Impulses

by Brock, V. L.

  The strong scent of full-bodied, early morning coffee wafts through the hall, making my feel like I’ve rolled out of bed and stepped straight into a coffee shop…my favorite scent in the world––well, apart from Hayden that is.

  I poke my head around the kitchen doorway to my left. Hayden is sat on one of the stools at the black and silver granite kitchen island, hunched over staring into his cup. He looks so worn-out, fatigued and not his usual self by any means.

  His thick, dark locks flop over his brow as he practically buries his face into his black coffee.

  Ambling across the black tiled flooring, I head for the pot on the counter just behind Hayden and pour myself a large cup. With my morning caffeine fix in the grasp of my left hand, I snake my right arm around his neck. Cocking my head, I whisper in his ear, “Good morning,” and kiss him on the cheek.

  He remains silent, but the feel of his body stiffening when my lips touch his skin is more than enough to tell me what I need to know…even if I don’t understand it.

  Not wanting to antagonize him anymore than he is already bearing, I uncoil my arm from around him, and step around the corner of the island. I prop my elbows on the cold surface and arch my back, leaning into my forearms.

  “Did you manage to get any sleep?”

  “Fuck did, I,” he snaps, making no attempt to pull his head up from the spiraling steam that swirls from the cup to his nostrils.

  I straighten my posture, and with every ounce of compassion that flows through my body, place my hand over his. “Hayden––” he pulls away from my touch, withdrawing from me again, and it is a shard of ice spearing right through my heart.

  Shaking his head, he pushes away from the chrome-legged stool, and gulps back the remainder of his coffee before washing up the empty cup and placing it on the drainer. He walks around the island the opposite way from where I am stood, dragging his feet. And to avoid looking at me, he keeps his head down.

  “Hayden, please. We need to talk about this.” I follow up behind him and grasp his shoulder in an attempt to pull him around to face me, or at least stop him in his tracks.

  “Please, Samantha…just leave me alone,” he drones, shaking off my grip then with a weighted sigh, pads down the hall to the bedroom to get ready for work.

  I head back to the kitchen wounded. I feel him slipping from me, withdrawing back into the gloomy abyss that he struggled for so long to rid himself of. The passion that we once had now seems like a distant dream…dream…that’s what got us into this mess. Why the fuck won’t he just tell me, it’s not as though he is hiding anything else from me. They are just dreams.

  I’m lost, left unknowing what to do, how to handle this episode that is putting so much strain on our relationship. I cannot lose him, I will not lose him. Even with her counseling degree, Jessie wouldn’t be able to give a decent insight into how to manage this, for she has no idea of the trauma he has been subjected to.

  Feeling defeated and pleading for answers, I throw my face into my hands as I rest against the cold surface of the island once more. Please, give me strength…or even better…patience. I breathe heavily and finally raise my head. I allow my hands to run through my hair before locking my fingers at the nape of my neck.

  I notice Hayden’s cell resting undisturbed on the counter top by the dishwasher. I sink my teeth into my lip, and quickly turn to face the doorway to make sure Hayden is not returning just yet. The cell taunts me, using my curiosity and desperation as an incentive to the possible, bad idea that is formulating in my anxious, impulsive, sleep deprived head.

  I saunter over to the counter and grasp the phone. I stand glaring at it, willing it to help with my decision. I have already invaded Hayden’s privacy once, and it totally backfired, could I do it again? Am I going to get burned again if I do this? Can I continue to watch the man I love suffer night after night, and not know how to alleviate his pain? Do I want to take the risk and have this tear us apart because I couldn’t talk to anybody, seek advice off somebody who has bound to have witnessed this from him before? No, there is no contest; I will do whatever I have to do to protect, and rescue my lover––to bring him back into my arms.

  Pressing against the touchscreen, I pull up his contacts, and quickly search for the number that could hold the advice that I need.

