Impulses (35 page)

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:

*** Received: Wednesday 14
^th
November 2012 @ 9:45 a.m. ***

Hey, sweetie. Are you stopping at Hayden’s again tonight?

Or are you coming home? Text me and let me know. Xxx

I have no idea, Jess; depends if I get beneficial advice from my source.

Digging a little deeper, I find the scrunched-up piece of paper with the number I had written earlier this morning. I clutch it to my chest, like a priceless artefact. Any information I may get at the hands of this number, maybe priceless…ironic really.

I silently sequence the pending conversation throughout the duration of my entire meal. Contemplating and focusing on certain key points that I need to direct my attention on, and how I will fare if she doesn’t wish to talk to me about it––to someone she has never meet, never even spoken to.

When I cannot think of a solitary piece of information I could accidently overlook, I gather my belongings and make a beeline back into the car.

The leather is an unremitting ice block against my back as I slouch into the seat. Matching the temperature and rigidity of my heart, the heart that with the power of Hayden’s love and tenacity, finally heated and thawed. Each and every time my eyes fall upon him, I feel it revive more deeply, not just on the surface, but within.

Like a wave, I feel an ominous shudder uprising from the tips of my toes, up my legs and my body when I consider how much Hayden and I have fallen apart…segregated. We can lie in bed together, be less than two foot apart, yet it feels like a canyon between us. Not just physically––emotionally, too.

Tipping my head back I feel the coolness of the rest at the back of my skull, cooling the tension migraine I am aware niggling at my crown. I breathe in deeply, recovering my equilibrium, and take the leap.

I punch the number into my cell and briskly press the call button.

“Hello, Wentworth Residence.” A chirpy, female voice greets me down the handset.

“Oh, hello, I um…may I please speak with Mrs Wentworth?” I wince. I knew this was a bad idea.

“Whom may I say is calling?” with her superior tone, I hesitate to remember my own name.

“It’s um…it’s, Samantha Kennedy.”

“Please hold the line, Miss Kennedy.”

Within two minutes, I hear life at the opposite end of the line. “Thank you, Cassandra.” Cassandra? That name will haunt me for the rest of my living days. Regardless of Hayden explaining her standing with the family, just hearing her name sends the images I had formulated in my mind, back to ridicule me.

“Samantha?” Hayden’s mother addresses me with a warming quality.

“Hello, Mrs Wentworth. I apologize for contacting you unexpectedly.”

“Oh, no don’t apologize, my girl. I have been bothering Hayden for weeks about wanting to meet you.” Her motherly tone brings a smile to my face, even if it is turning three hues pinker with embarrassment.

“Mrs Wentworth, I am seeking advice,” I convey awkwardly.

“Oh?”

I sigh inwardly. “Hayden has disclosed everything about his past with me. We talked about the passing of your husband, which I am so terribly sorry for…”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“And also about the unhealthy relationship with his ex…and his nightmares,” I hear her sigh down the speaker.

“Hayden trusts you, Samantha. That is something that was taken away from him, for quite some time. You have no idea how much that means. I have seen and heard the change in him; he is full of hope and life. I thank you for that.”

Her words have me on a downward spiral, my vision blurred. I sniffle.

“I am so worried about him, Mrs Wentworth. His nightmares have seemed to have resurfaced since we spoke. They have become more frequent within the last three weeks. He isn’t sleeping, he isn’t eating properly. He can’t even look at me, he recoils if I touch him…” my tears fight their way out of the barracks and charge with purpose down my cheeks. “He’s slipping from me, and there is nothing I can do to help him.”

“Samantha,” she consoles me.

“I ask him to talk to me about them, you know…to get it off his chest instead of bottling the conflicting emotions up, but he won’t. And it’s killing me seeing him this vulnerable…”

“Samantha––” Mrs Wentworth interjects. “Hayden has always hated being the center of attention. He doesn’t like people thinking of him as vulnerable and pitying him. If anything, if he senses that you feel sorry for him, it will make the situation at hand multiply full fold.”

“He did fly off the handle earlier when I said that I’m seeing him turn into a person I don’t recognize.”

“Hayden is very…adamant on not receiving any form of sympathy, even when his father passed, and we found out about, Addison.”

“Then how do I help? Please, Mrs Wentworth, I will do anything to bring him back.” The desperation and determination is evident in my voice. I dab my tears with a spare napkin from lunch.

“Continue doing what you are doing. But don’t mollycoddle him. No sympathy, don’t fuss over him. And keep reassuring him.”

I feel my core temperature rise as I clench my teeth in frustration.

“But I have no idea what I can reassure him about. If I knew the bases of his dreams, then I could, but he won’t tell me. I’m searching blindly here. I feel as though he hates me, and I don’t know why.”