IMPULSE: Companion to The PULSE Series (4 page)

"Nathan?" Her soft voice carries through the doorway. "Did I forget to pack it?"

It? The fucking hairbrush. I rummage through the tote she packed all her products in. I wiggle my hand down to the bottom and pull out the hairbrush. "I've got it."

"I'm glad we can go home tomorrow," she says the moment I step back into the room. The towel is strewn across the bed now. Her wet, long blonde hair clings to her face. The imperfection of the strands only adds to her beauty. When she's like this, natural and exposed, I feel as though there's nothing that can ever come between us. She knows the worst in me and still looks at me with more love in her eyes than I ever knew existed. Now, I have to break open something that she's buried within her. I keep telling myself that if the senator was an important part of her life that she would have brought him up. Honestly, she never talks about her past. It's always been a mystery to me.

I pull the brush tenderly through her hair, working through the small knots in silence. Her breathing is slow, strong and calm. She moves slightly each time the brush gets caught.

"Are you okay?" she asks softly.

It's the question I knew was coming. I don't lie to Jessica. I've skirted around the truth in the past and it's always been a disaster. She expects utter and complete honesty from me and I want to give that to her. I need to. I can't let this fester inside of me anymore. It's fucking driving me crazy imagining every possible scenario there is. I need to ask her about the senator so she can tell me it was a forgettable blip in her past. I want her to tell me that she can't even remember his name.

Her head dips slightly forward and the brush tangles in a strand. Her hand instinctively darts to the spot. "That hurt, Nathan."

I don't want her to say my name right now. It makes me weak. I can't feel weak for this. "I'm sorry." The words are meant to sound more genuine than they do. "I'll be more careful."

She pulls her feet onto the bed, circling her arms around her knees. ""Something's bothering you. No secrets, remember?"

The words tear through me. I'm not the one with the secret. It's her. "No secrets," I repeat in a barely audible tone. "I don't want there to be secrets."

Her breathing stalls. I watch her shoulders tense beneath the thin fabric of the robe. "Do you have a secret?" The question is calm and sensitive. She's not jumping up to her feet or to any conclusions at all. She's grown in trust. She knows my life is hers and that everything is an open book.

"You do," I say without thought. This isn't how I wanted the conversation to go. I didn't want to throw this at her from left field before she was ready to catch it. I'm giving her little time to prepare. It's a tactic I use constantly in the courtroom, but Jessica isn't on trial. I have to stop assuming she's guilty of anything but caring for a man years before she met me.

"What?" She spins around so swiftly that the brush drops from my hand and onto the floor.

"I'll get that." I reach down knowing that I don't give a fuck about the brush. I need a minute to compose myself before I look into her eyes. I need to confront her about something that likely has no meaning anymore to her. I feel movement on the bed.

She's on her feet, pulling the robe tightly around her. I glance up to see her tucking the front of the robe together, covering the exposed skin of her chest. "Is this about my dad?"

Her dad? She hasn't spoke of him in months. I did wonder, briefly, why he wasn't at her sister's wedding but one thing I've learned about Jessica is that she won't share if she's not ready to. I've never pushed her about her relationship with her father. I won't. "Your dad?" I parrot back, knowing that I should correct her immediately and ask about the senator. That's the right thing to do. It's what I want to do, but I sit on the edge of the bed, frozen.

"He wasn't at the wedding." She fidgets, moving back and forth from one foot to the other. It's something she's always done when she's emotionally uncomfortable.

"I noticed," I whisper. Why am I letting this conversation continue? It's become obvious, just from the time I've spent here with her family that none of them value their relationship with her dad. I don't think I heard anyone bring up his name once.

She pulls in a heavy breath before letting it seep slowly out between her lips. "My parents hate each other."

I want to leap to my feet and wrap her in my arms. She's shaking. "Jessica, let's not talk about them."

"He abandoned all of us." Her bottom lip quivers with the words. "It happened right before my sister graduated from high school. He left. One day he just moved without any real explanation."

My heart breaks at the words. I know his leaving impacted her deeply. I can see it now, within the expression on her face. "That must have been really hard for all of you," I say, quietly. I want to be supportive and loving. I want to be that compassionate guy who holds his girlfriend as she confesses about her past pain.

Her eyes scan my face as if she's looking for reinforcement behind my words. "Your parents are still together. It's hard for you to understand."

If anyone else spit those words at me, I'd take offence. I'd label them as jealous or envious, but I can't do that with Jessica. I was there when she met my parents and I saw the awestruck wonder in her eyes when they explained how they met more than thirty-five years ago. I watched her as she sat with my mother and looked at each and every picture in their wedding album. I know that she wishes her family would have traveled down the same path as mine. It kills me that it didn't work out that way for her. That's one of the reasons I want so desperately to marry her. I want to show her that she can have that life. I'll give her that life. Forever, with Jessica, is all that I want.

"I didn't mean that." She tosses me a weak apologetic glance. "I shouldn't have said that."

I stand in a single, fluid movement and pull her into my arms. "I know you didn't."

"It hurt that he wasn't there today, but…" her voice trails into the fabric of my shirt as she rests her face against my chest. "My sister didn’t invite him. I don't think he even knew she was getting married today."

Each tender confession she's sharing is helping her feel closer. I can tell by the way she's clinging to me. The only problem is that with each word she speaks, I'm no closer to finding out about the senator.

"Do you think I should invite my father to come see us for a visit?" Her hand drapes lazily over my thigh as I drive.

I stare down at it, knowing that if she has her way, I'll be barreling down the interstate with a raging hard-on in about thirty seconds. "Sure," I say absentmindedly. After she confessed about her father not being invited to the wedding last night, she wanted to crawl into bed with me. I couldn't fuck her. After seeing the pain she was in, I knew that I couldn't take anything from her. I held her body next to mine until she fell asleep.