  We sit in silence on the journey to work. I watch the world pass us by as I stare broodingly out of the passenger side window. The pressing noise of Hayden sighing draws my attention to him. With his left arm propped up on the window frame, his fingertips softly brushing at his bottom lip, and holding the wheel casually with his right, he displays the same confused, anxious expression he had the night he found me at Bimbo’s. And I’m unable to budge this sinking feeling in my gut that tells me that somewhere along the line, I am somehow the cause of his despondency.

  The fisted guilt that I feel in my chest and gut is crushing.

  Hayden pulls up in the underground parking lot, and turns off the engine. We hang our heads in unison, and stare down at our thighs. The thick fog of silence resumes hanging over us, mocking us.

  Feeling shy and awkward, I begin to smooth my hands up and down my thighs. The black pinstriped material of my pant-suit begins to burn at my palms, sending peculiar tingles through my nerve endings.

  I turn to face Hayden. His hair as perfect and floppy as always, his brow furrowed, his eyes vacant. His hands rest on top of his dark, navy suit pants, and he knits his fingers together in his lap; the lap that I just want to crawl into and have him tell me that what he is feeling is not at my hands, that the guilt I am detecting within my head and my heart is unwarranted…that he still loves me.

  “Hayden…”

  Listless, he cranes his head to face me. He looks as though he has aged five years within the last two and a half weeks with the darkening circles around his eyes, and the whites surrounding the captivating, intense, deep brown of his irises, turning a worrying tinge of red.

  I lick my lips, and glance back down at my fingers, watching as I spin the amethyst around my middle finger.

  “What are we exactly?” I ask feeling awkward, but in a last hope to get him to understand me. I peer up at him after my question is verbalized and my embarrassment fades.

  He shakes his head, the crease over his brow deepening and more defined as he scowls at me. “I don’t understand what you are asking, Samantha.”

  “Well…am I an employee? Your friend? Your girlfriend?” my voice and my features become more serious and expressive as I continue. “Your partner…?” I trail off, “your lover?”

  “Oh, beautiful, you know you are all of those things to me.”

  “Then why do I feel as though you detest me? I can’t touch you because you recede from me, I can’t talk to you because you scold me.”

  He hangs his head, the leather cracks beneath his weight as he shifts in his seat and begins to fidget with profound nervousness. I fill my lungs and close my eyes, preparing to feel the quashed feeling once again as I attempt to prove my point.

  I reach up and place my right hand on the side of Hayden’s face, and as expected, he stiffens. His alarmed expression at my hand on his body kills me.

  “You see…” I grant a wistful, tightlipped curl of my mouth, and then shake my head sadly. “You can’t even bear me touching you. Please, Hayden. If I am truly all of those things to you, and you can’t talk to me…then who can you talk to?”

  My hand is left cold and bereft as he pulls his face away.

  “I just want to help you and understand you, Hayden.” I implore, before I cave to the weight upon my neck and shoulders, and let my head flop forward.

  “How can I make you understand…when I don’t even understand it myself?” he answers in a stoical whisper. I tilt my head up to gaze at him as he continues picking at his manicured, thumbnail.

  Grasping his chin, I coax him to look at me. “We may not be able to understand it, but at least I would be able to somehow reassure you in the way
that you need. I’m blind here, Hayden, you’re keeping me in the dark as you haul through it by yourself. But you are not alone, Hayden. You have me, and I hate watching you retreat back into––” I halt my words. Shit how do I say this…find an inoffensive word, Samantha, “a person that I don’t recognize.” I roll my eyes.

  I feel his jaw instantly tense and watch, pinned as his eyes turn several shades darker.

  Shit, now I have really fucking offended him. Fuck.

  He shakes his head, and I gingerly lower my hand away from his chin.

  “I cannot believe you just said that,” he hisses through clenched-teeth.

  “No, Hayden. You’ve taken that out of context, I didn’t mean––”

  “I don’t care what you meant, Samantha. Yes, I’m fucking damaged goods, but for some reason, you were the only person who could pull me through it, and now…” he’s seething; he shakes his head and touches his upper lip with the tip of his tongue. “Just get out of the car; we’ve got work to do.”

