Impulses (10 page)

But, could Hayden abandoning his emotions be his barrier to save himself from hurt, also? Could we be more alike than what I believed? Could Mr. Wentworth be the hope that I need to regain my faith in men? Can I even do this…change my ways? I don’t know, it has been so long, I think it will take nothing short of a miracle to thaw my icy barriers.

It’s just a case of letting the correct one in; Mr. Right is out there somewhere.
I snigger and flail my head dismissively at the thought. Knowing my luck, I have already met him and let him escape.

Right place…but the wrong time.

HAYDEN

I feel her beneath me; her legs wrapped around my waist as I slowly rock my hips into her. My hands and elbows rest above her head and the coolness of the satin sheets are grasped in my hand as I am overwhelmed with sensations. Feeling the plush walls of her sex around my girth, holding me…squeezing me as I push into her again…and again.

Moaning my name in supplication, her body bows off the bed. I lean down to meet her lips with mine. I can feel myself building, climbing higher and higher. My already rapid heart rate accelerates further as my cadence increases, feeling the end of her as I push deeper and deeper. I explode inside her, freeing myself of the heaviness I feel as I empty myself, and fall on top of her, pressing her into the mattress. My face buried in the crook of her neck.

“Is that all you got? Can’t you do anything right? You’re a man, and you can’t even make me come just once?” Her voice is cruel, condescending and ruthless. I push myself up, and gasp at the form beneath me. A bronzed round face looks up at me from the satin pillow, her shoulder-length chestnut hair with scattered blond streaks weaving through, is splayed across the pillow. She narrows her menacing hazel eyes. Glaring at me, she curls her mouth into a malevolent smirk, an evil smirk, a familiar smirk.

Trepidation, repulsion and horror devastate me; I am deafened by the alarm bells which ring in my ears. Throwing myself off her body, I push myself back to the foot of the bed, my feet tucked beneath me. And I rock.

“I’m sorry, I tried…I just couldn’t…I’m sorry…” tears cascade down my face.

She pushes herself up and slowly crawls her way over the bed to my recoiled body. Setting her hands on my face to steady my gaze, the left side of her mouth rises as she widens her wicked grin.

“No wonder she didn’t want you anywhere near her if that was the performance you subjected her to. You’re no man, Hayden. A man pleasures his woman. You are, and will always be…a failure.”

I gasp as mobility finds me and I instinctively heave myself up into a seated position. My breathing is abrasive, my body saturated in a cold sweat that I have become very familiar with since,
Her
.

My hands act as a shield as I place my face into them. They gather the mixture of sweat and tears that I shed, while the crisp September light shines through my panoramic bedroom window to my left.

“Please, Addison…just leave me alone,” I plead, rocking soothingly in a vain attempt to place yet another nightmare into my ‘Addison filled metaphorical memory box’ at the back of my mind.

It is nights like this that make me grateful when the morning arrives.

I push back the damp, Egyptian cotton sheets that stick to my sweat engulfed body. I shiver and erupt into goose bumps as the cool air collides and bonds to the sheen that coats me. Hauling my fatigued body out of the bed, I stroll to the en-suite to shower, and hopefully allow the one of many nightmares of that night to swirl down the drain.

I’m an alert and revitalized man the moment I step from the heated torrent and into the cold air. I towel dry my hair and slick it back, knowing it will fall into its correct place as it dries. With my black denim pants resting on my hips, my black linen shirt open, I reach for the glinting, silver cross that hangs over the corner of my mirror above my, five-draw oak dresser, which occupies the wall opposite the right side of my bed. In my right hand, I grasp the cross with white-knuckle force, the chain slipping through my fingers. I kiss my knuckles then press it against my chest before securing it around my neck and begin to fasten my buttons.

My black coffee mug sits upon the black and silver granite kitchen island. I stare into the bottomless blackness of the beverage and recollect the first cup of coffee Samantha brought me in my office. Unthinking, I graze my hand over my arm whilst remembering the sensations that ignited my body as her full breast collided and brushed sensuously over my flesh, when she lowered it onto my desk and the sexy smile she rewarded me with afterward.

