Impulses (69 page)

“Not, too bad. How’s the family?”

“Ah, cannot complain. Rochelle has agreed to move down to San Francisco, actually. We are looking at places in Richmond.”

They’re moving here? To San Francisco? Looking at houses in Richmond? My considerations begin to steer into dark, murky waters. Exactly how bad do I want to ruin Addison? She ruined my life, set me on a path which Samantha now has to tolerate, because I keep involuntarily associating Samantha’s past attitude with, Her, and in the dark part of my mind, I’m expecting the promiscuous history that I have seen in both of them, to repeat itself. The love of my life now has to stomach my moments of insecurities and paranoia, not to mention the path my demons take me down in my unconsciousness. Addison is the catalyst for every negative obstruction that we must now face, and with her back, God only knows how things could unfurl.

How much will I have to give up if I allow my darkened thoughts to steer me down an inappropriate and unethical path? And what if it becomes public record? The consequences of my actions could be dire. But there is no doubt about it, I would sacrifice anything to make sure that Addison stayed away from my family, and learnt her lesson in the process. I feel my bitterness slowly devouring me, overshadowing my logic and acting on animosity and resentment.

You would sacrifice your career, Hayden? Foregoing everything that you and the generations before you gained through hard work? You could be debarred if this got out.

“Richmond, you say? I guess that means you would need to look for another firm to take you on?”

Hayden, you need to think about this. Do not make secure, drastic decisions based on a temporary emotion.

“Yeah, it looks like it. And we can’t move until I have a secure position. I have worked too hard to get where I am now, Hay. I am not going to climb that ladder again.”

“Listen, I’ve got a proposition for you.” Here goes, making a deal with the devil.
Yes, and you’re the devil,
my subconscious chides, glowering.

“Proposition, eh? I’m listening.” He sounds mildly amused, his tone teeming with unconcealed curiosity.

I sit back in my seat, and spin around to observe people of the world strolling by on the sidewalks of San Francisco like hundreds of tiny ants, blissfully unaware of anybody’s dilemmas, but their own.

“I had a gentleman come and see me today. He wanted me to file a lawsuit against his ex for defamation of character, and IIED damages. Unfortunately, neither my firm, nor I, can represent him. I have recommended you, and passed on your contact number.” I bounce methodically against the backrest of my chair. All I need in the white Persian cat lazing on my lap and I could give Doctor Evil a run for his money.

“Hayden, I am in New York,” he snorts disbelieving, and I can hear his dubious grin.

“This is between you, me and the sidewalk, Daryl. If you take on this case, and win it…”
Don’t, Hayden. Once those words are out, there is no going back.
I breathe in deeply. “I will offer you a position here.”

“What?”

“Think about it, Daryl. You will have your secured position, no climbing back up. You’re already moving to San Francisco. All I need you to do, is,
Win. This. Case,
” I enunciate strident and clearly.

“Wentworth, you seem very…imperative and desperate. This doesn’t seem like you at all.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, Brody.”

“You do realize you could be forfeiting everything you have worked for if it comes to light that you bribed another lawyer, for your own taking.”

“I prefer incentive. Daryl, I am too connected to this case. I am too involved. I know you will come out on top with this.”

“How are you too connected, Wentworth? I don’t understand.”

I heave a sigh and throw my head back. Gazing up at the ceiling, I mutter, “The ex is Addison, Daryl. I can’t do it, she know me, conflict of interest.”

After a few silent moments, his soft, gentle voice resonates down the speaker. “What’s his name?”

I smile triumphantly, the weight alleviated from my shoulders. For the first time since her name touched my ears, I feel myself relax. “Hudson. Lionel Hudson,” I mutter.

“You know this won’t be a quick fix. There are additional channels I have to go through because I’m based in New York.”

“I know that. And I can fare with that because I know you will come out on top.”

He snickers. “I would say you owe me, Wentworth, but you’re making it worth my while, already.”

I thank him profusely for his time, and ensure that our conversation stays strictly between us. He asks me about the day he caught me unexpectedly exiting Tiffany’s & Co in New York, and how it all worked out. He sounds happy for me––for us, when I tell him that Samantha accepted my proposal on Christmas Eve.

