Playing With Fire

 

 

 

 

All I Want Is You
(with Kayla Perrin)

P
LAYING
W
ITH
F
IRE

Deborah Fletcher Mello

Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

“You know I love only two things in this whole world,” James Burdett said, the rich bass of his voice low and seductive. “My piano, and you, sweetness.” He paused, allowing the whisper of his words to tease the delicate line of her ear. Everything in the room was pleading, begging, along with the man who'd dropped to his knees in want of her full attention. The small expanse of space was clouded by his pleas, the intensity of his yearnings tinting the coat of pale blue paint against the four walls a deep shade of desperate. “Please, baby, come with me,” he implored, the ebony of his eyes appealing to her frailty.

James pursed his full lips as if blowing her a kiss, and the sensual motion made her shudder. He smiled, flashing her a row of pearl white teeth that illuminated his deep, dark complexion. He repeated himself, this time wrapping his arms around her thin waist as he pulled her close against him, pressing his cheek to her abdomen. “Come with me, Irene. Pack a bag and let's go. Leave with me tonight. Come on, baby,” he continued to plead, pulling at her with those eyes. “Please!”

Irene Marshall shook her head, rolling her gaze toward the ceiling as she diverted her eyes from his. “James, I'm not going anywhere. This is crazy. How you gon' go off to New York like this? How you plan on living?”

“It don't matter. We'll just figure it out as we go. I'll play with the band and we can see the world together, just you and me. Say yes, Irene. Say you'll come.”

Pressing her hands to his shoulders, Irene pushed him away. As he came to his feet her gaze flew up and down his lean figure, inhaling his image. James was dressed in a white dress shirt opened just low enough to expose a faint brush of silky hair against his chest. Black knit pants fit him nicely, accentuating his thin build and high rear end. His Nat King Cole haircut was flattering to his narrow face, his dark eyes and high cheekbones complementing the chiseled lines of his sculptured features. The faint hint of a mustache and the beginnings of a goatee gave him an air of maturity, Irene thought to herself, noting how his confidence spilled past his smile. He was a pretty man with his deep sienna complexion. Too pretty, and his fans, both male and female, frequently let him know it. He wore their compliments well when he played piano for the small jazz and blues band he claimed would be his ticket to the big time, swearing they would make him millions. He wore them like an abundance of priceless jewels wrapped around his shoulders. Irene shook her head.

James clasped his eyes shut, closing them tightly as he searched his heart for all the right words that would convince her to leave with him. When he opened them again, Irene had turned her back on him, her arms crossed over her chest, her stance tense. He moved against her, wrapping his arms and body around the lush curves that girdled her frame. He kissed the back of her neck as he inhaled the floral scent of her perfume. She smelled like heaven, he thought, brushing his lips against her butterscotch complexion. He'd loved her since forever, the woman having filled every crevice of his large heart. Now he struggled between a rock and a hard place, unable to fathom being away from her again, but still wanting to follow the dreams he'd had since he was six years old.

“Then say you'll think about it, Irene. You don't have to give me an answer right now. We can leave tomorrow and catch up with the band in New York. But I have to go, baby. I have to go do this and I want you to go with me.”

Irene turned back around to face him. “Do what you have to do, James. But I can't go with you,” she said, resignation painting her soft face with stern determination.

“Why not?”

“Because I can't. I don't want to live my life on the road. I can't do it. I
won't
do it.”

“Don't you love me?”

Her eyes widened and a wave of ire flooded her expression. The woman lifted a finger in his direction, pointing at him angrily. Her response was terse, embodied with emotion that reached out to slap him with the back of its hand. “If this had anything to do with love, you'd want to stay. You'd want to build a life for us together. Here. You would want us to have some stability and a place we can call home. So don't you dare talk to me about love, James Burdett. Don't you dare question what I feel when you don't know what you feel your
damn
self.” The woman blew a harsh gush of warm air out with her last words. Her jaw tightened, her teeth clenched tightly together as her gaze narrowed, her eyes drawn into thin slits.

James took a deep breath. He turned his attention toward the other woman, who'd been listening quietly throughout the entire conversation. She sat like a fly on the wall, observing them, her presence almost ignored if one didn't make an effort to search her out. James met her intense stare and smiled, the expression warm enough to melt a glacier. “Aleta? Can't you talk some sense into her?”

Aleta Bowen shrugged her narrow shoulders, shaking her head from side to side. Her shoulder-length flip bounced with the movement. She glanced from one face to the other, and back again, then dropped her gaze to the floor. Her silence told them both that she had no intention of getting in the middle of their battle.