Two weeks’ worth of flirtatious smiles and subtle collisions of our bodies which set my nerve endings ablaze, that thick atmosphere of expectation that hovered over us, around us and between us––a magnetic attraction drawing us together, only to inadvertently lead to our illicit tryst––the anticipated, coveted climax of last night. The way her lips caressed my own and the deep-rooted urgency behind each kiss. I raise my right hand, and brush my thumb pad across my mouth. The fullness of her breast in my hand, the strain of her nipple as my thumb scraped over it. I glimpse down at my hand as I recall what I had done with it, and where on Samantha’s body it had been placed, felt, and explored.

My reverie is soon broken by her haunting words.
Lust, passion and desire can all be overcome when the thirst is quenched––when the hunger is fed…when you have had what you crave
.

How could she be so callous and uncompromising? Could it because she finally pursued what she was craving? Does that mean that she will disregard me and my feelings…even after everything I disclosed to her beforehand? The mere contemplation provokes a searing, pressurized pain in the back of my head and fills me with dread and despondency.

Why bother?

No. I refuse to sit and allow myself to wallow until Monday. I have the means to do what I must. Necking back the remaining caffeine that sits in my mug, I place it back onto the granite, and slam my hands on the cold, smooth surface of the island. I push myself up from my barstool and head for the door.

Hayden Wentworth, lawyer/stalker, that’s what I feel like––a stalker, sitting in my car gaping up at the Fillmore Point building, fully aware that she resides just a few stories above me, but unable to summon the courage to go to her.

Could you possibly get any more desperate?

The blue neon lights illuminated at the peak of the high-rise structure and the mini water fountain set in the center of a circular feature, with ‘Fillmore Point’ illuminated in white along the perimeter adds flair to the towering building.

Tardily dragging my focus from the building, I bow my head and focus on my keys that I continue to tap against the outside of my index finger. I secretly chide myself for acting so spontaneously and not considering the gray area of my plan. I have no idea what I’m going to say to her. Dammit, I should have thought this through thoroughly beforehand.

She’s not going to want to see you; she couldn’t escape the office fast enough last night. You repulse her; the short, ominous, oily-haired manifestation that is my paranoia viciously berates me.

No…I am not going to cower away, we shared something last night, even if she refuses to admit it. I am going to march myself right up to the fifteenth floor of that building, and get the answers I need from Samantha. Taking advantage of my overwhelming fortitude, I quickly exit the security of my car, to make my way to her apartment…before the voice of my inner demon gets the best of me, and changes my mind.

On entering the lobby, I am inundated with blue LED lighting that’s identical to the lighting at the front of the building. The simplicity of the iceberg, white polished tiles reflect the electric-blue glow creating a modern and stylish entrance. There’s a white reception desk situated on the right back wall with another stream of blue lighting under the rim, but is left unoccupied. Silver starburst patterns adorn the dusky blue and white walls that surround me.

Swallowing the ball of apprehension, I stroll to the bank of four elevators along the left wall, and push the ‘call’ button. With my hands nestled in my pockets, I anticipate the arrival of the car and attempt to find the words––any words to converse. The numbers over head of the elevators offering a nervous distraction as they dwindle their way down, until eventually, the elevator doors glide open to allow my entry on the ground floor.

I never thought ascending fifteen floors could seem so lengthy, yet my mind remains a void. Soon I come to a slow halt, the doors glide open.
Come on, Hayden…you can do this.
I draw in a lungful of air and step from the confinement.

I’m stood in the center of a stark white hallway occupied with only two doors.
Apartment forty-five, Fillmore Point, Fillmore,
I recite the address from her résumé. I peek up at the first door that is directly in front of me. It bears a gold
forty-five
number plate, and without warning, my heart jumps into my throat, while the butterflies do their morning aerobics in my gut. My hands and knees are trembling with both eagerness and apprehension, my blood and adrenaline gushes franticly through my arteries. My mouth is as dry as a wasteland. I dash my tongue across my cracking lips before heaving a sigh and attain my composure.

I knock the white wooden door. At that point where I wait patiently yet anxiously for Samantha to answer, I aim my focus on an invisible spot on my shoes, my hands still harbored in my pockets.

