Impulses (12 page)

Grinning at me like an idiot, she catches her tongue between her teeth in the amusing way that never fails to lighten my mood. Jessie, excited and enthusiastic, is a very scary combination.

“What?”

“Samantha Kennedy,” she gasps and purses her dusky pink lips. “Did you just say the word,
date?
” I shake my head in exasperation, while in all honesty, for the first time in my life…I’m feeling anything but.

HAYDEN

I cast my cell phone onto the opposite side of the couch and tip my head back. Closing my eyes I rub my hands up and down my face in reprieve.
She said yes…she actually agreed to have dinner with me.

Breathing in a purifying breath, I hold the air captive as I become aware of my paranoia awaking––famished––and ready to indulge upon my already deficient self-worth.
Think of the positive, Hayden. She said yes,
I am urged by my subconscious in an attempt to derail the menacing, denigrating voice of my reemerging fear.

But it is, too, late.

Do you really believe that she wants to go out with you? No, no, no,
he rebukes, shaking his head obstinately and pouting his thin, darkened lips, taking pleasure in divulging his cruel words.
She pity’s you.
His mouth curls into a malign smirk, his eyes black and obnoxious
. She wants to tell you to your face just how pathetic you are––how she laid back last night and faked everything as you fucked her like a worthless man; how disgusted she was having your puny body pressed against her...inside her.

My chest constricts. I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m suffocating. Even as I vainly fist at the collar of my shirt, yanking it away from my throat as I endeavor to inhale a decent cleansing breath, it makes no difference. My core temperature soars. Perspiration bleeds through my pores as panic and anxiety devastates me.

The room spins mercilessly on its axis. I haul myself from the couch. Surpassing the trembling of my legs, I stagger up the single step to the media center at my living room window, desperately seeking liberation from my unbearable thoughts. I seize the decanter half-full with amber liquid.

You think that will bring you comfort you pathetic, futile man?
He goads me, prompting my body to bow to the shudder that he spawns. I pour myself two fingers worth of Southern Comfort into a crystal tumbler, and with my back pressed against the cold surface of my window, I sink to the floor, hoping that the smaller I get, the smaller the voice and his torture will become. With intent, I linger the crystal to my lips. I inhale the rich, spiced aroma of my freedom before I bleed it dry, and welcome the burning sensation followed by the warmth on my breath as I shallowly exhale.

I don’t know how much more I can withstand. I’m trapped––trapped in the dungeon of despair with only the small, shrill voice as a companion. With tightening fingers caressing the cold, patterned surface and my elbows propped up on my knees, I stare down at the empty tumbler, watching fixated while I roll it in my grasp.

A tidal wave of negative emotions overawes me, despair and hate, anguish and inability. I hang my head as the already strident voice nears my inner ear making it impossible to discount.

Hayden, Hayden, Hayden,
he mutters his disapproval;
don’t tell me you are shocked by these emotions. She told you––she always told you what you were. Why would anyone else think differently of you? You’re a waste of space, you’re not worthy of the air you breathe. It should have been you in the car that night.

“Shut up, shut up…shut up.” Flailing my head from side-to-side, I frantically search for something to hold on to, a light at the end of the tunnel, divine intervention, anything to block out the berating voice in my mind.

I’m vaguely aware of the motion I make as I pull back my right arm, allowing the glass to escape my grasp as I launch the tumbler across the room. The sound of shattering ricochets around the area as it finally collides with the door and splinters into a hundred tiny fragments…like me, a shattered man. I succumb to my repressed tears, allowing them to flow freely from their prison, liberating myself––if only for a few precious moments––from the menacing, wicked, cruel voice that ridicules me, with my head buried in my hands.

The long-awaited sensation of emotional-numbness soon transpires and my tears begin to cease. My eyelids feel as though they are closing over razorblades. Moistening my cracked, drying lips with a sweep of my tongue, and dry the dampness from face with the backs of my hands, I tip my head back against the window.

Come on, Hayden. Pull yourself together…you have a date to get ready for.
And through the numbness of my emotions, I feel a sliver of hope warming me as it radiates from my stomach, stretching outward through my body like a firework. A faint smile begins to bore itself upon my tearstained features. There is only one person who can supply me with the answers I seek, and I silently vow not to listen to the voice of my insecurities, until I hear the truth from her.

