“Eh!” Mary raised her hands. “Hey, I’m just saying. If the moment comes with a sexy guy, I won’t blush like a virgin and run away. It’s been a minute since I’ve had a sexual escapade. Almost a year.”

  I chuckled. “It’s barely been a month. You were just with Jeff at Marino’s. I know you both hooked up.”

  “Bad sex doesn’t count,” Mary said.

  I reached my hand out to open the door.

  Coco stepped in front of me. “Remember. We stick together. We don’t separate. Just because these people are smoking weed, doesn’t mean they always keep their drug use natural. There could be meth heads in there, waiting to rape a high female.”

  Silence passed between all of us.

  I released an exasperated breath. “As usual, Coco sucks the enjoyment out of the situation and scares the shit out of us.”

  Coco shrugged. “Better to be scared, than dead.”

  Chapter 3

  And the hungry beasts spotted her.

  Wolf

  People partied throughout my penthouse.

  I remained alone in my art studio, painting my obsession.

  My butler’s voice played from the bud in my ear. “Sir, Red has entered the first floor’s lobby. She is with two women.”

  I set the paintbrush down. “Let me know when she steps inside of the penthouse.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I studied the picture of Red next to me. I cut it out from a magazine. The image only revealed half of her face. In all interviews and photoshoots she tied the black scarf over half of her face and let those red strands outline her in mystery. That was how I spotted her in the first place. She’d been big news—a local street artist that had somehow managed to get world-wide attention for her murals.

  And those murals. . .

  Wynwood Art District was the only part of Miami where graffiti artists could legally cover up buildings to their hearts desire. It was the one place where if you drew on the sidewalk, you didn’t go to jail.

  The only unspoken rule: Don’t paint over other people’s work.

  I’d gone down to Wynwood, myself to witness Red’s murals, see if the images came alive like they did in the magazines.

  Dear God. Her murals.

  Red had a gift with color, but even more important, she owned the wall, made her viewpoint come alive right on the brick.

  Stunned, I’d stood there in front of Red’s massive mural, doing my best to process every choice in color and concept.

  A giant black woman covered most of the space. She was naked, sitting, and holding her legs toward her chest as if it were all she had left in the world.

  On her face, a mask hid her identity, one made of dead babies and rotting kids, their eyes closed to the world, their bodies graying. Red gashes decorated their tiny faces. Intestines dangled from their swollen bodies.

  And all around the giant woman, chaos happened on the ground under her. Tiny police pointed their guns at mysterious figures in black-hooded sweatshirts. Wicked men, with jeans hanging down to their knees, gripped crying women by their necks and appeared to be strangling the life out of them. Discarded liquor bottles leaked onto the floor and formed puddles where hypodermic needles floated.

  At the top of the entire mural, it read,

  Ode to Hip Hop: I used to love her.

  At the bottom she tagged the mural with her signature—a smoky woman covered in a red hood.

  Instantly, that mural sparked something inside of me.

  It woke me up.

  How long had I walked the streets and seen the same old drawings, or even worse, art that had basically been ripped off from my own creations? Where had all the innovators gone? Who would take the crown from me, and make the street art game even more. Something legitimized. Something taken on its core level.

  She’s definitely worthy of the crown.

  In that moment, it didn’t even matter what Red looked like. Desire burned through to every inch of my flesh. If she’d been there, I would’ve kissed her without saying hello, just rush to that lush frame, pull her into my arms, and explore her mouth with my tongue.

  From that point, I needed more of Red’s work.

  Like a wolf, drool dripped from my fangs and hunger ruffled my fur.

  Sun rays shifted to moonlight, and still I stayed in Wynwood, looking for more of her work.

  I was a meth head, trolling the streets like a drug-crazed zombie with my hands straight in front of me, licking my cracked lips and hungering for my next hit.

  My little red riding hood.

  I traveled the whole district, walking. With each step, I searched for more of her art. My limo driver slowly followed me down.

  My journey didn’t disappoint.

  Red painted more vivid images on each block. Naked witches that burned bouquets of roses on the beach under the moonlight. Men chained to their chairs, remote controls nailed to their hands, eye sockets spilling over with sharp knives that were shaped like dollar signs at the points. Television cords injected into little kids’ arms like tiny heroin addicts shooting up for the evening.

  Red had a lot to say, and refused to be ignored.

  The last mural I walked to that night, Red, herself, sat in front of it, smoking a joint and ignoring the few bums or neighborhood folk that traveled by.

  Hipsters and smokers were known to hang in the area, at all times of night. This late in the evening, no one bothered each other, and everyone let the artists chill and do their thing.

  It was all normal, but I was irritated.

  I realized that Red was too small for the streets, too soft-looking, too silky. Did she not worry about getting raped or attacked? What about the police who sometimes patrolled the area? Granted, Wynwood kept a cloud of marijuana smoke hovering over the district daily. Still, it was not legal to smoke. And there, she sat by herself, late at night, high and painting till her heart’s content. Music plugged in her ears.

