Playing With Fire (14 page)

Nodding, Romeo took his exit as Aleta stood watching him, wanting nothing more than to be able to cry.

 

 

The sun was just beginning its ascent into the sky when Aleta eased through the front door of her home. In the bedroom, Piano Man lay face down on the bed, his naked backside framed by the ivory duvet cover. Aleta shook her head, amusement adorning her face.

“What are you doing awake?” she asked, moving to the head of the bed to stare down at him. “And where are your clothes?”

The man grinned, a wide expanse of happy painting his expression. “Couldn't sleep and it was hot up in here.”

“You should have turned on the air conditioner.”

Piano Man shrugged. “You home kind of late, ain't you?” He rolled onto his side as he watched her stripping slowly out of her black pants and white blouse. She stood in a Playtex bra and matching panty still staring at him.

“You keeping tabs on me now?”

He smiled again. “Do I need to?”

Aleta shook her head from side to side, the gesture slow and easy.

“Come here,” Piano Man commanded, patting the bedside with his palm. “Let me rub your back for you.”

Aleta hesitated for just a brief second before easing herself next to him, lying against the mattress. Piano Man shifted his body upward to kneel over hers. He began to slowly massage the width of her shoulders and her upper arms. As Aleta allowed herself to relax into his touch, she could feel her muscles reacting on their own accord.

Piano Man leaned to whisper into her ear. “A good lover, like a good musician, knows how to play his woman to get the best out of her that she has to offer.”

Aleta smiled. “Oh, really?”

He nodded, his fingers lightly kneading the upper part of her back. “You got to know how to improvise the moment.” His lips followed his fingers, damp kisses pressed against her skin.

A low murmur eased past Aleta's lips.

“That's right,” Piano Man whispered. “Got to be slow and easy with her, let the music build up on its own.”

Aleta giggled.

Piano Man continued to manipulate her flesh, skating lower with each pass of his fingertips. “Gots to have just the right amount of rhythm and, just like when I play the piano, gots to know just the right amount of pressure to use. Good loving, like good music, can't be but so quick. You want it to last just the right amount of time.”

Aleta purred softly as he palmed the round of her buttocks. When his fingers skated down the length of her thighs, his hands teasing the insides, she jumped ever so slightly.

Piano Man laughed, a low chuckle that rose from his midsection. “Hit the right note that time!” he exclaimed.

Aleta burst out laughing. “You a fool, James Burdett!” She rolled over onto her back, tapping him against his bare chest. Piano Man laughed with her as he lay down beside her, easing his body up against hers. They lay quietly, easing into the warmth of silence that revolved around them. Aleta closed and then opened her eyes, turning to stare at the man who was watching her closely.

“Romeo came by the club tonight. Was asking a lot of questions about you.”

“What kinds of questions?”

“Wanted to know if I knew anything about your past or your family.”

“You didn't tell him nothing, did you?”

“You know I didn't.”

The two went quiet for a second time, both falling into their own thoughts. Aleta broke the moment. “You need to tell him, James.”

Piano Man shook his head. “No, and don't start with me, Aleta. Ain't no point in stirring up a mess that don't need to be started.”

The woman heaved a deep sigh. “I don't agree. He has a right—”

“No,” Piano Man said firmly, lifting himself to the side of the bed, turning his back to her. “Just leave it alone, woman. Just leave it alone. Please. It's too late to change things now.”

“It's not too late.”

The man tossed her a quick look over his shoulder. “Look, it's time I went on my way. I wasn't planning on staying this long and I'm about ready to move on. Why bring him any sadness before I go? That's what Irene was always afraid of anyway. I won't do that to him. He don't deserve that.”

“He needs to know that you love him, James.”

Piano Man came to his feet, heading into the bathroom. “He'll know,” he said softly. “He don't need me to say it for him to know.”

Romeo's cell phone was ringing as he entered the house, pushing at the keypad to still the alarm. Racing into the kitchen, he dropped his bags onto the counter and pulled the device from his coat pocket.

“Hello?”

“Hey, handsome.”

“Where are you? I miss you.”

“I'm sorry, baby. I'm still in London. I've been delayed.”

“Woman, don't tell me that! I need you home. I need you badly.”

“How badly?”

“Badly. I'm hurting without you.”

“I wish I could do something for that problem, but I'm stuck here for another day or so.”

Romeo moved up the flight of stairs as he pulled at the collar of his shirt, loosening his necktie. He kicked his shoes off at the top of the landing. In the bedroom, he fell back against the mattress, pulling the pillows under his head.

“Are you still there?” Taryn asked.

“What are you wearing?” Romeo asked, his voice low.

Taryn giggled. “A suit. That red one that you like so much.”

“No. What are you wearing under it?”

“Black lace. A thong with a matching camisole.”

As Romeo closed his eyes, imagining Taryn bedecked in black lace, he could feel the line of an erection rising. His body responded to the imagery before he even thought to touch himself. He moaned softly as his hands fell against the waistband of his slacks and then dropped down against his thigh. He shifted his buttocks against the bed, finally palming the front of his pants with his hands. The telephone lay propped between his ear and the pillow.

