Kiss My Axe (Axford Brothers #1)

Prologue

GRIFFIN

Forty-two stories above Times Square, the rooftop of the Knickerbocker Hotel offers an unobstructed view of Manhattan. Below me, half-sized humans scurry around, jackets buttoned against the spring chill. Traffic honks and sirens wail.

But up here above it all, everything’s calm. String lights twinkle overhead, and heaters scattered around the perimeter of the patio chase away the worst of the wind that whips between the skyscrapers.

The whole setup screams expensive. Screams luxury. Screams control. Which is exactly what Bill Tiden wanted for the Rise Athletics billboard launch.

I adjust the collar of my navy Tom Ford coat and check my phone.

Six minutes until showtime. Around me, the party hums with anticipatory energy.

The paid lifestyle influencers with their sculpted abs and perfect teeth cluster by the open bar, drinks in hand and phones already primed for optimal lighting.

The team from Rise hovers to one side while Bill, with his high-and-tight haircut and perpetually constipated expression, holds court.

I’m not nervous. I’ve toiled seven years for this day.

More, if you count all those unpaid internships in college.

I’ve spent late nights, weekends, and major holidays at my desk, and my phone is never turned off.

I’ve been building my own name as carefully and steadily as I’ve built campaigns for my clients.

Crafting my own narrative, you might say: lower-middle-class kid from Brooklyn pulls himself up toward the executive suite through hard work and talent.

And now, finally, it’s all coming together.

“Griffin!” Sarah Kim from our creative team appears at my elbow with a champagne flute. “This is it! The big moment! This is going to be huge for the Nelson Group.”

“It is.” I take the champagne from her, but I can’t drink. My nerves are humming like live wires in the best possible way.

This night, this campaign, isn’t just huge for the company; it’s huge for me.

As project lead on the campaign that will catapult Rise from a mid-level sports and leisure company to a leading activewear brand…

well, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, but I don’t think it’s too out-there to think this will lead to a promotion.

The campaign I designed for Rise—Work Hard, Grind it Out, Rise Up—isn’t just about athletic wear. It’s about aspiration. Becoming your best self, as my friend Milo says. It’s about broadening horizons and making people feel empowered.

Which, yeah, is a tall order for a $70 pair of leggings. But with help from my team, and thanks to an amazing model… we nailed it.

My phone buzzes with a text from former classmates in our business school group chat.

Jessica

Best of luck tonight!

Trevor

So jealous I could puke.

Aminah

Can’t wait to see your new place Saturday and to hear EVERYTHING about your launch!

Eight or nine years ago, we’d all been scrambling for internships. Now, I’m launching a campaign that will be seen by millions. And yeah, the speed of that still astounds me sometimes, but I swear I’ve earned it.

My mothers didn’t just teach me how to make poster board protest signs and march for justice. They instilled in me a good work ethic by example, and after seeing them struggle to support our family, I know you have to put in the effort if you want good things to happen.

I take out my phone and snap a quick picture of myself and text it to them with an excited-face emoji. A millisecond later, my phone buzzes with messages from them.

MamaLaine

So proud, Griffy.

MamaTish

We love you!

“Griffin.” Alan Nelson’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Alan. Hi.” I slide my phone away and turn to find my boss approaching, his silver hair slightly windblown. He’s followed by his secretary and his entourage of VPs, but my attention catches on the young man trailing slightly behind.

Erick Nelson, Alan’s son, is officially an intern and unofficially the prince of nepotism.

With the kind of effortless beauty that belongs in a cologne ad—word on the street is that his mother, the former Mrs. Nelson, was a model—and a resume that includes a list of chichi private schools, he shouldn’t have to work hard.

But when Alan assigned him to my team a few months ago, I was pleasantly surprised to find that while Erick needs to polish up his poker face when dealing with shitty clients, he’s generally eager to please.

“Erick.” I extend my hand. “Thanks again for all your effort on this. You should know, Alan, that Erick took charge of the final graphics package after Bill’s last-minute color tweak. He was an absolute lifesaver.”

Erick’s handshake is firm, but there’s something off in his expression. Nervous energy radiates off him like heat waves, and he drops my hand almost immediately. “Nah. I didn’t do much.”

“Not true,” I argue, mostly for Alan’s benefit. “I know you were dropped into the deep end of the pool, having this as your first project. The hours were long, and the client was… tricky,” I say diplomatically.

Alan gives Erick a fond smile. “Chip off the old block.”

Something flickers across Erick’s face—guilt, maybe?—but before I can ask him if he’s okay, Bill Tiden’s laugh booms over the party chatter. He’s regaling a cluster of influencers now with some story that involves aggressive hand gestures, and he’s making his way toward us.

“…so I told the guy, look, this isn’t San Francisco,” Bill’s saying. “Rise is a family company with family values. We don’t cater to every special-interest group that comes knocking.”

One of the influencers—a fitness model with kind eyes and, according to his Instagram, a husband and child at home—shifts uncomfortably, and Erick’s jaw clenches.

“I think inclusivity—” Erick begins.

“Inclusivity.” Bill waves dismissively. “Marketing buzzword. Our customers are real Americans who want real products. Not political statements.”

