Impulses (49 page)

“They were about you, Sam.”

“Me? But you were so coldhearted with me. Now I am totally lost.”

Shifting to mirror her posture, I grasp both her hands in mine, and rest them on my crooked knee. I begin explaining the depth of the nightmares, what they entailed, how I felt, who she reminded me of.

“Hayden…” she trails off, her eyes shimmering.

“When I would wake up, all of the hurt and the heartbreak that I felt in those dreams would be gone.” I shake my head pensively. “And I hated you…” I blink, and a salty stream trickles down my cheeks, before drop onto my black satin, pyjama bottoms.

She gasps, and inches back, feeling disgusted? Wounded? She sheaths her teeth with her lips before forcing them to roll free. Slipping her hand from my encasement, she presses it against her chest.

“You would hate me?” she sniffles, and I have never felt so much guilt as I feel right now. Oh, my God, why did I do this? Why didn’t I just leave it be, and hope for the best?

“I hated the fact that I witnessed that part of you the night I found you outside the club. It’s a part of your life that I never wanted to see because I saw it continually with Addison and I fear it. And I got a private, advanced screening of the love of my life––the one person that I would walk through Hell for––acting exactly like the one person who I loathe.” I hang my head, embarrassed at my petulance.

“Hayden, I can’t change how I was and what I have done. But I have changed who I am now and what I can become.”

Removing her hand from the warmth of her pale flesh of her chest, she reaches over and cradles the side of my face, coaxing my head up to look at her sympathetic, yet saddened features. The residue of her drying tearstains mars her complexion, while mine continue to fall.

“I never wanted you to see that side of me. My life was one huge mess of self-sabotage.”

“Victor thinks I’m pattern matching,” I whisper, rolling my eyes.

“Pattern matching? What’s that?”

“Have you ever smelled something or listened to a song and instantly remembered something that holds a purpose to that specific matter?” I ask.

“Yes,” she offers a weak nod.

“Well, with having witnessed what I did with you, it subconsciously reminded me of aspects of…” I trail off and free a weighted sigh.

Furrowing her brow, she takes a moment and aims her focus on the flooring, before lifting her gaze to me. “I think I understand that. That does make sense. It means that the guilt that I was feeling really was down to me.”

“No, no, no. What I saw that night, is a trigger. It triggers a connection that prompted my current damage––those fears. Please, beautiful––”

The mattress shifts as she pushes herself from me and walks listless towards the window.

“I am so sorry,” I apologize.

With her arms crossed against her chest, she stares vacantly into the distance and the room is drowned in a deafening, eerie silence.

After a few minutes, she begins to speak.

“I don’t know how, I am going to be able to tolerate mornings where you wake up…and hate me.” I fall under her pained, wounded gaze as she pivots on her heel. I remain perched on the edge of the mattress, my elbows resting on my knees. “It’s going to be Russian roulette.”

“Sam…” I shake my head, my lips trembling. I’ve lost her, she’s gone. There is no way passed this, and I don’t blame her. She’s right; it will be Russian fucking roulette. Will I wake up and feel that love, passion and see a future for us––have that strength in me to fight for that future? Or will I wake up hating and resenting her for something that neither of us can control? Will she begin to resent me? If she can find the strength and audacity for resuming with her life, not dwelling on all that she has seen, all that she has experienced, then why can’t I?

Stepping lightly over the wooden flooring in deep contemplation, her arms lay folded under her breasts. Her once sparkling eyes now hazed and darkened by the veil of truth and reality as she peruses the contents of the room. Her brow gathers, betraying the despondency we both feel.

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to keep feeling the guilt that I felt that day. I have enough guilt on my conscience to last me a lifetime.”

And as the words fall from her lips, my heart plummets to the iciest depths.

“I can understand that,” I concede on a dejected sigh, finally comprehending my inability to walk away from her––I’m physically unable to leave her. Allowing her to leave me––freeing her of the hindrances––is the kindest thing I can do. It’s what she needs.

Inching off the bed, I reach out and grasp her wrists, pulling her in between my legs.

She lowers herself onto my thigh, and I trace the outline of her face with profound tenderness, savoring the softness and each curve.

