Impulses (68 page)

“It’s Okay, Hayden, I understand. I should think more about, Rose. I won’t do it again.” And she smiles her reassuring, mesmeric smile. Like a sacred talisman, it pushes my anxiety and unease aside.

The elevator sounds, and opens on our floor. Bending to retrieve my briefcase, I take hold of Samantha’s right hand and escort her into the firm.

“Good morning, Mr. Wentworth. Morning, Sam,” Chloe beams from behind the walnut veneered desk. Her hair falling in soft, overlarge, bouncing curls around her shoulders.

“Good morning, Chloe,” I nod before turning to Samantha and placing a hastened kiss on her lips, prior to heading to my office.

As I approach the wide entryway that separates the reception from the corridor that holds the offices, I spin on my heel. “Chloe, could I ask a favor of you?” I frown, my voice enriched with the reinforcement of my earlier demand of Samantha. I watch her rounding the desk to join the blond.

“Of course, Mr. Wentworth,” she takes her seat and lifts her black framed glasses atop of her head. Samantha stands behind her, waiting patiently for me to speak with her hand perched upon her hip.

“Could you please make sure, that my pregnant, stubborn, dissenting fiancée does not lift
anything
heavier than a few files? I caught her lifting a one of the boxes in Victor’s office yesterday.” I glare pointedly at the sullen looking redhead who purses her lips, and narrows her eyes.

“You did what?” Chloe squeals, whipping her head around madly, and gapes up at Samantha. She swats her arm in warning. “You’re pregnant, what were you thinking.”

“What is this? Pick on Samantha day? I am not made out of glass you know. Women have been having babies for thousands of years.” And I am guessing I’m not the only person scowling at her as she steps away from Chloe. For a little blond thing, Chloe really can do angry.

“I told you, Hayden”––Samantha draws her focus to me, her left hand caressing her abdomen––“I am going think before my actions…for, Rose,” she acquiesces and beams an apologetic smile in my direction.

I nod my head overstated. “Good.” And just like that, the disagreement is put to bed. My subconscious regards me pointedly and mouths,
really,
with a raised brow, fully aware of which route my impish contemplations are taking.

“Who is my first appointment with this morning?”

Samantha sweeps the mouse over the desk, and glances at the screen, “Your first is at 9:45,”––she pries her eyes from the screen and peeks up at me–– “with Mr. Hudson.”

Mr. Hudson…Mr. Hudson. My hamster runs on his wheel in my memory banks as I endeavor to recollect how the name sounds familiar. “Thank you, Samantha.” She blows me a sneaky kiss, I chuckle at her sentiment and stroll down the reversed L shaped corridor, to my office.

Methodically bouncing against the suspension of my chair, my elbow resting on the arms, I stare out of the panoramic window behind my desk. I steeple my index fingers and press them against my lips while losing myself to deliberations and reflections. We haven’t even spoken about the wedding since…well, actually, coming to think about it, we have never talked about the wedding. I don’t presume Samantha would want to be heavily pregnant while walking down the aisle.

I fist my hands into my hair, pushing back my wayward lock. Tipping my head back against the cracking leather, I inhale deeply, a smile filled with anticipation and excitement slowly manipulates my mouth. Just over five months left. That’s all…five months. I idly remember a little store that prints designs and wording on clothing a few blocks away. Inspiration strikes but quickly dissipates when the beeping sound of the office phone pulls me from my musing.

I spin in my seat and pick up the receiver.

“Mr. Wentworth, Mr. Hudson is waiting in reception.”

“Thank you, Samantha, could you show him in, please?” I fist through my hair again.

“Of course,” she hangs up, and I place the receiver back in its cradle, before organising my desk with parchment and my pen.

A mere few moments later, a light knock resonates from my door. I welcome them in, push myself up from the seat and walk around the desk. Greeting the tall, medium build man, donning a sharp pinstriped suit, I shake his hand. Ah…Hudson, now I remember––a man, carrying the burden of his nuisance ex-girlfriend.

“Mr. Wentworth,” he nods.

“Mr. Hudson,” I nod back and gesture to the leather seat at the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

“Can I get anyone coffee, tea, water?” Samantha asks politely, but we decline, with a shake of our heads. “Very well,” she steps out of the office, and secures the door behind her.

The leather chair creaks and cracks under my weight as I lower myself into it. Recovering my pen, I repose myself against the backrest, and roll the ballpoint deftly over my knuckles and weave it through my fingers.

“How can I help you today, Mr. Hudson?”

“I took your advice, after our last meeting. I informed my ex that I gained information from a lawyer and that if her harassing and duplicity continued, I would assure we would go forth, and do whatever is deemed obligatory, for her maliciousness to cease.”

I push myself forward, perching myself on the edge of my seat, and straighten out my papers.

“And I presume, that as you’re attending here today, that the female in question, continues to instigate problems?”

Hudson glances down at his fingers, which lay knotted in his lap. He looks overwrought and exhausted, as though he has no life left in him––complete desolation. He offers a lifeless nod. Upon eventually lifting his head to face me, a shudder marks its way through my body, seizing every hair follicle and commanding them to stand to attention. His blue eyes are jaded, and moisture builds within their margins.

“I can’t do this anymore, Mr. Wentworth,” he shakes his head repentantly. “I’ve lost weight, I have lost most of my social circle; I am, for a lack of a better term––a hermit. I’m unable to concentrate on my work, which has resulted in me having time off.” Exasperated, he rubs his brow. “I am so, so tired.”

The profundity of sympathy and compassion I have for this man is irrefutable. His anguish is unambiguous. I was there, right where he is now. If I can help alleviate his problem, before it gets graver, then I will use whatever means necessary. Substituting my compassion with a raw, intense need to defeat the suffering, which one man can bear from the wrong type of woman, I take a cleansing breath.

Hayden, you are too emotional connected with this case,
my subconscious shakes his head blatantly. Yes, maybe I am. Nevertheless, I push him back.

“Mr. Hudson, would you like for us to continue. Would you like me to take your case? I can file the lawsuit, and we can get the ball rolling as early as tonight. The court clerk will draft a summons, which means the lawsuit of Defamation of Character is legitimate, and the process will then officially begin.”

He rubs his hand over his brow and sheathes his teeth with his lips.

“We could put a claim in for
defamation damages
, otherwise known as ‘personal anguish’ damages. With documented evidence, or even family or friends testifying and voicing their beliefs of how your behavior and health has been affected, we could have her on IIED.” He peers up at me, his face marred with bewilderment and fatigue. I smile dutifully. “Sorry…I mean, Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress. That could effectively help compensate you for any loss of earnings you have experienced due to being absent from work.”

He nods faintly, if it wasn’t for the streaming light from the window behind me reflecting onto his slightly balding head, I would have thought he was motionless.

“Yes, please,” he mutters under his breath.

Nodding, I offer a smile of upmost support. As I remove the lid from my pen, I ask, “Could I have your full name please?”

“It’s Lionel Joseph Hudson.”

I write down his name on the paper before me.

“And could I have the Defendants name please?” I ask without looking up, as I finish scrawling his surname.

“It’s Hayes. Addison Hayes.”

There is an instant muffled, ringing in my ears, my vision rotates as the room spirals, claiming me, sucking me in further and deeper down the rabbit hole, exposing me once more with flagrant intent to my own inner demons.

I am ashen; the blood draining from my face, from my hands, my legs. My pen slips from between my fingers and lands with a thud upon my desk. My body is numb, while my stomach pole-vaults to my throat.

“Mr. Wentworth?” Hudson’s voice is a distant echo. I strive to cling onto the sound, to reel me back, regain my composure…or lack of it.

Addison Hayes…my blood runs cold even at the mere sound of her name. She’d packed up and moved away from San Francisco when things finally ended between us. That was the last I knew. And although I still bear the psychological hindrances of her inflictions, they are nothing in comparison to the possibilities that she could be lurking around the next corner, back to her old tricks.

How many corners are there in the two hundred and thirty one square miles of San Francisco, Hayden? Don’t you think you’re over reacting?
My subconscious sips his Southern Comfort, with unheeded ease.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hudson.” With overwhelming hesitancy, I redirect my focus from the paper, and lift my head up to face him. “Addison Hayes?” I wince as her name slips from my tongue like molten iron.

