Free Playing With Fire by Deborah Fletcher Mello Page B

from Amber House to Romeo’s Olde Raleigh home. Romeo pulled his black Jaguar F-Type coupe past the gated entrance into the complex of designer houses. A quick ride toward the northern cul-de-sac placed him at his front door.
    He smiled slightly; he always smiled when he came home. It had taken a number of years for him to be able to afford the luxury property with its intricate blend of simplicity and strength. Romeo had been drawn to the house’s powerful architecture the moment the real estate agent had pulled up out front. Closing the front door behind him, he quickly punched in the six-digit code canceling the security system.
    He hurt. His firm body wept for sleep. Pressing the palm of his hand over his mouth to suppress a yawn, he pulled his long limbs up the flight of steps to his bedroom. After carefully hanging his clothes in the walk-in closet, he threw his brief-clad body across the length of the king-size bed, settling himself into the folds of cotton sheets and cashmere blankets. Despite the fatigue that permeated his person, sleep eluded him. Tossing from side to side, his dark eyes danced with the shadows cavorting along the ceiling and walls.
    He suddenly wondered what it might be like to have a woman like Taryn there to ease the loneliness coating his brow. He found himself fantasizing about them falling to the living room floor, tearing the clothes away from each other’s body. Moving to the melodious tunes of Anthony Hamilton, he pressed himself into her, molding her softness around his own chiseled frame. Taryn’s rich caramel would coat his taste buds, its sweetness sliding easily down his throat. He imagined it would be better than good and now his loins throbbed as he dreamt about what he might be missing. He sighed heavily.
    Rising, he switched on the light by the nightstand, flooding the room with cool white rays. Reaching into the nightstand, he pulled a small leather flask from the back corner and brought it to his lips. The bitter liquid fell into his dry mouth, coating the back of his throat. Thoughts of Piano Man knocked at the door of his mind, rudely pushing their way inside.
    The old man had asked him if he was an alcoholic. He grimaced slightly, twisting the cap of the flask tightly. He suddenly wondered why no answer had fallen from his lips as easily as the warm liquor now slid down his throat. He didn’t believe himself to be an alcoholic, although he knew there were times when he’d abuse the drink to ease a long day or to erase an emotion threatening to possess his spirit. He didn’t thrive on booze though, nor did he need it to get him through his daily routines. “No,” he thought aloud, emphatically shaking his head. “I am not an alcoholic. I just drink too much.”
    Making his way to the other side of the room, he settled himself down in the oversized easy chair, lifting his long, dark legs up on the matching ottoman. He had worked closely with an interior designer to weave the luminescent mesh of celery, cactus, and eucalyptus, which adorned each room. The colors, complemented by a hint of eggplant, a dash of ivory, and a touch of muted golds, were surreal and soft, reminding him of the California shore at low tide under a setting sun. He stared about the space. He was most comfortable in this room. He thrived on how it invited him to simply lounge and sprawl lazily about.
    Stretching his body upward, Romeo lifted his arms above his head, pulling his torso toward the ceiling. He yawned, expelling warm breath outward. “Damn,” he said aloud, “why can’t I sleep?”
    On the mantel above the fireplace a picture of his mother, looking warmly toward a camera, smiled down at him. Romeo missed his mother. He had been a true mama’s boy, everything about his life intent on pleasing her. Her death had come quickly, the dark angel sneaking in like a common criminal to steal her away. His mother had been an intense woman