Impulses
Page 8
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 awkwardn
ess 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
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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.
Heaving myself off the cushion with much reluctance, I retrieve my coffee cup on the beech coffee table in front of us.
“Do you want another, Jess?” I murmur between fits of laughter, raising my cup as indication.
“Please,” she splutters with a mouthful of chips. I stifle a giggle at my best friend, and shake my head feigning disgust, but failing with notable misery.
I am startled by three sudden knocks on the apartment door, when I begin to stroll through the dining room to get to the kitchen. Placing the cups down on the dining-room table, I make my way to the door and peek through the spyhole. A wrecking ball connects with my stomach––winding me momentarily. Panicked and shocked, I stagger back.
“Jessie, Jess,” I call quietly as for him not to hear through the door.
“What?” she points the remote control towards the DVD player and stops the movie.
I wave her over urgently. “You got to answer this for me, Jess––I can’t do it,” I protest, shaking my head in refusal. My eyes flare with abrupt anxiety; my legs are shuddering, and my heartbeat is rapid––overwhelmed by the bombshell that lurks on the opposite side of my door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s my boss,” I cringe, bouncing up and down, eager to get my ass a safe distance away from, Mr. Hypnotic. I thought I would be over him once I had experienced him, but I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about our exploit since it happened. He’s burrowed himself under my skin, and there is no denying that I would crave his touch again if I saw him––dammit––I’m still craving him, but it’s for the best that I step away.
“You should answer, Sammy. After our conversation last night––”
“I know, I know…please, Jessie. I’m not ready for that step––I don’t trust myself–– Please.” I clasp my hands together in supplication.
She sniggers loudly, and finally shakes her head. Directing her long manicured index finger at me while narrowing her bright green eyes, she mutters pointedly, “You owe me one, Kennedy.”
I blow her a kiss of gratitude, and dart to the edge of the hallway at the right side of the apartment door that leads to my bedroom.
Eavesdropping won’t get you anywhere; my subconscious mocks, flicking through her glossy magazine. I wave my hands dismissively in her direction to shoo her away, and resume listening.
Oh, my. Mr. Wentworth sounds genuinely concerned when he talks about my safety. I have never witnessed anybody be that concerned––that tense over me. Well, apart from Jessie, but that is a different matter.
Jessie peeks over her shoulder toward my direction. I throw her a wide-eyed, hurry-up-glare, and she disappears––stepping into the hall––and closes the door slightly behind her. Great, now I can’t hear a solitary thing––it’s maddening. No matter how hard I strain my ears, how tightly I narrow my eyes, and purse my lips together––regardless of how hard I concentrate, all I can hear is silence.
“What the Hell was all that about?” I jeer when Jessie come back inside and closes the door securely behind her. She gapes at me and shakes her head in profound disapproval. “What?”
“That man––” she stares at me with sombre, big eyes while pointing towards the apartment door. “––was worried sick about you, Sammy. You didn’t see the unease in his eyes when he was talking about you. He looked reassured when I told him you were okay.”
Impervious of her indication I collect our cups from the dining-table and finish what I was in the process of doing before we were disturbed by the unwelcomed visitor, when Jessie halts me and frames my face with her hands. I sigh to myself, fully aware of what is about to come next––Oh, Jessie, how I love you…but by, God, you go on and on sometimes.
“Sammy…he took the time from his weekend to travel out here, just to make sure that you were okay––you don’t just do that fo
r anybody. I think he is a genuine guy, who doesn’t make a habit of doing what you two did last night. Give him a chance,” she implores.
“I would very much appreciate, if we could have a nice cup of coffee, forget about that incident”––I raise my right hand in a curt gesture–– “and go back to enjoying the movie, and recover what is left of our Saturday.” I make no attempt to suppress the sardonic tone in my voice.
Removing her hands from my face, she drops them to her sides, and curls her mouth in a sad but compliant grin.
I appreciate that Jessie is trying to help, but, I need to do this for me––not for her. I welcome her insistence, but shouldn’t I be the one who needs to display this intensity of enthusiasm?
It’s been five years; five long years that I have maintained my perspective––to ensue no more agony, no emotional suffering––to refuse anyone the chance to discard of me and my emotions. I rest my hands on the edge of the kitchen worktop––bearing my weight through my arms. I tap my fingertips against the cool, white counter and watch the objects shimmer and fade into oblivion. Only my thoughts weave and spiral through my mind.
I exhale loudly as I slowly concede my defeat.
Could I even trust another man in my life? The mere contemplation of the last man I trusted––who I gave myself entirely to––leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, and my blood torrid through my arteries. Could I allow myself to become that vulnerable again?
This isn’t something that will happen overnight, Samantha. Stop fretting over it, and bloody enjoy what is left of the day, my subconscious scolds me––and for once, I decide to take her advice, and push all thoughts of my pending rapport with Mr. Wentworth to the back of my mind…for now.
“That movie never gets old,” I warble through happy tears as the credits roll.
“Will there be a time where we can watch it without you sniveling through the ending? I could barely hear a word,” she teases while unpeeling herself from her butt-print to pick the next movie.