Mom had been right. I enjoyed my conquests. Women served as a sport, nothing more. I couldn’t tell anyone why it was that way.

  My childhood never taught me this. In fact, my parents were the opposite of my life.

  My father worshipped Mom—held the door open for her still to this day, even though his arthritic fingers found it hard to grip most knobs. When she walked on the sidewalk, he made sure to keep himself between the traffic and her. If a car should happen to wander on the pavement, he wanted to make sure he was the first person to be hit, not Mom.

  When he braked the car and she sat in the passenger seat, he held his arm out in front of her to keep her safe, scared that she’d tilt forward and bang her head on the glove compartment.

  Dad cooked for her on the weekends, while she sat on the couch with her feet up. He brought her a tray, and half the time she didn’t even have to go up and get a napkin or the salt and pepper.

  He wrote poetry. Not just scribbled lines for anniversaries, but journals and journals of words that imprinted into tattered stained pages. Some of those books of poems had been older than me, and had even traveled on the boat with us. He’d stuck them in several plastic bags and taped the thick things to his chest.

  Dad had been a fool in love,

  drunk on Mom,

  high on harmony and the other things that made people go crazy.

  On rainy Sunday afternoons, they’d sit together and whisper into each other’s ears.

  They were crazy with passion, and I loved to see it,

  knew Mom was a queen,

  knew she earned his affections,

  knew she should get even more just for all her woman’s work.

  But, I was not my dad, and no queen of my mom’s caliber walked the pretentious concrete jungles of Miami.

  Most of them had silicone asses that remained stiff and never jiggled. Their jaws were sunken in from starving themselves on the latest fad diet. Lips puffed out like clowns. Fake nails that stuck to their fingertips like claws. Their speech matched a gold digger’s drawl—giggling at the appropriate times and gasps of awe at any rich man’s accomplishments. They turned away from the regular guys, yet snapped their heads to attention when a supposed baller walked through. And every chest bulged out unnaturally.

  I hadn’t caressed a real breast since high school, didn’t remember anymore how one would feel within my fingers. Were they still soft? Did fingers still melt between those pillows?

  I didn’t care anymore if the woman’s breasts hung down to her belly button or were smaller than a grape. I just needed to grasp onto one real breast in Miami.

  Instead, I would get the opposite.

  Fakes.

  All of them.

  And it didn’t stop there.

  Plastic eyelashes.

  Weave hung from every head, no matter what race, and it sat there in large bushels, hiding those caked-up faces. I’d seen Barbie dolls that looked more real than some of the women I’d bedded. Puffed-up, injected lips that stuck out of their faces. Tight see-through clothes. Everything out and bared for any man to see.

  They laughed, when I told jokes, that even I didn’t find funny, just spoken to test them. They pretended not to know I was rich, yet questioned the cost of my cars and slyly begged to see my penthouse.

  Mom hoped I’d settle down and have grandkids.

  I just hoped I wouldn’t continue to get swept away in this artificial universe where people only smiled and loved one another for status and what they were worth, instead of peering into the souls that grappled within.

  They called me, Wolf, and so I stalked and attacked like one.

  I found a woman that caught my eye, followed the female around, checked her out, fucked her hard, and then went on my way, as any good wolf would do when no longer hungry.

  And now we have poor little red riding hood.

  I scanned the packed room and found her now off in the corner, giggling and passing a gold-papered joint with her two friends.

  Those lips are real, so full. I can’t wait to have them around my cock. What else is real on you, Mami? Are you everything your art suggests you are? Deep thinker? Revealer of the bullshit of society? Woman? A real woman?

  My phone buzzed.

  I checked the text on the screen from my assistant.

  Pierre: I talked to her and brought over a specially rolled joint.

  Me: What did you roll it with?

  Pierre: Oracle.

  Me: Good. Did you tell her about the rooftop invitation?

  Pierre: I did, but I’m not sure if she will be alone. One of her friends was pretty adamant about her not going, and that they needed to stick together.

  Me: Send Tito over there. He’ll keep her friends busy.

  Pierre: Yes, sir.

  Chapter 4

  Oh, what big eyes you have!

  Red

  Rich guys and their need to be down with the art scene.

  I sucked my teeth and followed the odd guy in the blue suit up the stairs.

  Let’s hope this guy has some taste. His place looks nice, but would he get my work? The décor is a bit much. He’s uptown, and I’m downtown.

  The penthouse was exquisite—two stories, twenty feet ceilings, crocodile-textured doors, and polished marble floors. Every massive window displayed a panoramic view of the city—high-rise luxury buildings sparkled. The moon and stars glowed in the sky. We’d passed a state of the art kitchen with granite counters and stainless steel finishes. One of the bathrooms I’d used had leather walls.

  Leather walls? Who would have thought that it could work?

