by Naima Simone
“I’m Zenobia, by the way,” she says, dropping the plates next to the bags. Her nose wrinkles, and she shoots a glance my way. “I thought we should start over considering our less than illustrious—and violent—meeting.”
I snort, grabbing one of the containers. Without paying too much attention to what I’m piling on my plate—food’s food—I mumble, “I know.”
“You spoke with Simon and Bridget?” She winces, lowering into the chair across the table from me. “I guess we’re going to be living together for the next two weeks. Sorry about this morning. I promise, no flying food for the next couple of weeks.”
She smiles, holding her hand up, palm out. When I just stare at her, she slowly lowers it, her lips flattening.
“Well, anyway”—she shakes her head, reaching for the open carton of fried rice—“Bridget mentioned you’re an artist and have your first New York show in a few months.”
I nod.
“That has to be exciting.”
Exciting? If she means in the way that standing up in front of a class bare arse naked is exciting, then yeah.
I hate gallery shows. Feeling like a glorified show pony on display. Waiting around and watching people judge not just you but your work. And the fucking talking. All people want to do is talk. What was your inspiration? What’s your process? Can I come watch you work? Tell me about this one… It’s fucking torture and my personal hell. But a necessary one, according to my agent who, for some unfathomable reason, hasn’t dropped me as a client yet. Though, she’s threatened to more times than I can remember. Who am I kidding? It’s more likely the fact that my last commissioned piece went for twenty-k rather than my winning personality that keeps her around.
Continuing to shovel food in my mouth, I don’t answer. No one ever wants to hear the truth anyway. Especially since I realize what an arsehole I’m being over it. How many artists would sell their soul and their arse to have this opportunity? And here I am complaining about it. Privilege at its worst.
“I don’t know if Simon told you, but I work with them at the hospital. Which is how I ended up house-sitting—if you can really call it that. They’re really taking pity on me because of a shitstorm at my apartment. True story.”
She snickers, but there’s a bitter edge to it that has curiosity jabbing its elbows into my sides, desperate to ask details about that enigmatic statement and the hint of resentment that’s part and parcel with it. I fork more lo mein into my mouth.
“But my apartment should be cleaned and hopefully fumigated within an inch of its life in a couple of weeks. I assured her we could manage not to maim one another in that time. Besides, with my schedule and you working on the pieces for your show, we’ll both be pretty busy and out of each other’s hair.”
Her gaze flicks to mine before lifting to take in said hair. And stays there. I clench my teeth and fingers, resisting the urge to restore some kind of order to the long strands that I didn’t bother brushing or tying back after getting out of the shower.
I’m not fucking preening.
“Do you have a studio or workshop set up here?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
She pauses, fork frozen midway to her mouth, as if waiting for me to continue. She’s going to be waiting for a while. Expounding is not in my repertoire. After a few moments of silence stretched so thin it begs for mercy, she frowns, then continues eating. For the next twenty minutes, only the low hum of the refrigerator and outside sprinklers cutting on breaks the quiet. Obviously, she’s given up on trying to drag me into a conversation and focuses on her food. Usually, relief floods me when people get the hint. And it does now. But underneath… underneath what feels suspiciously close to disappointment creeps, infiltrating and winding in and out between my ribs.
Ridiculous.
Switching time zones must be messing with my head.
Picking up my plate, I shove back from the table and stand.
“Thanks for dinner.”
“Sure.” She continues eating, her gaze on her plate. It isn’t until I’ve dumped my plate in the rubbish bin and am almost at the kitchen door that she speaks up again. “Y’know, I’ve had a really shitty day. Like, shit squared. First, I assault a stranger with an egg. Then I have to face James and Jenna at the same time on my floor in front of my co-workers and pretend that I’m not imagining them enduring a face peel courtesy of Indiana Jones and the ark of the covenant. Then I find out that…”
Her voice snaps off like a dry twig, and I turn around, narrowing my eyes on her. But she’s not looking at me; her gaze is zeroed in on the window behind the table.