Her finger traces a faint path up my pant leg. "Are you going into the office when we get back?"

"I have to." I nod as I stare straight ahead at the congested roadway. "I'm dealing with a bitch of a case right now."

"The case is the bitch, or your client is the bitch?" She subtly tries to pull her hand free of mine. I know if I let it wander it's going to end up inside of my pants. I'd normally love that distraction, but not today. I need to get back to Manhattan and into the office.

I pull back on her hand, placing it in her own lap. "The client is a man. The case is a nightmare."

"Is there still something bothering you?" she asks in a hushed tone.

I glance back over my shoulder before changing lanes. I don't drive nearly enough. I pay a heavy ransom every month just to keep this car in a garage under my building. I miss being behind the wheel. When I lived in Boston, before moving to New York City, I drove almost everywhere. I still think about moving back sometimes, but with Jessica's career on the upswing, it's too much to ask. I refuse to bring it up again. I can live in Manhattan. Hell, I can live anywhere as long as Jessica is with me.

"Nathan?" She taps me lightly on the forearm. "What's bothering you? You've been quiet since we left Connecticut."

She's right. I have been quiet. I'm still reeling after hearing about the senator and now I've got to get my mind back into work mode. I'm grumpy and I'm frustrated with myself. I should have pushed through the unexpected discussion about her father last night and gotten to the bottom of what the senator meant to her. Christ, for all I know, Charity made up that bullshit so I'd take a ride with her in the backseat of her car. "I need to talk to you about something." I take the weak willed way out and keep my eyes glued to the road. We're finally nearing the city, which means that the traffic is only getting worse.

"About work?" There's hope in the question.

"No." I look quickly to my side. My eyes dart over her face but I don't allow them to linger long enough to gauge her reaction. "It's something else." I don't want to sound so mysterious and foreboding. That's not who I am.

"Is it about us?" She presses. I can sense movement beside me. She's fidgeting. She's uncomfortable emotionally and her inner instinct to run is trying to take over.

I can't have this conversation while I'm weaving through mid-morning traffic. I won't have it. I reach blindly for her hand and feel an instant sense of relief when she laces her slim fingers through mine.

"You can tell me, Nathan."

"Jessica." I pull her hand to my lips "I love you. It's minor. We can talk about it tonight."

I feel her hand go limp. She's clearly not convinced that it's nothing. I'm not either. Tonight I'm going to ask her point blank about the senator so we can put this behind us.

***

"Mr. Moore, I don't think you fully grasp what I'm telling you."

I stare across my desk at the grey haired man who is leaning as far forward as he can without tilting onto the floor. "I understand completely, Mr. Wilkinson. You hired me to represent you and I'm doing just that."

"I was here last week." He taps his wrinkled hand on his forearm just above the worn, leathered band of his watch. "What have you done since then? It's been six days now."

I pull my hand across my brow. "I've been making phone calls on a daily basis, sir. I've had several meetings related to your case." Going into minute details right now is just a waste of my time and his. I'm getting paid a percentage of what he walks away from if I win his case. All this extra talking and meeting is cutting into my bottom line.

"How much do you think you're going to get me back?" His voice cracks.

I look up and see the worry that washes over his expression. Here's an almost eighty-year-old man who gave the majority of his savings to a high profile investment advisor who is now facing felony charges. He's looking at me as if I'm holding every answer to his financial future. In many ways, I am. Why the fuck did I even take on this case? Trying to juggle his concerns, with the opposing counsel's constant refusal to discuss a settlement is wearing on me.

"Mr. Wilkinson." I lean back in my office chair, hoping he'll follow suit. I'd feel so much better if he had more faith in me. He sought me out on the advice of the attorney who handled his late wife's estate. My friend, Garrett Ryan, steered Mr. Wilkinson in my direction with a warning. Garrett told me to get this right. He painted a picture of how broken Mr. Wilkinson had been after his wife's death a year ago. He was vulnerable and had fallen into the palm of an investment advisor who is now sitting in a small jail cell awaiting trial on a long list of security related charges.

"How much?" he spits the question back with a tap on the edge of my desk. "I need to know how much. My granddaughter and her kids are moving in with me next week. She left her bastard of a cheating husband. I've got a lot of mouths to feed."

Way to add another brick to the guilt load I'm already carrying on my shoulders, Mr. Wilkinson. "I'm doing my best." I am. I spend almost all my time awake thinking about this case.

"Do you have kids, Mr. Moore?"

I look up from my desk at his face. "I don't." I already know where this conversation is headed, and I'm considering diving under my desk to avoid the head on collision that is coming my way.

"My wife and I worked our entire lives to save money," he begins. "When she died, God rest her soul, I wanted to give more to my granddaughters."

I nod. He's told me this story several times since I took on his case, three weeks ago. Each time, since the first, I'm tempted to tell him that I've heard it. I suspect he knows he's repeating but he wants to share. It helps him. I can see it and hear it.

"I gave Anthony that money so he could make more money for me." He shakes his head as if he's warding off all thoughts of Anthony Mercado, the man he trusted his financial empire with. "He was kind, he was nice to me, he said he understood what I was feeling after Nancy died." His bottom lip trembles at the mention of his late wife's name.

I've heard enough stories about her to understand that she was a sweet loving and very devoted wife. The first time he spoke about her I thought about Jessica and what it would feel like if I lost her. I doubt like fucking hell that I would be able to make any rational decisions either. Anthony Mercado set his sights on Phil Wilkinson the month after his wife died. This guy wasn't an ambulance chaser. He was a fucking hearse chaser.