  “I’m sorry, but. . .” I continued to follow the guy up the stairs. “What is your name again?”

  “Pierre.”

  I smiled. “Thank you. I’m usually better with names, but right now I’m a bit. . .”

  “High,” Pierre finished for me. “I understand. That tends to be what people do at 420 parties.”

  “Have you been to others?” I asked.

  “Dr. Sheep has had these parties every year since I’ve been working with him.”

  “How long has that been?”

  “A long time.”

  Is it me or is Pierre acting suspicious?

  After I smoked and dealt with situations, it was always unclear of whether I swam in a paranoia high or if something dubious was actually going on.

  Weed was funny that way. One had to battle with maintaining mental balance while suspended in a state of intense euphoria.

  I’m too high to talk business. I should have said no. That joint packed some powerful stuff. I should’ve listened to Coco.

  When we’d entered the penthouse, a golden joint arrived to us as if delivered by God himself. Coco didn’t try it. After dating so many Jamaican smokers in her youth, she’d adopted some fuzzy doctrine about the do’s and don’ts of marijuana.

  She never inhaled a joint that she didn’t make herself, never used a bong unless cleaned by her own hands, and never touched a pipe, unless she’d bought it.

  In the past, Mary and I agreed with her thought process.

  And then the golden joint came. The paper encased the leaves and shined in a bright, metallic glow.

  The server than proceeded to explain the quality of the joint to us. “The paper is 24 karat gold.”

  Coco put her hand up as if to say stop. “Let’s just quit the dialogue right now. I don’t think you can even smoke gold.”

  He continued, “The paper burns slowly for a calming effect that—”

  “The paper also fills up your lungs with gold, apparently,” Coco snapped. “Am I the only one who thinks that smoking gold is dangerous?”

  I put her hand down. “Would you just let him finish, please?”

  “I’m asking the questions that need to be asked,” Coco argued. “The man is telling us to smoke gold. That can’t be healthy.”

  “There’s no way to truly smoke healthy,” the server offered.

  “That’s your response?” Coco widened her eyes. “Really? Hey, smoking is already unhealthy, let’s add gold, and then later let’s pour on some ammonia—”

  “Coco, please,” Mary begged.

  “Fine,” Coco said.

  “I do know that the papers are made with edible gold,” the server offered as Coco loudly snorted. “And that the gold doesn’t go to your lungs.”

  “Then, where does it go?” I asked.

  “The gold sits on the ashes after the joint is done. I had your same concerns too and then I researched it.”

  Coco tossed him a skeptical look. “You researched it?”

  I shook my head. “Chill out.”

  “I’m just saying.” Coco shrugged. “Well, then, let’s hear your research.”

  “I read that rats were tested and there was no gold inhalation.”

  “So someone got poor rats high for the purpose of testing out gold rolling paper?” Coco rolled her eyes. “With all the things happening in the world, unarmed black boys getting shot by police, the economy raping everyone, the government playing toddler games in DC, and here we have rats now being forced to get high.”

  “Perhaps, you would feel better if I provide you with your own rolling paper and leaves,” he said.

  “No, thank you.” She pulled out her vape pen that looked just like a normal e-cigarette, but held high-grade hash oil. “I’m about clean inhalation. With this, at least the smoke to my lungs is eliminated, and instead I get lovely THC vapors.”

  “Hash oil is the crack of marijuana,” Mary smirked and took the joint from the server. “That stuff is too strong.”

  “Better than getting gold in your lungs.” Coco pressed the button on her vape pen. A blue light glowed. She sucked. A fruity-scented steam escaped her nostrils. “And joints are so ten years ago.”

  Mary smirked. “This from someone who used to roll their joints with bible paper in college, when she was out of money.”

  The server handed me my own golden joint.

  “Ignore them, please.” I studied the crisp paper. It shined between my two fingers and smoothed against my skin. “What marijuana is this rolled with?”

  “Oracle,” he said.

  I brought it to my nose and inhaled. A fruity fragrance hit my nostrils—sort of a citrus mixture of squeezed oranges and lemons. “God, that smells good. What are Oracle’s strains?”

  Coco rolled her eyes again. “Red always turns into a botanist, when the weed comes out.”

  “Oh, shut it.” I stuck out my tongue.

  The server cleared his throat. “Oracle bud has a forty-five percent THC level and is a three way stable cross between Euphoria Unlimited bud, Elephant Bud, and Ultra-Fast. Euphoria makes the high long. Some have reported an eight-hour high from just one joint—”

  “Me likey.” I clapped again.

  Coco blew out more vapors. “Someone may need an intervention. Who needs to be high for eight hours straight?”

  Now, barely a half an hour later, I wondered if I would’ve still been walking upstairs to some rich guy’s roof, had I not smoked the Oracle.

  Granted, I needed a commission. While my fame grew, my funds had not.