  There’s no way she has a man. Not a real one. What man would let his woman sit outside in the middle of the night, high and on her own?

  I texted my limo driver and told him to go off until I needed him again. Once he left, I blended into the shadows, watched her paint, and then followed her home.

  It had only been to make sure she was safe, nothing more.

  That was what I told myself.

  Days later I found Red at a new wall, creating an even deeper vision, although I couldn’t tell anyone what she’d ended up painting. By then, I only focused on Red—the flexing of her arms as she raised them in the air and sprayed her images, the curves that she couldn’t hide underneath those painted-on coveralls, the lovely voice that filled the air as she sang out loud, her headphones snug in her ears.

  Instantly, my cock went hard.

  Within the shadows, I gripped the heavy length, needing to relieve the lust.

  And now she’s here, in my home. I can’t believe she actually answered my invitation.

  My assistant Pierre entered the studio. Pierre’s black hair was cut short. He wore a blue suit and cream shirt, just like he always did. Like me, he was Cuban, but spoke much better Spanish. He had worked me since my first mural sale.

  One night, I painted a large image of Abraham Lincoln smoking a joint and sitting on the shivering backs of crouching, naked black slaves.

  The image had been a dream, a weird vision after an all-day bong fest with my friend, Tito. We’d gotten so high our eyes were slanted, red, and hard to keep open. When I woke, I forced Tito to help me make the dream a reality. We’d stumbled through the streets at midnight with back packs full of spray paint that we’d stolen from the store. Black ski masks hid our faces, just in case. We thought we were being stealthy and mysterious. We were lucky we hadn’t gotten shot or arrested.

  Regardless, I chose the American Airlines Arena as my canvas. There was a Miami Heat game the next day, and I hoped to have some fun with the fans.

  I did.

  I spray painted it all, climbing a ladder that I’d had a friend later drive out to me. Tito fell asleep. No one knew why the arena security had never caught me. Luck had just been on my side. And the guard was probably sleeping in his car.

  I finished by dawn, right on time, dragged Tito home, cooked up ten eggs and eight slices of bacon for us, and then crashed on my couch. I’d had a decent apartment due to my day job doing IT helpdesk at a small start-up company.

  Later that day, I woke up to news reports of the mural on not just the local news, but CNN. While I slept, word of my art spread all over the world. The city had rushed tons of workers down there to paint over it.

  By the time the game started, the arena was back to solid white.

  Yet, Miami’s Museum of Contemporary Art announced that they would give half a million to the mural’s artist if he or she recreated the image on canvas.

  Tito went to the museum, dressed in a gorilla suit, and let them know that he was my representative. Used to dealing with ridiculous artists, they gave him the contract and delivered the canvas to an abandoned warehouse in Little Havana.

  I reproduced good ole smoking Abe, while my friends looked out to make sure no police or any of the museum officials snuck in to see my identity. Once the canvas was delivered, I got the check and appointed Tito as head man in my newly formed entourage.

  Later, I hired Pierre to represent me in all things from then on.

  My butler spoke into my earbud. “Sir, Red has entered the penthouse.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair.

  Pierre raised his eyebrows. “Any word, Wolf?”

  “She’s here.” I grabbed my white shirt and put it on.

  “Would you like me to get you something?” Pierre asked.

  “No. Keep the focus on her.”

  Pierre frowned, not being happy with my obsession of her.

  I ignored his discomfort. “Tell the staff to spoil Red and her friends.”

  “We’ve made them aware of it. However—”

  “Do it again. Give them whatever they want, champagne, the caviar drizzled in hash oil, anything. Even my own stuff to smoke with, from the crystal bong I got in Paris to the vape pen done in pearl. Red must be impressed.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And once their bellies are full and champagne glasses refilled, have my beautiful red-head come up to the rooftop through my private entrance.”

  “What do you mean, Wolf?” Pierre held his hands out. “Have her come up?”

  “Yes.”

  Pierre frowned. “What should I say?”

  “She’s a street artist.” I buttoned my shirt. “Tell her that I want to commission a mural for my wall on the rooftop. She’ll need to meet me up there for further details.”

  “Do you really want a commission?”

  I sneered at him. “Does it matter?”

  “Wolf.” Pierre shook his head. “Sometimes you can get a little. . .fixated, when you spot something that you like.”

  “She’s not a something. She is an amazing and talented woman. Of course there’s some obsession.”

  “This is worrying me.”

  “Then, calm yourself. What have I done to freak you out?”

  “You follow her home every night?”

  “To make sure she’s safe.”

  He hit me with a skeptical expression.

  “And who told you that, by the way?”

  A wrinkle appeared at the center of his forehead. “Your staff.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Alright.” Pierre placed his hands in his pockets. “And what if she decides she doesn’t want to come up to the roof with me. I’m a strange man. She has no idea who is throwing this party. Correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “What if she asked? Do I give her your real name or one of the others you use?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. Just get her up here.”

