Impulses Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: V.L. Brock
away, holding me at arm’s length, her emerald eyes bore into mine. “I am so proud of you.” My face-splitting grin is now reflected on her fair colored profile, as she pulls me into another painfully tight, but blissfully happy embrace. “You are no longer a temp now, sweetie. Say good riddance to the awful, degrading, assortments of jobs you’ve trudged through. You have finally found an occupation that I know you will be committed to.”
She leans across the counter and retrieves a bottle of white wine. Grasping the neck of the bottle with white-knuckle force, she raises it in line with her chest and sways it slowly in a deliberate tempting fashion. Her eyes are wide and glimmering, her smile even wider as she waits for my approval.
“Please,” I mutter, rolling my eyes heavenward.
After pouring two generously filled wine glasses, she passes one to me, and we sip in unison. I release an appreciative groan as the refreshing, cool, crisp liquid glides down my throat.
“So what did you do today while I was in work ?” I chortle, taking another sip.
“Mm––” she sounds, in the process of swallowing. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teases, feigning innocence and I mimic her famous tell-me-all-now look. Her eyes narrow dubiously, as she glares at the familiar expression, which dons my face instead of hers.
What is this, Freaky Friday?
“Annoying isn’t it,” I counter, hissing with uncontested amusement, my lips curling petulantly.
“I went to the grocery store; I pottered around here for a bit,”––she takes another sip––“and went-to-the-music-store,” she mutters quickly.
“Sorry, I-I didn’t quite get that?” I wince and inch closer, turning my head in a straining gesture, all the while grinning at my best friend as she is consumed by her blush.
Exasperated, she shakes her head, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth before sighing loudly. “I went to the music store.”
I nod for her to continue, knowing full-well that she only went to Blue Record Music Store, to admire one specific thing. My mouth curls further, my brow raises higher, my eyes are practically bulging out of their sockets along with my determination.
“I went to the music store to admire the six foot odd, hunky piece of meat with the spikes,” she replies, her voice small and embarrassed as she glances down at her fingers that are wrapped carefully around the neck of the glass.
“Now, that wasn’t, too hard to admit, was it?”
After draining a large glass of wine, and slowly working my way through my second, I begin to feel the effect of the Dutch courage kicking my inhibitions and reservations to the wind. I decide that I cannot and will not follow Jessie’s way of admiring someone, sit back, admire-from-afar and hope that one day you may find the balls to go and say, Hi . Nope, that is not me, that woman has been dead for years.
Now, like a snake in the reeds, if I want something, I strike. There is no headier feeling than knowing and seeing you get under someone’s skin and have the power to say, yes or no .
Achieve the goal, worry about the consequences later.
I’m unfamiliar with someone having the ability to burrow themselves under my skin––it’s always vice-versa. Yet, Mr. Wentworth has severely gotten under my skin. For the life of me, I can’t stop thinking about him.
I find myself constantly replaying this morning’s meeting in his office. Envisioning what would have happened if I had just pressed my body against his, if our lips were so tantalizingly close to each other, would we have kissed?Who would have made the first move?Now, I have to deal with the ‘what ifs’ of the day, this feeling––this growing mass in my mind and my gut––it’s infuriating. I need help. I refuse to let everyday be like this.
I place my wine glass carefully onto the bar, the smile that overrules my features now ebbing. I hang my head in disconcertment, looking for the correct
She leans across the counter and retrieves a bottle of white wine. Grasping the neck of the bottle with white-knuckle force, she raises it in line with her chest and sways it slowly in a deliberate tempting fashion. Her eyes are wide and glimmering, her smile even wider as she waits for my approval.
“Please,” I mutter, rolling my eyes heavenward.
After pouring two generously filled wine glasses, she passes one to me, and we sip in unison. I release an appreciative groan as the refreshing, cool, crisp liquid glides down my throat.
“So what did you do today while I was in work ?” I chortle, taking another sip.
“Mm––” she sounds, in the process of swallowing. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she teases, feigning innocence and I mimic her famous tell-me-all-now look. Her eyes narrow dubiously, as she glares at the familiar expression, which dons my face instead of hers.
What is this, Freaky Friday?
“Annoying isn’t it,” I counter, hissing with uncontested amusement, my lips curling petulantly.
“I went to the grocery store; I pottered around here for a bit,”––she takes another sip––“and went-to-the-music-store,” she mutters quickly.
“Sorry, I-I didn’t quite get that?” I wince and inch closer, turning my head in a straining gesture, all the while grinning at my best friend as she is consumed by her blush.
Exasperated, she shakes her head, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth before sighing loudly. “I went to the music store.”
I nod for her to continue, knowing full-well that she only went to Blue Record Music Store, to admire one specific thing. My mouth curls further, my brow raises higher, my eyes are practically bulging out of their sockets along with my determination.
“I went to the music store to admire the six foot odd, hunky piece of meat with the spikes,” she replies, her voice small and embarrassed as she glances down at her fingers that are wrapped carefully around the neck of the glass.
“Now, that wasn’t, too hard to admit, was it?”
After draining a large glass of wine, and slowly working my way through my second, I begin to feel the effect of the Dutch courage kicking my inhibitions and reservations to the wind. I decide that I cannot and will not follow Jessie’s way of admiring someone, sit back, admire-from-afar and hope that one day you may find the balls to go and say, Hi . Nope, that is not me, that woman has been dead for years.
Now, like a snake in the reeds, if I want something, I strike. There is no headier feeling than knowing and seeing you get under someone’s skin and have the power to say, yes or no .
Achieve the goal, worry about the consequences later.
I’m unfamiliar with someone having the ability to burrow themselves under my skin––it’s always vice-versa. Yet, Mr. Wentworth has severely gotten under my skin. For the life of me, I can’t stop thinking about him.
I find myself constantly replaying this morning’s meeting in his office. Envisioning what would have happened if I had just pressed my body against his, if our lips were so tantalizingly close to each other, would we have kissed?Who would have made the first move?Now, I have to deal with the ‘what ifs’ of the day, this feeling––this growing mass in my mind and my gut––it’s infuriating. I need help. I refuse to let everyday be like this.
I place my wine glass carefully onto the bar, the smile that overrules my features now ebbing. I hang my head in disconcertment, looking for the correct