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Natural light flows through the house all day long, the open plan making the transition between the rooms a breeze.
There’s a stone fireplace on the patio, and a couple more are carved inside the house.
Stairwells connect the first floor to the second level, where I sometimes choose to sleep. Most of the time, I end up on the couch in the living room where I work.
The first floor alone is spacious enough to host a ball.
Relishing the cold feel of the marble against my soles, I pivot and crack the fridge door open. Fruit and juices. And vegetables. Hmm. I’m really hungry, and I'm itching to go out for the first time in months.
The weather is perfect.
It’s getting close to the point where it’s cold enough to slip on a pair of jeans and even boots if you care for fashion.
But it’s Florida, after all, and I could wear shorts and flip-flops without getting frostbite.
I jog upstairs and walk into the closet.
Veering from fancy clothing, I scoop out a skintight tank top and jeans from a drawer.
I put them on, fasten my belt, pull on a pair of scuffed biker boots, and throw on a leather jacket before I slip outside.
I make a short stop in the ensuite bathroom, run my fingers through my messy hair, touch up my eyeliner, and pull away.
I pick up the car keys from the counter and swish outside.
A Harley would match my attire, but my bike is in the shop, so the black ’67 Camaro will do. The gates lock swiftly behind me when I leave my property.
I pulled in front of Jill’s around nine o’clock.
It’s a medium-sized bar in a so-so area. A favorite stop for bikers, sketchy characters, late-nighters, and hookers. The crowd has gotten a lot younger this year. By younger, I mean older than me, but mostly under thirty.
I used to come here frequently and be one of the established patrons, but when the summer hit and the humidity started to lick my skin, I took a break.
For a few months, I rarely, if ever, went out.
I bring the car to a smooth stop not far from the entrance. The sidewalks are packed, the roaring sound of the exhaustion pipes turning a few heads.
I’m hardly an attention seeker.
I spent a great deal of time and money to keep a low profile, paying the personal price that comes with it.
Whether it’s keeping people I care for, like Adele and Mark, at a distance or not making new friends and having them over at my house.
Besides Harper, who worked at my place a couple of times, and the people I employ to work around the house, no one knows who I am, what I do for a living, or where I live.
I’m not keen to draw attention to myself here either, but I love this car, the loud engine being one of the reasons, and then the way it rolls onto the open road.
I turn off the engine, collect my phone and keys, and slither out.
A couple of SUVs are parked in front of the entrance. Men clad in jeans and tank tops lean against them.
A few feet away, a couple of women are smoking and chatting.
They’re too sober to be patrons and too scantily clad not to be working girls.
Noisy like a bunch of kindergartners, the men shout, laugh, and curse, putting out a show to garner the women’s attention.
What do I know?