It’s 7:05 p.m. when I pull up at The Fillmore Point Center. I study my reflection in the rear-view mirror, and fist my hand through my now dried hair. A lock unbinds and falls onto my brow. The swelling of my eyes from my emotional breakdown earlier is now barely noticeable––
thank God.

I sit rooted in my seat.
Well, what are you waiting for? She is up there waiting for you, move it,
my subconscious urges and for once in my life, I welcome his enthusiasm. Endeavoring to maintain my poise through the mounting nerves that shrouds me, and calming the butterflies that are grazing themselves against the lining of my stomach, threatening to free themselves from my mouth, I prepare myself to face Samantha, idly contemplating which Samantha I am going to be in the company with for the rest of the evening––confident Samantha, or the callous Samantha that I had the misfortune of meeting last night.

The apartment door is swung open almost immediately after my knuckle collides with the wood on the second knock.

Samantha’s roommate, Jessie stands at the threshold. Her faded blue, fashionable ripped jeans and white camisole hug her figure, while her brunet mane piled high into a ponytail showcases her high-set cheekbones.

“Mr. Wentworth––”

“Please, I’m, Mr. Wentworth in the working week…Hayden will do just fine,” I grin.

“Hayden…” she repeats slowly, testing it against her palate. “Please, come in.” She opens the door farther and steps aside.

Hands locked behind my back, I nod my appreciation and enter the apartment.

“Sammy won’t be too much longer. Would you like a drink while you’re waiting, a glass of wine…” she trails off as she pushes the door shut.

“I’m driving actually…but a glass of water would be lovely.”

Strolling past the oak dining table and the breakfast bar to the right of the front door, she then turns into the kitchen. I follow behind her and perch myself up onto one of the white, vacant barstools.

Everything in the open plan living room/dining room is white and red, apart from the leather dining-table chairs which are chocolate. Still the décor is subtle and modern. A wide rectangle archway divides the space between the two rooms. I can only imagine the copious amount of light that sears through the large bay window at the far end of the living room. A ruby colored, leather couch resides against the right wall. The white fireside takes pride of place at the heart of the left wall facing the couch and a sturdy coffee table rests in the middle of the room, above a red shimmering rug.

My subtle perusal is ended when Jessie places a hi-ball glass of water on the breakfast bar in front of me.

“Thank you,” I mutter before taking a mouthful of the ice-cold liquid. Mist has already begun to form on the exterior of the glass.

“You’re more than welcome.” She cocks her head to the side, and gazes over my shoulder. I watch as her mouth curves into a contented, genial smile, and she nods her approval.

Pivoting swiftly upon the surface of my seat, I come face-to-face with the riveting, spellbinding vision abounded with finesse, which stands at the threshold of the hallway opposite me. I’m rendered speechless and physically paralyzed by her beauty. My mouth falls open and my lungs fail to allow my next intake of breath.

“Samantha––” My voice travels low and raspy on a weighty sigh. I can feel my eyes aflame with a combination of emotion, ranging from desire, admiration and longing, mixed with bemusement and anxiety, Finally finding my feet, I slide off the stool and approach the breathtakingly beautiful, woman, who unknowingly already has me worshipping at her feet. I don’t even know this woman, yet I know what I would do––what I would give––to have her as mine.

The black asymmetrical dress sits alluringly above her knees, the back drapes down to her ankles whilst the material clings and caresses the contours of her body. The low-cut and loose neckline hangs pleasantly over her breasts and exposes enough cleavage to tempt certain wanton thoughts. Her strappy stiletto arches her instep as they mould her foot into place, and her black opaque shawl is wrapped around her upper arms. Her auburn hair is separated into a half up, half down do with soft, bouncing curls, which tumble passed her breasts. Her eyes are a seductive, smoky silver-gray and lined with dark kohl, emphasizing their prominent shape, and her mouthwatering, delicious lips coated with a nude lip colour.

“You look amazing.”

Halting my desire to pounce and ravish her with my lips, I stalk toward her and press a tender kiss against her cheek, taking my time to revel in her sweet, intoxicating, and agonizingly seductive scent. I hunger to trail kisses all over her body and taste her sweetness again.