“I find out that life isn’t just unfair but a PMS-ing, bald-headed bitch. And then, we lose a sixteen-year-old boy who OD’d. So yes, shitty. All I want is to come home—or what’s home for the next few days—pig out on comfort food, drink wine and be with someone who doesn’t need something, looks at me with pity or is dying. Just maybe, a kind word. Just one.” Suddenly, I’m on the receiving end of a glare that’s golden fire. “You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. And I get you have this brooding artist thing going on. But we’re stuck together for the near future, and would not being an asshole have killed you? Today of all days?”
She doesn’t allow me time to reply. Not that I could’ve. Not when beneath the sparks in her whiskey eyes lurks shadows. I’m intimately familiar with those. Inside them conceal pain. Disappointment. Fear.
I turn more fully toward her, frowning. The “What’s wrong?” crawls up my throat, hovers on my tongue. But before I can ask, she jackknifes from the table and stalks from the room.
All I can do is stare.
And never have I felt more like the arsehole she called me.
Chapter Four
Axel
For the last half-hour, I’ve stared up at my ceiling, listening, unable to sleep. Could be because it’s my second night in a strange house. Could be because my conscience—that irritating li’l fucker—is still bitching at me from earlier in the kitchen.
Or it could be Bohemian Rhapsody pouring through the walls of the garage into my apartment. The latest track in the personal Queen concert that my flatmate has been blasting at “take this, mate” volume for thirty minutes.
Not that Queen doesn’t fucking rock. But at—I pick up my cell phone and tap the screen—one-seventeen in the morning, not so much.
When Bohemian Rhapsody slides into Radio Gaga, I throw back the sheet with a sigh. Snagging my sweatpants off the floor, I drag them up my legs and over my hips. I don’t bother with a shirt or socks and cross the room to the door that leads to the garage. As soon as I step through, bright light assaults my eyes. Squinting, I take in the organized shelves, bins, tools and—holy fuck.
A Pontiac GTO.
I’m not a gear head, but I recognize this classic beauty with its black finish and legendary red interior. The sleek lines of the car are like the deadly curves of a woman. What I wouldn’t give to hear its engine, that deep, smooth rumble… a panther’s rumble. If it was a woman, she would be a pinup—bold, unashamedly proud of its body, and hot as fuck. It’s every teen boy’s—hell, grown man’s—wet dream of a car.
And I’m drooling.
The bonnet is up, and I circle the rear, centimeters of air and space separating my worshipful fingers from the chrome side panels and passenger door. Yeah, I want to touch, to caress. But leaving my prints on this gorgeous paint crosses into the sacrilegious. I near the front of the car… and suck in a jagged breath that scrapes my throat. Just when I thought the vehicle couldn’t get sexier, I glimpse the woman bent under the bonnet.
Lust barrels into me with wild, swinging fists. For a second, I close my eyes, attempting to block out the sight, but it’s branded on my eyelids, my brain. And image of that petite but incredibly built body once more clothed in a thin tank top and tiny shorts that reveal far more than it covers. There’s confidence in those slender shoulders, grace in the arch of her back, strength in the thickness of her thig
hs, and an incongruous vulnerability in her bare feet.
Together, she and the muscle car are a power couple, and all that black chrome and steel is an extension of her blatant sexuality.
Goddamn. I could come just staring at them.
Before I do something that could get my balls kicked to the back of my throat or arrested—possibly both—I edge around her and pick up the cell phone from off the shelf. Pressing the pause button on the screen, Freddie Mercury abruptly stops bemoaning the demise of the radio from the small, squat speaker.
“What the f— Ow!” Zenobia’s head meeting the underside of the bonnet echoes in the small garage like a crack of thunder.
I wince. Fuck. That had to hurt.
“Son of a bitch,” she hisses, her hand flying to the offended area.
Before I can question the wisdom of my actions, I move forward and, gently removing her hand, cup the back of her head, rubbing my thumb over the sore spot. She stiffens, and I clench my jaw. I shouldn’t be touching her—not without her permission. And not with her spicy, earthy scent drifting from her skin to my nose. She’s hot, spiced cider and the fresh, dew-soaked earth on a misty morning. And underneath, subtler musky notes that I instinctively know are all her.