“You were the best thing to happen to me. And the worst thing…you opened me up to hope, love, passion, desires, and now…I’m going to remember all of what I’m forfeiting. You don’t deserve this bullshit that comes with me, Samantha. You deserve something better. You deserve a life.”

I dry the tears that spill from her eyelids.

“And the only way I am going to be able to give you that…” I press my forehead against hers, and inhale the sweet scent of home. I flex my fingers that rest on the satin-soft flesh of her back. “Is if I let you go. I have to let you go.”

She unfolds her arms, wipes away the remaining residue, and sets them on my shoulders. She shakes her head. “That bitch has had you suffering enough. We are not going to allow our pasts to dictate the rest of our lives, Hayden.” Determination dominates her features. Her warm, loving expression is now replaced with brutal honestly and fortitude. Like a mother protecting her young.

“I don’t understand…”

“It means,”––she coils her right arm around my neck while pressing the left against my chest––“that our love for each other is worth any obstacle that is placed in front of us. There are ways that we can get around this…there is always couples therapy if we need it. But God be damned if you think I am going to give up on the best thing that has happened to me, because of a few dreams.” The inner-strength that she has carried through her life is unmistakable.

“I can’t allow you to––”

“It’s not your choice, Hayden,” she grins. “If
you
don’t want me because of this, then
you
be the one to walk away…because I’m not.”

“You never fail to amaze me, beautiful.” I lean in to kiss her, but she presses her finger to my lips, halting my intention.

“We will get through this. But, Hayden, please, you have to have the strength to get passed it, too. Talk to me; let me know how you feel. A battle isn’t won single-handed. We are a couple; we go through things together, no matter how painful. Deal?” Removing the finger from my lips she swaps it for her little finger, and holds it in front of my face.

Grinning, I wrap my little finger around hers, “Deal.”

“Now, where were we?”

Her lips connect with mine and she pushes me back into the mattress. Shielding my body with hers, our mouths continue at their languid pace, my hands roam over the fine, shimmering material and I feel the warmth of her flesh as we lose ourselves in each other. Every movement, every sensation, every sound and heavy breath even more intense, more treasured, because if it wasn’t for Samantha’s tenacity towards the relationship, and her strength…this level of intimacy, would have become nothing but a long lost memory.

FIFTEEN

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

SAMANTHA

As much as I loved New York, there is nothing like coming back home. Stepping out into the early San Francisco fog that lingers until noon, and inhaling that cleansing air that isn’t completely polluted by exhaust-fumes; New York may have Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Tiffany’s in walking distance, but nothing compares to a roommate who is always ready with a fresh pot of coffee every morning, nothing compares to home…although, I think Hayden may have a differing opinion, especially after today…the first anniversary of his father’s passing.

Snuggling into the crook of Hayden’s arm, my head rests on his shoulder as only the flickering glow of the television pierces through the darkness that veils our presence. With our legs tangled and weaving through each other like vines, we lie on the couch and watch a movie of Hayden’s choosing, in a vain attempt to free ourselves from a day of sorrow and despondency. Allow our minds to focus on something other than grief.

Seeing Hayden crouched at the graveside talking to the lawn, his tears of guilt and remorse, his apologies for the grim, final words he had shared with his father before the accident, traveled along the breeze and made even the heavens weep. It was a poignant moment that I wish I could forget, but Hayden needed me there, he wanted me to meet his father and vice-versa. I should be honored.

I breathe in his intoxicating, manly scent as I tickle and smooth over his bare chest with delicate flexes of my fingertips. I trail down the valley separating his abdomen muscles, circle his navel, then along the waistband of his black, satin pyjama pants.

His arm tightens around me and he kisses the top of my head.

“Thank you for today. It meant a lot to have you there.”

Pulling my focus away from the screen, I peek up at him and touch his gorgeous, wounded face, his stubble still coarse and prickly regardless of the little extra length that has accumulated.

“I’m glad I could help a little. I’m honored that you wanted me to come with you, to something so…personal.”