  He recovers his briefcase from the backseat and unfolds himself from the car, slamming the door shut behind him. I start at the unexpected loud blow of the door connecting with the frame. I’m mortified by the way he has spoken to me, I feel like a little girl getting scolded by her daddy for tipping over her drink at dinner. The burning of tears form in my eyes so I screw my eyelids closed tightly, willing them to go away.

  Drawing in a purifying lungful of air, I ready myself for Hurricane Hayden…today is going to be another bad day.

  The morning couldn’t possible go any slower. It’s like Tempus is fucking with the progression of time, halting it every hour just to see me suffer.

  I have copied, filed, made coffee for Mr. Jackson and Mr. Wells. Hayden has ordered me not to disturb him until his clients arrive, which makes my chest swell with dejection. I have organized the magazines that are on the coffee table in the waiting area. Nothing seems to be making time go any quicker.

  My boredom is relieved when a tall, medium build gentleman walks through the door; finally, a little excitement around here.

  “Good morning, can I help you, sir?” I smile, prop my elbows on the desk, and steeple my fingers.

  “Good morning. I have an appointment with, Mr. Wentworth at 11:15.”

  I nod, and lift the receiver of the phone. Pressing the number for Hayden’s office, I hold it to my ear. Covering the mouthpiece with my left hand, I whisper up at the gentleman, “And can I take your name.”

  “It’s, Mr. Hudson.” He folds his arms on the lip of the desk and hangs his head.

  “Mr. Wentworth. Mr. Hudson, your 11:15 is waiting in reception.”

  “Okay. Give me a few minutes,” he snaps down the speaker.

  “Yes, sir,” I lower the receiver back into the hold and smile with proficiency at the middle-aged, balding man. “Mr. Hudson, if you would like to take a seat,”––I wave my hand in the direction of the leather couches––“Mr. Wentworth will be with you in a few minutes.” I cock my head and smile politely.

  He nods and reflects my smile. “Thank you.”

  He turns and walks over to the couch against the back wall and the memories of Hayden and I and our first time on that couch spring unbidden to my mind.

  I cannot repress the twitch at the corner of my mouth as I grin inanely, remembering the hunger in Hayden’s eyes as he sank down between my thighs and used his tongue to massage my swollen, throbbing clit. My muscles tighten as my body shudders at the memory. My smile evaporates into thin air as I recall not wanting either of us to get hurt, and here we are. Events that have spanned only a few weeks have gotten both Hayden and I hurting, emotionally, psychologically, and in Hayden’s case, as he hasn’t been eating as he should be, physically, too.

  “Can I get you a tea or coffee, Mr. Hudson?” I ask, needing to distract myself from my thoughts.

  He knits his fingers together, looking rather overwrought and dejected. “A white coffee with two sugars would be fantastic. Thank you, Miss.”

  By the time I return back to reception, Mr. Hudson is no longer sat at the couch. Backtracking on the lower corridor I just emerged from, I head towards Hayden’s office and knock meekly on the door.

  “Come in,” a deep, familiar voice echoes. Twisting on the doorknob, I push it open and enter.

  “Your coffee, Mr. Hudson,” I mutter, bending down to hand the man his hot beverage as he occupies the chair at the front of Hayden’s desk.

  “Thank you, Miss.” His innocent and friendly impression makes me smile, and warms me internally.

  “You are more than welcome.” I raise my head to Hayden. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Wentworth?”

  He averts his eyes from me and looks down at his desk. His arms crossed and supported on the studded outline of the leather padding on top of the mahogany surface. I remember the times that he would have to fight so hard to avert those eyes, those hungry, hankering, intense, promising eyes that are now full of something unfathomable, something that is ripping and shredding my heart, and making me feel guilty, responsible and dirty.

  “No, that is all thank you, Miss Kennedy,” he responds curtly, but outside of his façade, I know he’s admonishing me.

  Feeling squashed, I offer a sad smile, lower my head submissively, turn and leave the office.

  “Thank you for your advice, Mr. Wentworth. If it doesn’t improve afterwards––”

  “Then please, feel free to come back, and we will take it legally.” Hayden shakes Mr. Hudson’s hand at the rectangular entranceway of the corridor that leads into the reception area.