“And you haven’t set a date yet? Hayden, trust me, women are all connected. I swear it is melded in their DNA how their dream wedding is to go ahead. And it is so time consuming. You should start ASAP. Trust me; you will thank me for it.”

I thank him once again, for everything. And when I place the handset in its cradle, I feel the optimism flowing through my veins, warming my blood that turned to ice only a while ago. I feel sanguine, knowing that justice will prevail.

Ah, justice.

Or revenge?
My subconscious questions. Either way, I want that bitch out of my life. I would never forgive myself if we as a couple failed because of her interference, or even worse, if Samantha came to any harm because of her vindictive, malicious ways.

Closing my eyes briefly, I find my happy place; Samantha and I before theater-style seats, her with her long auburn hair softly curled in a half-up, half-down do, dressed in the finest ivory satin. My earlier sense of foreboding has already coursed its way through my morning. Now, we have to deliberate our positives. When I blink my eyes open, I concentrate amply. What better way, than to start planning our wedding.

“1300?!” Samantha peers through the passenger side window.

“I thought it would be appropriate,” I squeeze her thigh through the red material of her dress. “We had our first date here, and I thought that we could discuss the wedding, considering we haven’t done so yet.”

She cranes her head to face me, and allows it to drop back languidly against the headrest. She looks fatigued. “We have just come straight from work, Hayden. I am most certainly not dressed for a meal out.”

I shift in my seat to face her head-on. Reaching out, I tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, and press my hand to the side of her face. “You never look less than perfect, Samantha. You are beautiful.” I lean in and kiss her tenderly. “Now, come on. We have planning to do.”

Slamming the door shut, I stride confidently around the front of the DB9, to Samantha’s side and gallantly hold the door open. Offering my hand, she props her manicured fingers in my palm, and unfolds herself out of the car.

“Thank you, Mr. Wentworth,” she says sweetly, her eyes dancing with humor.

“You are more than welcome, Miss Kennedy.” I raise her hand to my lips and kiss the back of her knuckles. I guide her arm through the crook of my arm, and escort her into the restaurant.

After being informed that there is a forty-five minute delay for the next available table in the restaurant, we decide to wait in the lounge. We take a seat at a tall, round, highly polished, dark wooden table. A silver, cubed box holding napkins sits in the center, next to it, a glass oil-like lamp with a crimson glass shade––very jazz-like.

The bar spans along the length of the wall to my right. Spotlights which emit a bright, golden glow line the overhead of the counter. The bartender is dressed in a white shirt, and is making profound circular motions as he wipes down the dark walnut surface. Punters are perched on their stools, consuming the random glazed cherry.

The lounge is almost at capacity. The music from the speakers is distant, but upon concentrating and extracting the collective voices and glasses clattering on the wooden surfaces of the tables, the lyrics become discernibly louder.

“So, the starting point,” I recover a napkin from the caddy and delve into my inner breast pocket to recover a pen. “Big or small wedding?”

Samantha lowers her glass of orange juice from her lips and regards me with mirth. Sheathing her teeth with her lips, to repress her smirk, she finally says, “Are you really going to write our wedding plans on a napkin?”

I glance down at the white, folded paper, before returning my attention back to the woman who is failing miserably at reigning in her hilarity.

“Well, it’s only a few ideas, the basis if you will. It’s not like I am writing my wedding vows on it.”

“As long as you don’t write your vows on the back of your hand, the morning
of
the wedding,” she sneers, her mouth curling into a sardonic smirk.

“Beautiful, my vows are already prepared, and safe right here,”––I point the pen to my temple––“and here,” I then lower it, to point to my heart.

Samantha reaches over the polished table between us. She covers my hand that is splayed on the napkin. Her hand is soft and warm against my skin; her long nails scrape at my flesh as she laces our fingers together. Slightly cocking her head to the right, she smiles pensively at me. At that moment, I would give anything to read her mind.

She reaches up with her right hand, pushes it through my hair and as her hand settles at the nape of my neck, she pulls me closer. Our lips connect. I can taste the cool tang of the orange juice which has settled on her tongue as I freely grant her passage to invade my mouth.