  Pierre opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again, “Wolf, I’m worried that she might be a bit scared to go with me, if I don’t even say who wants the commission. I should at least provide a name.”

  “Well, the name Wolf won’t calm her nerves. That name would probably scare her.”

  “I agree. Or it could turn her into a fangirl. And completely blow your secret identity.”

  “You know what?” I chuckled to myself. “Tell her that Dr. Sheep wants to see her.”

  “Dr. Sheep?” he asked.

  “Get it, a wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

  He frowned. “Well-played.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I would like to keep my opinion to myself.”

  “Okay. Well, just keep a straight face, when you say it, please.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Shaking his head, Pierre headed off, and I hoped everything would work according to plan.

  I gazed back at the image of Red.

  She’s inside my home.

  I headed out of my studio, walked to the end of the hall that lead to the top of the staircase, and then I peered down at the party below me.

  People crowded my penthouse, tons of masked executives and models, entertainment people and even a few hidden politicians.

  Every year, I held a 420 party, since the first time I’d heard the term.

  Being a true stoner, street artist, and computer geek, I devoured every magazine that related to marijuana, art, and computers. I’d first discovered the term in High Times magazine.

  Apparently back in the 70s, a group of California teens would sneak off to a statue after school and smoke to their hearts content. The statue had been of no true importance, a memorial to some famous microbiologist. What had snared my attention was the fact that this group met at that spot each day, at the exact same time.

  4:20pm.

  It became their thing. They’d used the phrase as a code word. The editor of the magazine found the story so inspiring, he declared that everyone should smoke at 4:20pm, no matter where they were around the world.

  My 420 parties carried their own reputations. I provided the most expensive marijuana leaves, smoking tools, and munchie-quenching snacks.

  At times, I had products shipped from all over the world.

  For this party, my servers showcased a new strain of marijuana named Oracle. One seed cost two hundred dollars. One plant—a thousand dollars. The actual bud was priced well past that. I’d spent six figures to supply it for my guests.

  It didn’t dent my pockets, but the weed bill had made me gasp.

  You’ve come a long way.

  When I was a toddler, my parents brought me over to Miami on a battered boat. I still didn’t know how we’d made it through that treacherous sea journey from Cuba to America.

  That being said. Life served us well in the States, even if every parent-teacher conference, I had to translate for my mom.

  I was a good kid. Being that my dad had a heavy hand, and my mom a no-nonsense tongue, I kept my butt in school and studied hard. My teenage years made me silently rebellious. I still got good grades, but at night, I snuck out of my bedroom window and painted the streets. When I graduated from high school with all honors and a full scholarship to MIT, my mother cried and my father beamed with so much pride, people in our neighborhood thought he’d won the lottery.

  After college, I bought them a car.

  After graduate school, I bought them a house.

  And after my first million, I retired them both.

  Yeah. I’ve come a long way.

  Yet, last year. . .

  my mother had complained, “Where are my grandkids?”

  I put my back to her and rolled my eyes. “I don’t have time for marriage and kids.”

  My mother was a short woman compared to my six feet, she hurried after me. “You don’t have time for marriage and kids, but you have time for drugs?”

  “Marijuana is my brain food.”

  “Your brain doesn’t need anything to eat. It needs love.”

  Sighing, I faced her. “I date.”

  “No, you just have women in and out of that penthouse.”

  I’d raised my eyebrows to that comment. “And how do you know that?”

  “Because when I come over to tidy up—”

  “Tidy up? Really, Mom? I have a staff that cleans. You are not going over to tidy up.”

  “I am,” she argued.

  “Tidying up? That’s what you call snooping around my place?”

  “I go to make sure your staff is doing a good job. What do I find? Women’s stuff thrown around? Their bras and panties under the bed and everywhere else. What type of woman walks out of a man’s home without her bra and underwear?”

  I smirked. “A good woman.”

  She wagged her wrinkled finger at me. “That’s why they call you Wolf.”

  “You started that name, when I was six.”

  “Well, it’s grown on you. You’re being a wolf. You need a good Christian woman.”

  “Listen.” I held my hands together as if for prayer. “I like good Christian women. I’m just a fan of the ones that don’t wear panties?”

  She snorted. “You treat love like some game between predator and prey.”

  “Hey. Who’s giving you your information?”

  “The discarded panties are a good sign.”

  “I’m a good wolf.” I raised my hands in the air. “Besides, wolves are cousins to dogs, which are surely man’s best friend.”

  She pointed at me. “You chase women.”

  “Maybe they shouldn’t run.”

  “But when they stop running, you discard them.”

  “I am a wolf after all.” I shrugged.

  Mom had cursed several times in Spanish after that. It had taken her a few years to grasp the English language, but still when she got angry, foreign wickedness rushed out of that kind mouth.

  Laughing, I pushed my mom’s last conversation out of my mind and directed all of my attention on Red.

 

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