James nodded his understanding, then turned back toward Irene. “I'll wait until tomorrow. I'll be at the bus stop by two o'clock. I hope you'll be there,” he said, pulling the woman into one last embrace as he kissed her lips, pressing his mouth tightly to hers. “Two o'clock,” he repeated, whispering it with warm breath past her lips.

A tear rolled out of Irene's eye. She wiped at it quickly, willing the others that wanted to follow not to fall. “I won't be there, James,” she said. “I'm sorry, but I won't, so don't you bother to wait for me.”

With his hand on the doorknob, he stood staring at her one last time. “I love you, Irene,” he said, waving his head in her direction. “I'll always love you.”

As he turned toward the door, his gaze met Aleta's and he smiled again. “Take care, Miss Aleta. I'll catch you on the go round, girl,” he said as he tossed her a quick wink.

The other woman smiled sweetly, giving him a quick wave of her hand. “Stay safe, James Burdett. You stay safe,” she said as she watched him exit out the door.

As the clock slowly ticked time, the two women sat quietly, neither of them saying a word. The finality of James's departure was slowly seeping into the room, filling the space with melancholy.

“You should go, Irene,” Aleta finally said, her eyes meeting her best friend's. “You know you want to.”

“No. It's not about me anymore. I have to think about this baby.”

“You need to tell him. He has a right to know he's about to be a daddy.”

Irene rested a hand against her stomach, the faint flutter of new life tucked warmly beneath her palm. She shook her head, the tears finally falling to the floor. “Never. If James stays, he'll stay because he wants to. Not because he thinks he has to for this baby, or for me.”

Aleta shook her head. “Are you ever going to tell him?”

Her friend stared at her briefly. She waved her head from side to side. “If he loved me as much as he loved that damn piano, he would have stayed because I stayed. He doesn't. James will make his own way in this world, and me and my child will make ours. James doesn't need us and we won't need him. I'll see to it.”

Aleta rose to wrap her arms around her friend in a warm embrace. The two women held on to each other as Irene's tears finally escaped, dripping with ease down her cheeks. Aleta shook her head with her last pronouncement. “You're wrong, Irene. Everybody needs someone.”

The line into the Playground Jazz and Blues Club extended past the bolted doors and barred windows of Lem Young's Chinese Cleaners and Harper's Florist, which neighbored the old brick building. Except for the patient souls waiting to get inside, the street was bare. A crisp breeze blew teasingly under tight-fitting skirts, while firm bodies, suited to the nines, paced anxiously, examining the evening's offerings.

Once inside, having paid the ten-dollar cover charge, the privileged few permitted admittance walked a dimly lit corridor, past a mirrored wall reflecting a kaleidoscope of characters. Romeo Marshall, the club's owner, stood in the entranceway, greeting each of them personally, many by name, as he pointed them to the few remaining tables and the stools at the bar.

Within the inner sanctum of the club, a pale blue light cast an eerie glow over laughing, crying, flirting faces. On the dance floor, couples clutched each other tightly. Shuffling in small circles, their bodies melted one into the other. The heavy aroma of strong perfumes and stale tobacco filled the air, and vision was dulled by swirls of thick smoke that clouded the room. It was Saturday night and the room was filling to capacity as scented, powdered bodies swayed eagerly inside. The audience pushed toward the stage, rollicking to the music, bodies bumping shoulders to shoulders, hips to hips, barely enough room remaining for a swallow of air to pass between them all.

Heads bobbed in time to the music. Bodies swayed to the beat. The music was hot, the room was hot, and the heat was rising with each new body that entered the room. The sounds were low and husky, the guttural strains pressing at skin moist with perspiration. The vibration of the music could be felt deep down inside, creeping from the pit of liquor-filled stomachs, up into haze-filled minds, spreading its infectious spirit copiously throughout relaxed muscles, down into tingling limbs.

Along the rear wall, bodies were pressed tightly against the salmon-colored stucco. At many an occupied seat, creeping hands could be caught pressing along trembling thighs, groping anxiously at knees pressed tightly together. You could smell the passion, a heavy, musky aroma of wanton lust, its dampness glistening like stardust against sun-blessed skin drenched in salted sweat.

Romeo guided his staff with lingering looks, slight nods, and every so often a slight gesture of his hand. His body spoke for him, his eyes mouthing his words. He stood imposingly, his six feet, six and one-half-inch stature long and lean. Taut muscle massed his solid frame, his smooth, sable complexion complementing the vibrancy of his blue black eyes. He had a penetrating stare, piercing through the chaos of the crowded room. His eyes missed nothing, catlike in his observations, and observe he did. The Crayola cast that paraded about from night to night fascinated him.