Samantha…you have no idea how much I want you––how much I need you.

A wilted and discomforted grin passes across her pale features. She instantly hangs her head and applies all her focus down on the straps of her shoes. She looks vulnerable––so very vulnerable. It’s unsettling.

Using my thumb and index finger, I seize her chin. Tipping her head back she fixes me with uncomfortable, troubling and dubious blue eyes. My mouth gives away to a kindhearted smile. Slowly, and with palpable wariness, she mirrors my expression. I remove my right hand from under her chin, and trail my fingertips up and down her upper arm. Releasing a groan from low in her throat, she steps into me––my fingertips still exploring the silky smoothness of her flawless skin beneath them.

Fixated and unable to pull my focus away, we stand motionless before each other, observing intently, as deep brown and clear blue eyes bore into one another. Our unspoken words and cravings ricochet around the room, completely unashamed that Samantha’s roommate is bearing witness to our licentious musing.

“So, are you guys going to ogle at each other all night or are you going to go to dinner?” Jessie calls through from the kitchen.

“Actually, we had better go,” I mutter. Still neither of us makes an attempt to move. I have lost myself entirely to her scrutiny. Time banished in this compact bubble that we stand, trapped inside of.

“Yeah––” she whispers softly, husky, her mouth upturning her eyes squinting––and it’s by damned the most erotic, needy expression that I have ever seen. I gasp as I feel my muscles tauten and a twitch down below passed my hips. Catching her plump bottom lip between her teeth, she presses her sensational body against mine. I feel her heat through our clothing, and it is agonizing torture at its best.

Samantha’s gaze sweeps from my eyes, to my mouth as my tongue languidly strokes over the seam of my lower lip. To only close those maddening few inches between us, and grant my tongue approval to reach out and glide across her lips. I’m practically panting with need, coveting her touch, her taste. Coveting her soft moans and pleasurable whimpers that escape from her as she slowly builds to grace my ears anew.

The magnetic pull is there again, drawing us together…the spark filling what little space there is between our uncontrolled, raging bodies; a deceptive ember wandering on the breeze, and even the briefest of contact between us can begin the most unbridled of wildfires.

“Ahem,” emphasizing her clearing throat in an attempt to grasp our attention, I sense rather than see Jessie nearing us. “Come on you two…I have plans with a bottle of cheap wine and crap TV. And you two are keeping me from them.” She places her hands on our backs and steers us to the apartment door.

“Jess––”

“Don’t worry, I won’t wait up. Just go an enjoy yourselves.” Jessie stares at us expectantly when we fail to move past the threshold of the apartment. Samantha and I regard each other for a brief moment afore she peeks back at Jessie who is tightening her ponytail. “Go.”

I step into the middle of the hallway. Samantha and Jessie embrace each other quickly and Jessie whispers something into her right ear, but I am unable to articulate.

“Ready?”

Displaying a wary smile, she gestures a faint nod. She gradually and cautiously makes her way out of the apartment like a child taking their first steps.

The blue light shines through the inverted triangle as I press the call button. Sexually charged, we wait patiently in an oppressive awkwardness, for the elevator on the opposite side of the hallway when Jessie swiftly closes the door behind her roommate.

I chance a glimpse down at Samantha beside me, whose twisting her amethyst ring around her finger. I could watch her for hours, her mannerisms––the way she tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear, the laugh lines that form at the side of her upper-lip when she smiles. I’m truly captivated and I won’t suppress the incredulous smile slowly working its way across my profile as I ponder whether tonight could possibly lead to the beginning of a much needed healing process. And by the words Jessie spoke of this morning, I reckon it could be a healing process not only for me––but for the both of us.

EIGHT

---------------------

SAMANTHA

I unconsciously rotate my amethyst ring that adorns my middle finger––around and around and around; much like Jessie’s last whispered words of advice.
Don’t over think and don’t cave to those impulses.
I pray to the Gods that Hayden failed to overhear her words of wisdom. The last thing we need is a fucking interrogation. I wince at the mere contemplation of how in-depth that conversation would have to be. Staring vacantly at the ground, I concentrate acutely on not over thinking. My subconscious throws her arms in the air and shakes her head…
seriously?
You’re over thinking, about not over thinking.