When our lips part, she tips her forehead forward, resting it against mine. “What did I ever do to deserve you, Hayden?”

“Back at you, beautiful,” I respond, barely audible. My voice throaty as yearning weaves its way through my words and my body. “You didn’t answer my question; big or small wedding?”

She removes her hand from the nape of my neck, and pushes herself back into her seat. She takes a warranted sip of the cold, refreshing juice. “Um…”

“Samantha?” A voice sounds through the lounge. I glance up to uncover the owner of the voice only to be met with a tall, muscular man sporting a buzz cut approaching our table. He wears dark blue jeans, which are faded over the length of his thighs and knees. His black, long-sleeved shirt is unbuttoned, offering a view of his white T-shirt that presses flushes against his chest and torso. He looks like a lad’s, lad.

Samantha whips her head around to the direction of the vocal sound, and swiftly turns back around. When she returns her focus to me, she’s ashen.

“Yeah, I thought it was you,” he continues, taking position over her left shoulder.

“I’m sorry, can we help you?” I question tersely and overassertive.

Samantha is solid. The degree of her unease and disconcertment is evident in the icy depths of her eyes. Seeing her like this is an unwelcomed sight to the usual Samantha that I know and love. This is…dark. I sense that she shares a hidden depth with this person, to whom she is recoiling from.

“Hey, I’m Dominic, Dominic King.” The man offers his hand to me. I observe him shrewdly; his nose is slanted to the right having obviously been broken at some point, and a silver hoop shines in his right eyebrow. When I fail to accept his gesture, he pulls his hand away, and pushes it into the front pocket of his denim pants. “Okay,” he mutters with weighty sarcasm and raises his eyebrows.

My fleeting gaze sweeps toward Samantha. She hangs her head and sits silently, deterred and unsettled.

Aware that the stranger has no intention of leaving us alone, I ask, “So how do you know, Samantha?” As soon as the words tumble from my lips, Samantha’s head shoots straight up. She pins me with a cautious gaze, a gaze that casts no doubt that I will soon come to regret initiating this moment.

“Samantha and I, we––”

“We used to be friends. That’s all,” she answers abruptly, shrugging her shoulders.

“And you’re not anymore. What happened?” I instantly regret asking that question, too. Although I don’t want to, I can sense the history that the two share.

“Well, little Samantha, here,” he begins with a condescending tone and places his right hand on her shoulder. She cringes at the sudden contact and withdraws from his touch. He smirks knowledgeably. “She had this knack for wanting things that she shouldn’t have.”

“Meaning?” I glower at the man who cannot be any older than mid-twenties.

“Well, we could be here all night,” he snickers. “Do you mind if I pull up a seat?” and before I can disallow, he swings a seat around from a vacant table aside us and sits astride it. His arms propped onto the wooden-slat backrest. “Where was I? Oh, yes. We used to be very close friends, didn’t we,
Alley
?” he stares expectantly at her, waiting for her to converse.

“Alley?” I shake my head bemused. “I don’t follow. Why are you calling her, Alley?” My frown deepens as I observe both, Dominic and Samantha. The atmosphere is thick and heavy with unspoken retentions that the pair holds.

He smirks haughtily at her cagy form, his eyes ablaze with vindictive, merciless intent. When he turns his attention to me, his lips curl further, revealing an intense and sinister expression.

It makes me shudder and my blood runs cold.

“Because she was always caught doing men in them.”

I pale as the disgrace behind that of her nickname is told. My stomach flips and contorts.

Regarding me, he continues. “Anyway, Alley discovers that there are…benefits, if you will, with having a male friend,” he leans into me and whispers conspiratorially, “the other male friends that he already associates himself with.”

“Dom, for God sake, please, can you stop?” a shard of hope pierces through her supplication. Her pained, mortified expression speaking words and although I acknowledge that my heart doesn’t want to not know her past with this man, my mind disallows me the ability to bring an end to the unintentional reunion.

“And it don’t stop there, mate. My sister was due to get married, do you know what Alley did?” he is making a meal out of this. I want to tell him to fuck off; I know I shouldn’t be listening to this, seeing this, but for some God forsaken reason, my morbid sense of curiosity is piqued.