The Playground was his personal concourse, nurturing the childlike qualities hidden within his soul. Moving passively from table to table, he'd instigate the games and establish the rules. His massive hands would tease, the long chocolate fingers stroking a bare back or resting lightly atop a crossed knee. Laughter danced on his thick lips, curling past snow white teeth lined perfectly in a row. His laugh was deep and rich, echoing in the hollows of his dimpled cheeks.

Born Lawrence Alexander Marshall, he'd been called Romeo since he'd been four years old. His mother's best friend had blessed him with the nickname, proclaiming the moniker his as he'd batted his long, ebony eyelashes at the old women in the Laundromat for a small piece of candy or an extra sugar cookie.

“He's going to be a Romeo,” she'd remarked, pinching his dimpled cheeks and planting kisses on his curly head. “Going to romance all them pretty girls, he will.”

For him, it had always been a game. A game he could play better than most, and now he only played whenever it suited him. Music had always fascinated him, but he had no particular talents in that direction and his mother had insisted he focus his attentions elsewhere. He had excelled athletically, baseball and track being his fortes. An athletic scholarship, betrayed by a knee injury his sophomore year, had opened the doors for a degree in engineering. After graduation and two years of starched white collars and navy blue suits, he'd realized the corporate boardroom was definitely not his calling.

Taking a yearlong hiatus, he'd traveled across the United States, settling for brief periods in the bars of New Orleans, New York, St. Louis, and Chicago. He'd spent his nights studying people who wandered as aimlessly as he did, searching for something that belonged only to him. Then one day, shortly after returning home to North Carolina, he'd found the Playground. It had been a deserted shell, inhabited by a dark infestation tainted with dirt and grime. Together with his fraternity brother Malcolm Cobb, they'd nursed it to health with the help of their savings, a small bank loan, much backbreaking labor, and their own salted sweat. Everything else had fallen into step with the music.

No night at the Playground was ever the same. The mood of the evening moved with the flow of the crowd, influenced by the voracity of the music. The tones would be sweet and rich one night, wicked and sultry the next. Romeo liked it that way. He'd spend his days ordering booze, balancing ledgers, paying bills, and counting cash. The daily routine was the same, never changing, but his nights were always varied. He'd successfully recreated a gin joint comparable to any of the hottest clubs that had rocked well before his time. Relishing the satisfaction of his accomplishments, he welcomed the onset of evening and all of its uncertainty.

The Playground was now the place to be and Romeo and Malcolm the men to know. The success of the Playground had propelled both right into the spotlight. Although Romeo was still driven by the desire to do and be more, he could bask silently in the warmth of already having attained a level of contentment and accomplishment others would never know. He found great satisfaction in that fact.

Warm air suddenly blew eerily against Romeo's neck as long arms snaked seductively around his chest. Soft lips, painted a vibrant red, brushed gently along his neck, teeth nipping lightly at his flesh. As pink polished nails were clasped firmly across his midriff, a familiar voice whispered hot against his ear.

“You still feel too good, lover.”

Romeo laughed, turning to encircle his sturdy arms around a lithe body draped in a fluid, black silk pantsuit. Brushing his lips against the woman's, Romeo savored the taste of wintergreen and mint. Allowing his hands to glide down her lean back, he rested his palms lightly at the rise of her buttocks.

“Not as good as you do, Roberta. How are you, darling?”

“Better. Now.”

Romeo laughed again. “So where have you been hiding yourself, lady?” he asked, the scent of her perfume suddenly too familiar.

Roberta shrugged, pressing herself closer to Romeo. “I wasn't hiding, honey. I just found a man who would
marry
me. I got tired of waiting for your good-looking behind.”

Romeo squeezed her gently. “So, you're happy?”

“Would have been happier if you'd married me, but I'm not complaining.” Roberta goosed him gently, resting her hand warmly on his backside.

“Woman, you know I am not a marrying man,” Romeo exclaimed. “I would have never made you happy.”

The woman chuckled. “True, but you sure knew how to make me feel good,” she said, kissing him again.

Romeo laughed with her, shaking his head from side to side. “So, where's this new husband of yours?” he asked.

“Home with the baby. It's ladies' night tonight.”

“A baby too!” Romeo exclaimed. “Damn, girl, you work fast!”

Roberta laughed again, a warm rise of noise that filled what little space there was between them. “So how about you? Who's got your heart?”

Romeo grinned. “You know that's a game I don't play, girl. I'm too busy trying to keep myself afloat to be in a serious relationship.”