“Where are you?” Romeo asked, still stroking himself through his clothes.

“My hotel room.”

“Take off your suit,” he commanded, “and tell me about it. Take it off slowly.”

“Romeo, be for real,” she said, and giggled.

“I am, baby. Do it. Take it off for me. I want to see you naked,” he said, his sultry tone lighting a fire in Taryn's midsection. “I want to touch you. I want you to touch yourself for me,” he said softly.

Taryn's breathing quickened. “I'm unbuttoning my jacket,” she said softly, “and I'm laying it across the bed. Now I'm undoing the zipper to my skirt. I'm pulling it down slowly.” She paused. “It just fell to the floor.”

“Do you have on stockings?”

“No. Bare legs. Bare legs and black lace.”

Romeo could feel his blood pressure rising. He struggled to release himself from his pants. “Lay on the bed,” he said, his voice barely a whisper as he struggled with his own breathing. “I want to see you on the bed,” he said, repeating himself.

“Can you see me, baby?” Taryn whispered over the phone line. “Can you see me lying here waiting for you?”

“Oh, yes,” Romeo moaned. “Oh, yes, girl.”

“Can you see me touching myself?” Taryn said, falling into the moment with Romeo. “My hands are caressing my breasts.”

“Squeeze them,” Romeo said, “just like that. Very nice. Your nipples are hard, baby,” he said, his hand still pulling at his own flesh. “I want to taste them,” he said, imagining the round of her flesh pressing at his lips.

“Ohhh, Romeo. You feel so good,” Taryn cried out softly.

“I'm touching that spot, baby. Can you feel my hands?” Romeo asked, the pace of his breathing quickening.

“Ohhh, yes, Romeo.”

“Right there, baby. Feel my hands. They're at your knees, stroking your thighs. I'm touching that special spot, baby. That's my spot. Feel me touching it.”

Taryn groaned, her hands dancing against her body. Chills radiated from her fingertips, moving across the brown of her skin. Thoughts of Romeo's touch blew a cool breeze against her body and she shivered with anticipation.

Images of Taryn's body quivering alongside his flashed through Romeo's mind. He craved her, desperate to have her near him. Tension pulled anxiously at him, shaking the length of his torso as he maneuvered to bring himself to a climax. “Talk dirty to me, Taryn,” he said. “Please, baby.”

Taryn whispered into the receiver, fueling the fantasy washing over Romeo's spirit. It wasn't long before she heard him scream her name, the rush of his excitement stimulating her own. When their moment of ecstasy passed, they both were breathing heavily.

“Come home. Soon,” Romeo managed to finally say as he reached for a tissue on the nightstand.

“Before you know it,” Taryn responded, still breathless. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Call me later, okay?”

“I will. Bye, Romeo.”

 

 

After pushing the room service tray and its empty plates out into the hallway, Taryn shut the room door behind her and locked it. Her briefcase lay at the foot of the bed, its contents untouched since she'd walked into her room and had thought to call Romeo. Her red Tahari suit still lay at the foot of the bed where she'd discarded it hours earlier, its wrinkled presence a reminder of the intimate moment she and Romeo has shared over the telephone line. She blushed at the memory. Romeo had a way of moving her like no other man. He engaged her to do and try things she might not otherwise partake of, but he was always with her, holding her hand, making her feel safe and secure when she did.

Dropping down across the bed, Taryn was still thinking of Romeo. The flux of confusion over her spirit had resurfaced and she knew she was well past ready to go home. Although she loved her job, and loved the opportunities the position had afforded her, home lay miles across the ocean, where Romeo laid his head at night. She would sleep alone tonight. Tomorrow would be a whole other story.

Romeo stood in front of the refrigerator, cool air blowing up his shorts and across his bare chest. Pulling a package of sliced baloney and two slices of yellow American cheese from the shelf, he heaved a deep sigh. Dinner would be meager tonight, the emptiness of the cool appliance rivaling the emptiness in his stomach. Pressing the meat and cheese between two slices of bread, he tossed the sandwich into the melted butter that sizzled eagerly in a heated frying pan.

His thinking of Taryn caused his heart to pulse in rapid succession, and the muscle below his waist to twitch with anticipation. Sweat saturated his brow, and if Romeo didn't know better, he would have thought the temperature in the room was excessively hot. That's what Taryn did to him. That's what not having Taryn did to his body when he thought of her. When he'd heard her sensuous voice over the telephone, he'd lost control. The sultry lilt to her tone had excited every nerve ending in his body and he had craved her like a thirsty man craves a cool drink of water.

With his grilled cheese and baloney sandwich, and a glass of Pepsi cola, Romeo retreated to his bedroom. She had promised she would be home soon. He'd sleep alone tonight, temporarily satisfied, holding tight to what tomorrow might promise.