Yeah, touching her? A mistake. And yet, I don’t drop my hand. I don’t inject space between us. Instead, I carefully massage her scalp, and she doesn’t shift away from me. That sends a hot bolt of sizzling satisfaction through me—and a staticky crackle of warning. I shouldn’t care at all that she’s not avoiding my touch, that she’s accepting it. But the low rumble of almost primitive approval still resonates in my chest.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, reaching up and covering my hand with hers.
Now it’s my turn to imitate a statue. And close my eyes against the heat that licks over my body. I lock down the growl that threatens to roll out of me. Calm down, I silently bark down at my hardening cock. It’s a fucking hand, and it’s nowhere near you.
My cock doesn’t give a damn. Stubborn and optimistic bastard.
Sliding my hand from under hers, I clear my throat and shuffle back a couple of steps. And quickly adjust my dick before she can glance down and get visual affirmation of how sweatpants do shit all to hide an erection.
Turning, she props a hip against the car, folding her arms over her chest. I deserve the Victoria Cross for not glancing down and checking out for myself what that does for her breasts. Amazing effects that even Peter Jackson couldn’t rival, I bet.
“What’re you doing up?”
I arch an eyebrow, then slide a meaningful glance at the now silent speaker. “I love Queen as much as the next person, but not bleeding through the walls at one in the morning.”
She winced. “Sorry. I didn’t even think about the music being so loud it could disturb you.”
“No worries.” I hike my chin toward the GTO. “What’re you doing?”
I really wanted to ask how in the hell she’d ended up with a car like that? But in my head, even I could hear how sexist that might sound. Best not to piss her off… again.
She smiles, then turns back to the raised bonnet.
“Changing the oil in my girl,” she practically purrs, smoothing her palm over the chrome. “Whenever I’m stressed or can’t sleep, working on her always relaxes me.” Glancing over her shoulder, she smirks. “You like her?”
I nod.
“She’s an absolute beauty.” She picks up a wrench, still stroking the like the car’s a long-lost friend… or a lover. “1969 Pontiac GTO Hardtop. With a 400 cubic inch, 370 horsepower, Ram Air IV engine. She belonged to my grandfather, and we used to spend hours together on her. He taught me everything I know about cars. Taught me how to drive in her. Taught me how to outrace the cops in a street race in her.”
She sighs, flipping the tool in her hand. “Good times.”
I stare at her, mind blanking. A scene straight from Fast & Furious with an older man with her eyes and a younger version of Zenobia riding shotgun races through my head. Oh hell no. She’s taking the fucking mick on that last one. Has to be.
“Grandpop caught hell from Mama for that one, but damn. It was worth it to see how she handles.”
Nope, she wasn’t kidding. Damn. I don’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.
“I might’ve inherited my grandmother’s temper, but my love of cars? All from him.”
“What’d you get from your parents?” The question pops out of me, and I don’t know from where. First, questions—or words, for that matter—don’t just pop out of me. I usually have to force them out. And second, this need to know more about her—it’s almost a compulsion. Chalk it up to never having food thrown at me or witnessing a half-naked woman maintaining a wet dream of a car.
Her smile tightens, strains, and the warmth in her eyes hardens just before she turns and gives me her back. “Bad taste in men,” she drawls.
That statement’s not only loaded but cocked with the safety off.
If I were smart, I’d dodge this baggage-shaped bullet and return to my bed to get some sleep now that the Queen concert is over. But my mother never accused me of being an intellectual giant.
“Tell me about your shitty day.”
Somebody really needs to arse fuck me with a goddamn enema for this sudden case of verbal diarrhea.