Roberta nodded. “But business is good, right? I mean, the place is bumping! And everyone's talking about it.”

Romeo gestured toward the crowd, releasing his hold on the woman. “I can't complain. This place definitely keeps me on my toes.”

“I'm really happy for you, Romeo. You really deserve all your success,” Roberta said with a nod, her shoulder-length bob swaying from side to side.

He smiled, the lift to his mouth warm and seductive. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”

Roberta smiled back. “Well, I need to get back to my friends. I know they're peeing in their pants with envy,” she said, pointing to a table of women staring intently in their direction.

Romeo nodded, pulling her back tightly against him. “Mmmm,” he hummed. “Too bad you have a husband now.”

“Liar,” Roberta said with a slight giggle as she punched him playfully in the chest. “Stop by the table and say hello,” she said. “I'd love to introduce you to my girls.”

“I'll do that. And you take care of yourself,” Romeo said, placing his lips lightly atop hers, savoring the quivering lips one last time. He moved to kiss her gently against the cheek, whispering in her ear. “Got to give your girls something to talk about,” he said with a soft chuckle.

“Damn,” Roberta said, shaking in her six-inch heels. Squeezing his hands between her own, she paused briefly as a chill swept down her spine. “We could have been so good together, Romeo. Too bad you messed up.”

Romeo smiled broadly as he watched Roberta walk away, the familiar scent of her perfume fading with her departure, then lifted his hand to wave at the other women who still sat staring at him.

“You need to stop!” Odetta Brown, the head waitress, said with a deep laugh as she brushed past him.

“What?” Romeo asked. “I'm not doing a thing.”

“Uh-huh,” Odetta said, shaking her head. “Just keep it up and see if you don't get yourself in trouble.”

Romeo laughed with her. “I just can't help myself, Odetta. Some of my clients require a bit more attention from me than others.”

 

 

As Roberta sat back down her best friends began talking over themselves, each one eager to comment on what they'd just witnessed.

“I cannot believe you kissed that man!” Taryn Williams exclaimed, her tone scolding. “Did you forget you had a husband?” She narrowed her gaze on her associate.

Roberta giggled. “What I remembered was that my husband's not here right now and how that man could make me feel back in the day,” she replied. She took a big gulp of her vodka tonic, fanning herself rapidly as she swallowed. A wide grin spread across her face.

Taryn shook her head. She tossed Romeo Marshall a quick look, the man knee deep in conversation with another woman at another table. She rolled her eyes skyward. Everything about his demeanor told her he was no good for any woman looking for a relationship worth more than an ounce of salt.

“Please, tell me you did not date that man for long,” she said, giving the other woman a questioning look.

Their friend Marsha chimed in. “They didn't date. All they did was—” she started.

Roberta interrupted. “What we did was enjoy a mutually satisfying adult relationship. Don't hate,” she said.

Marsha laughed. “Like I started to say. What they did never took them out of bed. I doubt she even got a meal out of the deal.”

“Oh, I ate,” Roberta said with a laugh. “I ate very well, thank you very much! And he did too. In fact—”

Taryn held up her hand, stalling the crude comment she knew was coming from her friend's mouth. “Please, spare us the nasty details.”

Laughter rang around the table.

“Actually,” Roberta said after downing the last of the beverage in her glass, “Romeo is a really great guy and one day he's going to make the right woman an incredible husband. I just wasn't the right woman and we both knew it. But we knew how to have really great sex!”

Marsha shook her head. “I sure wouldn't mind riding him,” she said with a woeful sigh. “Just one time.”

Roberta laughed, her head waving from side to side. “He's not your type,” she said matter-of-factly. “I was thinking he'd actually be a great catch for you, Taryn.” She tossed her friend a raised eyebrow.

“Girl, please! That man's a dog. Pure hound,” Taryn answered as she rolled her eyes skyward. She tossed Romeo another quick look. “No, he's too much of a player for me,” Taryn added.

Roberta shrugged. “Girl, he is not that bad! I wouldn't count him out if I were you. He's one of the good guys and there aren't too many of them left. Trust me when I tell you!”

Taryn's gaze moved back across the room, eyeing Romeo curiously. As if he sensed her staring, his gaze suddenly turned in her direction, meeting the look she was giving him. Their eyes locked and held and then he smiled, a sly, seductive bend to his mouth that illuminated his dark face. She felt her breath catch in her chest as she tore her gaze from his, suddenly dropping her eyes to the table and the empty wineglass she twisted nervously in her hands. She took a deep breath and then a second.

Roberta bumped her shoulder. “If I were you I definitely wouldn't count that man out just yet.”