I lift my head as I overhear the door unlock.

A brown-haired woman with green eyes arches her brow at me expectantly. I stare bemused, unable to find my voice. I definitely didn’t expect this.

“Can I help you?” she asks politely.

“Sorry, I um…was looking for Samantha Kennedy,” I stutter. “I’m Hayden Wentworth.”

She offers me her hand. “Ah, Mr. Wentworth, the boss,” her expression brightens somewhat. “I’m Samantha’s roommate, Jessie. It’s nice to meet you.”

Sense my awkwardness swelling, I guardedly shake her hand.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wentworth but…” the woman hesitates and takes in a cleansing breath. “Samantha’s not here at the moment. Could I take a message?”

“I was just…”
find the word, Hayden. Find the words.
I sigh defeated. “Last night, Samantha disclosed some information to which seemed to have an––unnerving implication,” I wince, while the woman smiles sadly. “I was concerned for her safety––I didn’t relish the idea of her driving home in the state that she was in.”

Heaving a sigh, I glance down at the floor. An icy chill freezes the blood that pumps through my veins as I contemplate the disagreement that one night, which nears a year ago to the day…the things that were said, the thing I took back…but it was too late. I lift my head back to face the petite brunet and cock it to the right. A pained expression consumes me.

“I just want to know if she’s safe…I couldn’t bear it if she came to any harm because of the…discussion we had had before she left.”

“That’s a very considerate gesture. An unfamiliar one when it comes to, Samantha.” She licks her lips and glances to her right, beyond the door. Stepping into the hallway, she closes the door somewhat behind her. “Listen,” she whispers conspiratorially, “Samantha is going through a great deal at the moment. She voiced a few things last night about why she had behaved the way she did.”

I feel all the blood drain from my face, my stomach churns and knots as embarrassment feasts upon me.

“I––”

She holds her hands in the air to halt me in my tracks and shakes her head impetuously. “No, no. It’s nothing to do with me, I don’t want details. I am not scolding or interfering,” she retorts.

“But she is okay?” The urgency in my voice is palpable.

The woman nods. “Yes, Mr. Wentworth. Sammy is fine.”

Sagging, I release the breath I was unaware I was holding. Some of the weight on my shoulders renounced as I relax. Her hand connects with my upper arm, she gently rubs up and down, consoling, and friendly.

“I don’t specifically know what happened, and I don’t want to––it is none of my business, Samantha’s a big girl. But she is also very special to me, my best friend, who I consider as my sister. I offer her a shoulder whenever she is in need, she confides in me,” she murmurs. “Nobody has ever done what you have done today.”

“Sorry, I don’t understand.”

“You have taken time out of your day to check that Samantha is safe, you’re considering her feelings. After what happened last night, you still thought about her today, you didn’t disregard her.”
No, I didn’t, but she has disregarded me.

“You have shown diligence.” She curls the left side of her mouth, her eyes tapering. “It may not at first, but eventually this gesture will say an awful lot to, Sammy. If I am right––and I’m usually always right––don’t give up with her.” She shakes her head and I intuit her indistinct plea. “I would never typically stray from the ‘girl-rule’, but she needs it, she needs this, and your appearance today…well, you never know who could be your saving grace.”

“Thank you. It was nice meeting you.” I turn around and press the button for the elevator.

“Oh, and Mr. Wentworth––”

I whip my head around to face the woman again who is gawping at me in deep consideration.

“Don’t be discouraged; it’s often the last key in the bunch that opens the lock.”

SEVEN

---------------------

SAMANTHA

Ah, Saturdays. There’s nothing that I enjoy more than a Saturday. It’s the only day that Jessie and I can becomes fully fledged couch potatoes, and watch our retro movie marathon without the need of feeling guilty because we should be committing our time to something more vital.

I sit at the far end of the couch, my legs tucked beneath me, as Jessie sprawls out on the opposite side with a generous sized bowl of potato chips––to which we have been battling to keep in the confinement of the bowl between hysterical laughter––as we watch the movie, ‘Made in America’. Oh, how I love this movie, so many memories.