He sniggers and curves his lips upward into an adoring grin. Tracing my hairline, he pushes back a few stray tendrils. “He would have loved to have met you,” he mutters distantly. “I know it sounds stupid, but, I wanted to show him that I’m happy, that I’m settling, moving on with my life with someone who loves me.”

In the darkness of my living room he bows his head and seeks my lips. My hand glides down his jawline, grasping it with purpose and meaning before gliding down his neck. My fingertips maneuver over the prominence of his Adam’s apple, and I feel it shift as he swallows––the motion leaving me with a growing sense of need that lingers between my thighs.

The leather cracks as he shifts onto his side to face me. Grasping the back of my knee, he raises my left leg and hooks it over his hip. With ravening hands roaming the muscles of his chest and stomach, and flexing sinew of his back, Hayden thrusts his hips into me, bestowing me with the evidence of his semi-hard erection which lies between my legs.

Hands fist into my hair, holding me still as he dips his tongue into my mouth, sharing the tang of strong coffee and Hayden––an elating and heady taste. My mouth begins to flame and burn with the abrading of his stubble as our lips press and push against one another with bruising dynamism. But I don’t care. It feeds the inferno that he has ignited within me, prompts my ache for him to possess me. I hunger for him to fill me with his virility as I whimper and cradle him against my body like the greedy woman I am when it comes to my lover.

I vaguely hear fumbling at the apartment door, followed by Jessie’s frivolous tone booming through the length of the adjoined rooms as she calls, “Are you guys decent?”

Our tongues retract and our lips slowly withdraw. “What do you think she would do if we said no?” Hayden whispers, and I feel the delicate grazing of his lips against mine as he forms his words.

“It’s been a while since she has seen some action; who knows what she would do?” I whisper back, giggling. “Yes, Jess. We’re decent,” I call out, loud enough for her to hear me from the opposite end of the apartment as well as the volume of the movie.

Flicking on the dining room light, she tosses her purse onto the dining table and heads for the kitchen. I tap Hayden’s thigh, and he instantly moves, granting me my exit from the couch, to talk to my roommate.

“So, where have you been hiding? It’s 9:30 p.m.,” I probe whilst propping myself onto the stool.

She recovers a cheap bottle of wine from the brown, paper bag, and deposits it in the door of the refrigerator. “Well, I went to get wine.” With glistening emerald eyes and her flagrant smile as a focal point of her oval features, I flash a wise I-know-you’re-lying-to-me grin.

“Getting a bottle of wine wouldn’t generate the Chester cat grin you’re wearing, unless you’re an alcoholic. So, there has to be something more.”

I observe Jessie’s eyes deviate from me, to the man emerging from the living area.

Setting his strong hands on my shoulders, I sag against the warm, nakedness of his torso as he begins massaging deep into my muscles. “I agree with Sam on this one, Jess. What did you do? Remember, don’t say a word until your lawyer is present,” he chuckles; his hands continuing to grope and flex at the tight knot that had formed in my shoulders.

I feel all tension leave my body under his touch. He really does have healing hands.

Goading her with our quizzical stares, Jessie succumbs to an embarrassed, shy, schoolgirl giggle. When her facial muscles finally allow her to articulate beyond her extreme beaming, she crosses her arms against the countertop and leans into them.

“Do you remember, Matt?”

“Matt?” I mentally flick through profile images in my mind of all the people I have come into contact with over the past year. After a few seconds, I finally dredge up his file. Bingo.

“Oh, Matt from the music store, Matt?”

She nods her head once in an overstated fashion. “Well, I bumped into him on the way passed the store. He has been promoted to
manager
now, and still looking…well––” uncurling one of her arms, she fans herself briefly.

“I don’t understand, if you’ve known him for a while and you feel like that, why not j––” I feel the vibration of Hayden’s voice course down his arms and into my shoulders and it sends a shiver up my spine. His voice so warm, deep and raspy; it never fails to inundate my body with goose bumps and trigger the moisture flowing in southern places.

“I haven’t, Hayden, because I’m not the confident type. And when I have had the urges to ask him, I realize that I have to focus on other things, making sure that Sammy is in a healthy mind-set compared to what she was, is one of them.”