 

 

It was late. Neither man had any inkling what the exact time was, but both knew it was late. They'd worked hard, the club filled to capacity just hours earlier, and now they were easing into the space on terms that didn't involve either of them being polite to each other or anyone else. Reaching under the bar, Romeo pulled a bottle from the shelf, cracked the cap, and poured a drink for himself and one for Piano Man. It was their second bottle since they'd locked the doors for the evening. The vintage scotch burned lightly as he downed the shot straight, then poured himself a second. Sitting down on the bar stool beside Piano Man, he brought the glass up to his nose, savoring the pungent aroma.

“Tonight was something else. After last weekend, I didn't think it could get any better, but you and Sharon keep outdoing yourselves.”

Piano Man nodded, grinning. “Thank you. Now, tonight is how it's suppose to be. People was happy. A man doing something right when people get happy like that.”

The second shot of scotch didn't burn quite so much. Romeo watched Piano Man out of the corner of his eye, noting the tired lines settling in his dark face. His eyes were growing heavy and his breathing no longer seemed easy.

“How are you feeling, Piano Man? You don't look good lately.”

“Look good, feel good,” he said sarcastically. “What's it matter anyway? I'm old. I ain't got but so long left in this world, then I can play my music whenever I wants. That's all that counts. Ain't nothing as good as the music.”

Romeo shook his head. “You been to see a doctor at all?”

“Don't like medicine men, Romeo,” Piano Man answered, his words slurred ever so slightly. “They ain't nothing but a pack of lying cheats charging you too damn much to tell you what you already know. I ain't got nothing that a bottle of scotch and some good cootchie won't cure.”

Laughing, Romeo asked, “Well, I know you've been getting the scotch, old man, but what about the cootchie?”

Piano Man raised his eyebrows slightly. “Probably been getting too much. My heart might just give up if I keep going the way I am.”

“You are so full of bull.” Romeo laughed loudly.

Piano Man laughed with him, reaching for the scotch bottle. “What about you, Romeo? When's the last time you stroked some cootchie and stroked it good?”

“It's been too damn long, old man,” he said, sighing heavily, his hand palming his crotch.

“Then you the one should be seeing the doctor, boy. All these pretty girls who be throwing themselves at you and you ain't had no cootchie. Don't make no kinda sense to me.”

“Must be love, I guess. I just don't want anyone but Taryn, and when she isn't here, I wait. It's easier to do sometimes than other times, though.”

“I loved me a pretty brown skin gal once. We was gonna have us a yard full of pretty butterscotch babies and cootchie whenever we wanted,” Piano Man said, drifting back in time, a drunken stupor leading the way.

Romeo interrupted his thoughts for a brief moment. “What happened to her?”

Piano Man shrugged, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. An uneasy pause followed as his mind raced back to a time long since laid to rest. Recalling the warm flow of sanguine fluid passing from her soul, he felt himself shiver, contained emotion flooding throughout his body. The flashbacks remained too vivid in his memories.

He thought back to the cold ivory porcelain violated by the harsh crimson splatter of her pain, and the piercing scream wrenched from the murky depths of his own heart. The skeletal figure torn from her uterus had borne no resemblance to the predilection that had laid its foundation. It had been crudely discarded by the aged hands that had minutes earlier poked and prodded at the core of her being. With hunched shoulders and henna-coated hair, the old woman had admonished them both, then told them to never tell.

“Forget,” she had muttered, her putrid breath hot against his ear. But his unborn child had forever remained a faint whisper upon his lips and a reverberating void within his thoracic walls.

On the train ride home, he had wrapped his arms protectively about her, cradling her gently against his firm chest. Although he tried to shield her from the reflective stares she thought to be all knowing, he could not hide either of them from the guilt sweeping through their souls.

The stench of urine in the elevator of the housing project where she lived had greeted them at the doorway, the vile odor stroking his nostrils, reawakening his numbed senses. Inside the small apartment she shared with her mother and two younger sisters, he had sat with her until she fell into a pensive sleep. Finally making his way past the contemptuous stare of her mother, he had muttered a soft “I'm sorry” as he'd rushed out the door.

Home, within the confines of his own apartment, he'd met his father's brooding gaze with frustrated anger, then had wept like a baby into the robust bosom of his paternal grandmother.

His father's words had rung heavily in his ears and he was awed by the clarity with which he could now remember the conversation.

“So it's done?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is she?”

“She's okay.”

His father had nodded his head slowly, purposely, his index finger moving in sync as he'd pointed in his son's direction. “This don't make you a man. You remember that. It don't make you a man. When you can hold your son in your arms and wipe away his tears, and when you can teach him right from wrong and watch him grow into all that you want him to be, then you can consider yourself a man. Just getting your woman pregnant ain't nowhere near being a man if you can't support them and respect them the way they deserve. Don't you ever think otherwise.”

The words had stung, slapping him across the face as though his father had raised his arm and struck him with the back of his hand. He knew though, that what his father said was true. The mere act of procreation had not bestowed upon him the status of manhood. It had only affirmed the repercussions of his yielding to the innate yearnings of his phallus.