“Yes. Addison Hayes. She’s twenty-nine and resides in the Inner Sunset District.”

I close my eyes, my body burns, aches, prickles and trembles with anxiety and fear. I feel as though someone has doused me in gasoline and stands before me, tormenting me as they wave a match with could subsequently put an end to everything. The thorough lack of control in my life that I now sense is overpowering.

“Mr. Wentworth is there something wrong?” His already anxious self, now weathers my own angst which is radiating off me like solar-flares.

I shake my head and lick my drying lips. I focus raptly on the mystified man before me. He looks at a total loss, like someone has pulled the carpet from beneath him. Fuck it––that’s how I feel. I knew this morning, on the way to work that there was going to be a hindrance, a quandary…something ominous advancing.

“I am sorry, Mr. Hudson. I can’t take your case,” my voice is broken while my eyes fill with tortured tears. I felt a connection to this man. I intended and expected to help him overcome the downward pull that he is braving. It will not get any easier for him…not with Addison at the helm, anyway.

He pulls in his brows; his mouth opens and closes concisely in bemusement. Finally, he whispers, “Why?” and that single word is blemished with anguish, such disillusionment, I being to choke on my own heart.

I pull open my top right, desk draw and successfully retrieve my address book. Running my finger down the right-side, I open up onto the page I sought. Quickly copying the number onto a small piece of paper, I rip it from the notepad and hold it up to my chin like a prized settlement.

“I can fully recommend this man, he’s fantastic. He will make sure you get everything that you deserve, and the assurance you need to continue with your life. He’ll pull her apart.” I hand the paper to Hudson and I watch as his despondency grows and surfaces, consuming him with every second that passes. Cautiously accepting, he glances at it and then peeks back up at me.

“Mr. Wentworth, your firm is the most recognized, most reputable firm in the entire county. Can one of your associates––” he pleads, and it’s a weighted ice block in my chest to see a man so vulnerable, so supplicatory.

I observe him with hooded eyes and a penitent expression. “I am so, deeply sorry. Neither my firm, nor I can accept your case. And it isn’t for the lack of not wanting to. My hands are literally, tied behind my back.”

Eventually, he offers a resigned nod. With both hands perched onto the arms of the chair, he pushes himself up. Listlessly turning away from me, he heads for the door.

Moving quickly to accost him, I grasp the door-knob, twist and begin to pull the door open. The man turns and gapes at me with lost, dejected cobalt irises. He holds the paper between his fingers, raising it slightly.

“I am sorry for wasting your time Mr. Wentworth,” he mutters abashed, his features forlorn.

“No,” I shake my head; the stray lock that hangs on my brow bounces and shifts with my motion. “You didn’t waste my time. I am sorry that I couldn’t be the one to help you.” I glance down at the post-it-note in his possession, and point at it with my brow. “You ring that number, tell him Wentworth recommended him.”

Hudson offers a repressed grin. He steps out of the office, and ambles inertly down the corridor.

“Mr. Hudson,” I call, and he turns on his heel, a dash of hope burns bright in his eyes. That’s all he needs, he can’t give up on hope. “Things will get better. It may not seem like it right now, but they do. Just have faith.”

He nods appreciatively at my words, and resumes his walk down the corridor as if he is walking the green mile, then fades out of sight.

I close the door behind me, and take long strides toward my desk, sinking into the thick carpet with ever nervously-shrouded step. I drop into the sumptuous leather of my seat, expecting the relaxing air that I have come accustomed to, but it doesn’t ensue. Heavily propping my elbows onto the ledge of the desk, I conceal my face in my heated, trembling hands, and sigh with great disappointment.

Addison is back. Just when I find purpose and meaning in my life, she comes scampering back like a sheep in wolves clothing, looking for any remnants that she can fester upon like a parasite. Causing one person’s despair and suffering, gives her life and substance.

Taking a purgative breath, I hastily pull my head away from my hands. I recover the handset of the phone and punch in the number of the man who holds the key to my optimism.

“Daryl Brody,” his voice is clipped and assertive.

“Daryl, it’s, Wentworth.”

“Hi, man. How are things in San Francisco?” he sounds a little more at ease. I hear the cracking of leather as he sits back in his seat.