  Mr. Hudson nods his head, and withdraws his hand from Hayden’s. He peeks over at me, as I tidy some papers on the desk. “Thank you, Miss,” he murmurs as he straightens the collar of his black pinstriped jacket.

  “You are more than welcome, Mr. Hudson. Have a nice day.”

  I glance over to the where Hayden had only stood a few seconds earlier, but by the time my eyes fall upon the area, he is nowhere in sight. I hang my head, and let out and exasperated sigh.

  This is getting ridiculous.

  Hastily pushing myself up from the desk, my seat rolls back and collides with the back wall. I stroll down the corridor and knock on Hayden’s door. As soon as I pull my arm back, allowing it to drop to my side, I sense the familiar overpowering dread slowly escalating to reach the jackpot, as I expect him to scold me for disturbing him once again. I lack the strength I need to continue on this rollercoaster that is, Hayden Wentworth’s subconscious. Sucking in a deep breath, I open the door.

  “It is 12:30 p.m.” I begin to stroll over to the desk.

  He focuses on paperwork in front of him. “And your point is?”

  I slip myself into the burgundy leather seat. “Shall we go and get some lunch?”

  He drops the paperwork down on the surface, and glowers at me, irritated that I am obviously keeping him from important work during his lunch hour.

  “No, Samantha. I am not in the mood to eat right now, if that is okay with you.”

  Chagrined and abashed, I glance down at my shoes. Darting my tongue across my lips, I sink my teeth painfully into my lip as I fight the tears which build, fight the sickness feeling in my belly, and the asphyxiation sensation that follows promptly after.

  “Well, is that all?” he asks dully while retrieving his papers.

  “Do you want me to bring you something back…” I shake my head a little, shrugging my shoulders, my eyes wide with encouragement. “A sandwich, a Panini…” I trail off as Hayden glares at me.

  “No, Samantha. Nothing,” he enunciates every word as though he is talking to an errant teenager.

  “Okay, fine.” I stand, turn on my heel, and head for the door.

  “Wait, Samantha.” I stop in my tracks, and turn around. Hayden shimmies out from behind his desk and searches his inner-breast pocket of his navy, suit jacket. “Here,” he hands me a set keys. I stare at the shiny metal that rests in my grasp, unknowing what to do with it
. I peek back up at him and frown. “Take my car.” The words roll off his tongue like this gesture is a normal, everyday occurrence between us. He has never allowed me to drive his car.

  Oh, my life this man is a contradiction in terms. First he’s off with me, admonishing me at every chance he gets, and now he is rewarding me by driving his six-figure digit car.

  “I…” I fight the urge to wrap my arms tightly around his neck, and press my body against his, to feel his lips on mine. This is worse than the torture I went through the first two weeks of working here.

  “At least I know that you will be safe…and that you won’t be late back.” A ghost of a smile kisses his lips. I sense an ulterior motive, but I am not going to dither and shy away at this opportunity.

  “Okay,” I nod. “Thank you, Hayden. It means a lot.”

  He turns and strolls back to his desk. “It is only a fucking car, Samantha.”

  And he’s back to his infuriating, non-disclosing self. This man’s moods are making my head spin.

  I finally give up. “I will see you in an hour.” I grasp the knob but halt and glance over my shoulder. “I love you, Hayden.” He fails to respond.

  Feeling disheartened, I walk through the office door, and out of the firm, grabbing my purse along the way. I have got to get to the bottom of this…now.

  The Aston Martin is a joy to drive. It is definitely now, my top dream car. It was chilly this morning when we left for work, so Hayden decided the hood should stay up. Even though it is moderately warmer now, there is no way I am going to fuck around with anything, and give him another reason to desire my head on a silver platter…or a pike, my subconscious sneers.

  Almost empty, and therefore no need to endure the slow moving, time consuming wait in a cue of hungry, impatient workforces, I grab myself a low fat sub, and perch myself on a stool at the window. Rummaging through my purse, I fish out my cell. The screen displays, one new text message from Jessie: