wear them down.”
Determination glitters in her narrowed hazel eyes, and her mouth firms into a straight line. In this instant, sympathy for Danielle and Gregory Mavis flashes through me. Something tells me when this girl sets her mind on something, woe to anything that stands between her and it.
Oh, I like that about her.
Speaking of Danielle… I glance down at my watch. The nurse didn’t mention how long she’d been gone, but I can’t risk running into her. “I should let you rest,” I say, even though my heart constricts at the thought of leaving after only spending a few minutes with her in twelve years. “Other than graham crackers, can I get you anything else before I go? Are you in any pain?”
“No, I’m good.” She smiles. “Thank you for being really nice. You know my name from my chart, I guess, but you didn’t tell me your name, though.”
“Right.” Panic crawls through me, and the acrid taste of it sticks to my tongue like tar. If she mentions me to her mother, Danielle might guess right away who Bethany has been talking with. Or maybe not. Does she know I’m a nurse? Did Sabrina share that with her and Gregory? Swallowing down the fear that I’ve fucked up any future chance of being in this little girl’s life, I force a smile. “You can call me Z. All my friends do.”
She grins, and I smother a sigh of relief. Waving, I beat a quick exit, briefly stopping by the nurses’ station to ask that they bring her another pack of crackers. I hold it together until I emerge from the hospital, cross the parking lot, and climb into my car. But when I crank up the car and Lifehouse’s Hanging by a Moment fills the interior, I lose it. This song spoke to me when I was pregnant with Bethany and stayed on repeat. Another sign from God? I laugh, and the scalpel-sharp hysterical edge serrates the silence into ribbons just before I break.
The tears I’ve managed to hold back spill out in a hot torrent that scalds my skin and leaves me hollow and so fragile I’m afraid to drive. Scared that hitting one pothole will leave me shattered into jagged pieces on my seat.
Minutes, hours—hell, maybe days—pass while I pour out my pain, grief, and worry. By the time I pull out of the hospital parking lot and carefully make my way back to Bridget and Simon’s house, I’m so empty, the night breeze could easily topple me over as I step out of my vehicle. The front walk and steps to the house from the driveway seem insurmountable, and after unlocking the front door and closing it behind me, I want nothing more than a hot shower and to ease into bed. And hope sleep isn’t a miserable game of hide ‘n’ seek where I’m the loser.
That’s my game plan.
But it isn’t where I go.
One moment I’m standing in the foyer, and in the next, I’m through the kitchen, the garage and standing in front of Axel’s door. And before my brain can demand a scathing “What the ever-luvin’ fuck?” of myself, I’m knocking on it. It’s after eight, and he could still be at his workshop. Or he could be home, minding his business like I should be doing right at this moment. If I had any manners, I’d respect his privacy, especially if he’s been practicing avoidance like I have been. Yet, here I am. Not going away.
I lift my arm, prepared to rap on the door again when it swings open.
“Yeah?”
Fuck.
For a moment, every chain of weariness weighing me down disappears, dissolved by the heated and humid lust that blasts into me.
All. That. Skin.
It’s like the first morning all over again. Golden, heavily inked skin stretched taut over roped muscles. Powerful shoulders and arms. A wide wall of a chest that tapers down into a ripped ladder of abs. Black sweatpants ride low on a lean pair of hips that, of course, are rocking the delicious V thing that only the truly fit possess. Thick thighs strain against faded cotton, and Jesus… I momentarily close my eyes, because no way in fucking hell is he wearing drawers.
All moisture in my mouth evaporates. Yes, goddammit, I’m staring.
But Axel is hung.
Like, dick swinging down his thigh, that thing belongs in the Dick Hall of Fame’s Big Cock Wing, hung.
My belly trembles, and deep inside, where neither man nor vibrator has ventured for weeks, I quiver, clench. Hard. The emptiness that hollowed me out all the way home takes on a different quality—a sharper edge, an acute ache.
Need.
I recognize it on a purely logical level. But until this moment, it’s been purely head knowledge. Because I’ve heard about this kind of overwhelming, skin-clawing, get-inside-me-or-I’ll-lose-my-damn-mind hunger; I’ve read about it. But I’ve never experienced it. James for damn sure, never inspired it in me. Now, though? Now, staring at that eighth wonder of the known universe—screw the world—I’d do anything, sacrifice anything, to have it fill me, wedge itself inside me, brand me. Wreck me for anyone else.
“Hey. Zenobia.”
Shit.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I ground my teeth together. Shitshitshitshit. Was I really just ogling his cock like a damn penis stalker? Like Cyrano penning love letters to a phallic Roxanne?
Worse.
Did he really just catch me being a penis stalking Cyrano?
Shit again.
“What’s wrong?” He shifts forward, and before I can move, his big paw cups my chin, and gently, but too firmly for me to even think about avoiding him, lifts my head. “You’ve been crying.”