I slide into the conversation smoothly. “Bill! Come over here so you can get the best view of your billboard.”

I wish I could explain to Erick that challenging clients like Bill gets you nowhere. That it’s better to charm your way around their rough edges and focus on the work. But that’s the kind of lesson it took me years to master.

“Griffin.” Bill nods. “The man of the hour. Ready to earn your millions?”

I keep my smile firmly in place. I make enough to afford some luxuries, like a one-bedroom apartment and a parking space for my car, so I can theoretically visit my moms more easily, but it for sure ain’t millions.

“Two more minutes,” I say, checking my phone again.

The crowd gravitates toward us like they’re drawn by magnets, and we all crane our necks toward the massive LED display.

I’m sweating inside my coat like this breezy rooftop is the surface of the sun. Pride and satisfaction swamp me. I’ve proven myself, I think. I’ve reached the top of the mountain.

I’m vaguely aware of Erick hovering at the edge of the group, his face pale in the string lights. When I frown at him quizzically, he looks away.

“Thirty seconds!” someone yells.

We go quiet, all forty of us with phones raised, holding our breaths, looking over the edge of the building at the beautiful chaos of the city…

And the billboard flickers to life.

For a split second, my brain can’t process what I’m seeing. Like when you wake up in a strange hotel room and the shadows fall all wrong, panic grips me, and I think, Where am I? What is this? Why?

The image on the screen is familiar. The model I chose stands against the royal blue background Bill insisted on at the last moment. He’s wearing Rise’s signature compression leggings, which practically glow in the lighting. But the text…

My god, the text.

My carefully crafted tagline—Work Hard, Grind it Out, Rise Up—isn’t positioned at the bottom of the image in sans serif block letters where it belongs.

Instead, it’s wrapped around the model’s crotch, the letters following the contours of his prominent dick bulge.

It’s perverted. It’s porntastic. It’s…

“An outrage.” Bill’s voice cuts through the silence like a whip crack. “An outrage of epic proportions!”

Someone—one of the influencers, I think—lets out a strangled snort. “He is pretty epically proportioned. Goddamn.”

“Wouldn’t mind grinding it out with him,” another snickers.

“I… that’s not…” My mouth works from side to side, but no coherent words emerge. I can’t think. I can’t imagine. I don’t know. “This isn’t the file we approved.”

“You’re damn right it’s not!” Bill says. His face has gone crimson, and when he turns to face me, his eyes are blazing. “Was this supposed to be funny? Some kind of joke?”

“No! No, I swear! This was an accident! It had to be—”

“I won’t be made a fool of.” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “And my company will not be associated with this kind of juvenile, degenerate, indecent—”

Around us, phones are out and recording. The influencers hired to promote the launch are now documenting its spectacular failure. I can practically see the TikToks being uploaded in real time.

“Alan!” Bill spins toward my boss, who’s gone white as paper. “You assured me this campaign would be handled by professionals. This is unacceptable.”

Alan’s gaze finds me, and when I look back on this moment, I will see my future evaporating in his expression. “Griffin, what happened here?”

“I don’t know!” I sound loud and panicked, and I hate it. “The files were perfect when I reviewed them. Then Erick sent the graphics package—”

My eyes dart to Erick, who’s standing there frozen.

“Don’t you dare blame an intern for this,” Alan says, avoiding the fact that the intern in question is his son. “This was your project, Griffin. You assured me you could handle the responsibility. Clearly not.”

The words hit me right in the stomach and leave me winded. I open and close my mouth, but no sound comes out.

Around us, the party’s descended into uncomfortable murmurs and barely concealed laughter, and with a quick glance around, Alan’s clocked it too. I recognize the moment when he realizes he needs to deflect the stain of this from the Nelson Group… and when he decides to use me as a human shield.

“The Nelson Group will be parting ways with you, effective immediately, Griffin Mercer,” he announces loud enough for everyone and their TikTok followers to hear. “Please leave your key card here, and we can make arrangements for you to collect your personal belongings.”

The terrace spins like a tilt-a-whirl.

This can’t be happening. It legit cannot. Aren’t there supposed to be HR people involved when you’re fired? Shouldn’t there be some kind of trial where I can provide evidence?

I did the work. I put in the effort. I earned this success, and it’s supposed to be mine.

I was so fucking close.

I look at Erick, silently begging him to speak up, to explain, but he won’t meet my eyes. His face is a mask of guilty silence that says he sees me going under, and he’s not gonna throw me a rope.

“Alan,” I manage. “Please hear me out. Give me a chance—”

“You had your chance,” Bill says, turning away and dismissing me with a gesture. “And you can bet every agency in this city will hear about this disaster!”

Believe it or not—and I really can’t—the party continues around me. People have gotten a spectacle, even if it wasn’t the one they came for, and they’re pouring champagne while thanking the heavens they’re not in my shoes.

Meanwhile, I stand there, frozen, as everything I’ve built disappears before my eyes. The corner office, the promotion. Hell, the paycheck. The respect of my colleagues. The life I’d carefully constructed.

My limbs are frozen solid, and ice is seeping through my chest as all of it crumbles into nothing, forty-two stories above the city I love.