She doesn’t face me, setting the wrench down then bracing both hands on the vehicle. And I study the vulnerable nape of her neck, bared by the curls gathered in a large puff on top of her head. A few short, springy curls escape, and I nearly hum with the need to pinch one, rub it between my fingertips to test its texture. Find out for myself the ratio of soft to coarse. I visually caress the fragile but strong length of her spine, dancing over each dainty knob. Trace the blatant, unashamedly feminine curves of her hips down to the faint stretch marks on the backs of her knees.
Like one of the mythical beasts I often sculpt, I want to feast on that femininity and strength. Devour it.
Or let it bend me to her will.
“Now you feel like talking?” she scoffs. Picking up the wrench again, she scrutinizes it, and this is my punishment for being my usual, selectively mute self earlier at dinner. Zenobia shakes her head, then returns to changing the oil. Several long moments pass, then, “To begin with, I started a one-sided food fight with a stranger who scared the hell outta me in my friend’s kitchen.”
I snort, but she continues.
“Then my ex-boyfriend of three years and the nurse he left me for decide to flaunt their brand-new love in my face. Which is bad enough, but then they both try to talk to me like we have anything to say to one another besides ‘Bitch, please’ and ‘I hope you both contract a particularly virulent and stubborn STD from a bag of diseased dicks since I’m 98.66 percent sure you were fucking behind my back.’”
Well… damn.
“Then, I get a phone call that…” She abruptly breaks off whatever she’s about to say, and a muscle ticks along her clenched jaw. “A call that didn’t make my day any better. And then a six-year-old girl who was involved in a car accident coded. We brought her back, but she’s in ICU after emergency surgery.”
“Jesus,” I breathe.
“Yeah. It’s always the kids who hit you the hardest. She was so small, so fragile and helpless…” Her voice trails off like smoke, shoulders so tense they almost reach her ears. Giving her head a shake, she clears her throat. “Anyway, like I said, shitty.”
I shift forward, the almost primal urge to protect, to shield, to somehow ease that pain saturating her voice. Pain she’s trying so hard to conceal but can’t. That wound inside her—whether from the hurt child or dumb-as-a-fucking-box-of-rocks ex—bleeds, and no flippant tone or nonchalant shrug can plug the hemorrhaging.
I’m helpless, staring down at my big hands that can shape and bend metal but not fix this for her.
“You wanna fuck?”
“Shit!” She jerks back, the wrench tumbling from her hand and clinking into the dep
ths of the car. Cursing again, she retrieves it and whips around to face me. She blinks, her mouth dropping open the tiniest bit. Blinks again. “Say what now?”
“Do you wanna fuck?” I offer again.
And it is an offer, no matter how unwieldy and clumsy it came out. Sex always worked with my ex. If she was pissed, weepy or frustrated, riding my dick seemed to take her mind off of what was bugging her. Communication, my lack of ambition, my hermit-like tendencies—those had been issues in our relationship. Fucking? No. Hell, it’d been the only thing I could do right for her. My body, my cock… they’d been the only things of worth I’d possessed. The only things that’d seemed to bring her happiness, contentment. Before even they hadn’t been enough.
And she hadn’t been the only one. Sooner or later the few relationships I had ended because I couldn’t be who they needed.
I part my lips, try to shovel out the explanation. To clarify so my proposition sounds less crude. But nothing emerges. As usual. The words lodge in my throat. Strangled by the abnormal fear that they won’t be the right ones, that they’ll cause more damage than good, that they won’t be adequate.
Her lips finally snap closed, and humor flashes in her eyes.
“As a bit inappropriate and oddly… sweet as your gesture is, I’m going to have to pass.” She snickers. “Just out of curiosity though. Does that usually work for you?”
Laugh it off, you arse. The waspish and insistent voice rebounds against my skull, and the muscles in my shoulder tightens in preparation for the casual shrug. The teasing “Dunno. You tell me” crowds onto my tongue like a traffic jam, but once more, I fail the socially appropriate test. I remain mute.
And maybe that silence screams the truth. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then my silence is a goddamn soliloquy, because the humor in her gaze fades, replaced by something else. Something that seems a little too disturbingly similar to pity. And a quiet but simmering anger.