“No, I—”
“Don’t tell me no. I’m looking at you,” he growls. “What happened?”
I sigh, encircling my fingers around his thick wrist. “Axel. It was… something at work. I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Something at work,” he repeats softly, his hand finally lowering from my face. But his blue eyes ice over, the skin pulling tight over his cheekbones as his lips pulls into an almost mean snarl that, damn him, doesn’t do anything to detract from the beauty of that mouth. “James again.”
“No.” I shake my head. “God, no. I actually think he might be afraid to come within five feet of me after the other night.” I huff out a chuckle, although it’s short and lacks any amount of humor. I’m too tired, too drained to feel much of anything right now. And what little I can damn sure isn’t going to be wasted on my ex. “I’m sorry to just drop by, but I have a…”
I blow out a breath.
This is stupid. I shouldn’t be here asking this of him. I have no right. It’s pushy at best, completely inappropriate at worst. I mean, I’ve known Axel, for what? A handful of days. Not to mention this could get both of us in trouble with the hospital.
Jesus.
What am I thinking?
I’m not. That’s the problem. This is cra—
That hand cups my chin again, forces me to look at him. Stops me from spiraling. Centers me. On him. I suck in a breath, and it’s pure him—the sharpness of cedar, the freshness of soap and water, the heated essence of him.
“You need something from me.”
It’s a statement, not a question, but it’s still loaded.
Need? From him? Oh God, so much. Especially tonight when all I want is to forget my pain, to fill the emptiness.
My nipples bead beneath my scrubs top and bra, and I lock down a moan as a corresponding ache coils tight, tight and tighter low in my belly. As my clit pulses, a tiny heartbeat between my legs, liquid warmth dampens my folds. As if my pussy is readying itself for the possession of the cock that I just blatantly ogled. It’s literally weeping for it, begging me to give in and ask for it. To take what he offered before.
To be fucked.
“Zenobia.” His long fingers gently squeeze my jaw.
“I need a favor. And please don’t feel like you have to say yes,” I say, practically shoving the words out of my throat, needing to get them out there.
“Okay. What?”
“There’s a little girl at the hospital,” I begin. My daughter. She’s my daughter, Axel.
Swallowing the whimper, I substitute the confession with once more wrapping my fingers around his wrist. And hold on.
“She came in with a broken arm today and needed surgery. I’m sorry.” With my free hand, I pinch the bridge of my nose, grimacing. “I’ll get to the point. She’s an artist—I saw a drawing of hers and she’s really good—and she’s a huge fan of yours. While we were talking, she mentioned how she really wanted to see your show in February but didn’t know if she would be able to make it. I thought it would be great if you could come to the…”
I trail off, but he cocks his head to the side, studying me with those piercing, arctic eyes.
“You want me to come to hospital and meet the girl.”
“Yes.” My heart thuds against my chest. He can’t know how important this is to me. And I can’t tell him. Can’t share that besides giving Bethany to parents that could offer her the home, the stability, the life I couldn’t at sixteen, this is the first thing I get to do for my daughter. And I don’t want to fail.
“What time?”
I blink. Blink again. “You’ll do it?” I whisper, disbelieving.
It can’t be this easy… can it? James would’ve made me submit a three-page, single spaced, 12-font Times New Roman essay with one-inch margins on the cost effectiveness of this request and any decision he made. And then he probably would’ve still said no because of the potential threat to his job.
“Yeah.” He drops his hand, and only the last few scraps of common sense prevent me from grabbing for it and pressing that big palm between my breasts. Over my heart. “What time?”
Quickly, I run options through my head. “How about eleven? Do you think your ride can get you here? Or an Uber? I can pay—”
“I got it. I’ll see you at eleven.”
“Okay.” Relief gushes through me, and for a second, I fear my knees are going to give out right there in front of him. “Okay,” I repeat. “If you’ll give me your phone, I’ll add my number, and you can call me when you’re close so I can come out and meet you.”
He turns away, and yeah, dammit, I look. No, I fucking stare at that perfect ass in faded black cotton fleece and the muscular thighs that test the limits of that material. He’s… art. Like one of his metal sculptures, he’s steel and power, sharp edges and fluid motion, a thousand stories enshrouded in mystery.
He’s beautiful.
“Here.” He’s back in front of me, thrusting his cell toward me.
I quickly pull up his address book app and add my contact info, then return the phone to him.
“Thank you for this, Axel.” Crossing my arms over my chest because the traitorous, so damn needy things want to wrap themselves around his wide torso and back, I retreat a step. “I really appreciate it.”
“Yeah.”
“Well”—another step—“good night.” Another step. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Before he can reply—before I can do anything foolish like convince myself to touch him, ask him if I can just fall asleep cuddled next to him so I won’t be alone tonight—I turn and basically flee across the garage, through the kitchen entrance, and into the house. Shutting the door firmly behind me and on temptation.
Who am I kidding?
There’s no “basically” about it.
I fled like the coward I am.