  Relax. It will be okay.

  Fame and fortune didn’t go hand in hand, but it was nice when they did. Someone could easily be known and celebrated all over the city, yet broke as hell. I was hoping to not be in that situation. Bills needed to be paid. Rent would be due next month. I always had to get new colors of paint.

  Almost at the top of the stairs, I gazed up at the man in the blue suit. “What type of name is Dr. Sheep anyway?”

  Pierre said, “I believe it is a. . .family name.”

  “Where is his family from, Australia or maybe he’s British? I think I know a guy with the last name Lamb from London.”

  “Dr. Sheep will have to explain the origin of his name.” Pierre approached the top of the stairs and held the door open. “He should be out shortly.”

  I stayed on the top step and didn’t walk through. “I’m just going to wait on the roof?”

  “Yes. He should be here soon.”

  Unease sat at my gut, but I walked onto the rooftop.

  Being high helped. Everything seemed more relaxed.

  The door shut behind me with a slam. I jumped from the movement and then laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

  The ganja whispered in my ear, “Hey, it’ll all going to work out, man. No worries. Oh look, snacks.”

  And sure enough, a table sat at the center of the rooftop covered in silver plates and bowls with decadent dishes. Bushels of roses filled the vases on top. Candles surrounded each one.

  Candles and roses? That’s a first for a commission meeting? Maybe, he was already going to use this space for something special, and then decided to have a quick talk with me up here?

  In a darkening violet sky, stars glimmered above. The penthouse was in the center of Brickell, and its nightlife ad just woke up. The beginning noises of luxury partying rose and met my ears—taxies honking, men laughing, high heels clattering against pavement, live music drifting out of five star restaurants.

  On the roof, I approached the table, searched for anything coated in chocolate, and devoured several pieces of heavenly treats.

  A dark voice sounded behind me. “Hello, Red.”

  Munching in pure enjoyment, I twisted around with my hand holding a brownie in mid-air and spotted a tall man in front of me. “Murmo.”

  Great. You look like an idiot. Note to self, don’t smoke and then do business. Better yet, don’t talk business with your mouthful.

  I swallowed down the food and hoped chocolate wasn’t smeared over my front teeth. “I’m sorry. Hello.”

  “That’s fine. I’m Dr. Sheep.” He curved his full lips into a smile.

  It was in that moment, my chest tightened.

  He wore the same marijuana leaf mask that I had on, but instead of hiding him away, the mask added an air of mystery. That mouth of his, appeared even tastier than the treats on the table. His lips were full and curved like the pout of one of those cherub angels, yet they were mounted within a hard jaw.

  He’s a bad boy.

  I didn’t do bad boys, or men in general these days. My art demanded a higher priority. My murals kept me clothed, eating, living under a roof, and mentally happy. From my past love life, I’d learned that men served as a distraction.

  Just business with this one.

  Yet. . .I continued to study him.

  He’d said nothing else as I painted every inch of his image with my gaze. I had a thing for doing that. Just staring at a particular person for long moments at a time, before even saying hello. Mostly, I was just imprinting their features in my head to use for something later. People had unique expressions and details that others didn’t share. Some faces and bodies triggered creation.

  This man. . .well. . .this man served as a buffet of inspiration.

  He was tall, at least six feet. Tanned complexion. Long, dark brown hair. He wasn’t bodybuilder huge, not like the cross-fit addicts that probably jacked off secretly to old posters of Arnold Schwarzenegger. However, he still had a medium-sized frame, one that probably resulted from a decent concentration on what he ate, and at least three days in the gym.

  I loved his style too.

  Miami fashion symbolized sunlight, beach time, and partying. Comfortable and light clothes trumped tight and heavy fabrics. That being said, he had that sexy, effortless chic. He wore a blue-green linen top with half sleeves, and tan pants.

  Then there were the sandals.

  I must’ve stared at them for several seconds. Another consequence of being blown out of my mind. Everything around me garnered more concentration and had more meaning. Everything was a source of creation, even something as small as a pair of men’s shoes.

  They were definitely leather with double straps over the top of his feet. However on the surface, images were carved into a design. I squinted and tried to get a better look.

  His dark voice broke my concentration. “You like my sandals?”

  “Yes. What’s the image?”

  “Wolves eating each other.”

  I took a step closer and examined them some more. “You like wolves?”

  “No.”

  I snapped my attention to him.

  A smirk sat on his face.

  He’s lying. Why? Wait a minute. Stop thinking. You’re high. Stay in the present moment.

  “There called monk shoes. Hand-stitched. Each pair is $7, 350—”

  Annoyed, I waved away the rest of the information. “Who did the wolves?”

  He parted his lips for a second as if I’d caught him off guard. “Uh. I don’t know.”

  “For that much money, they should tell you who did the design. It’s amazing. Anyway.” I extended my hand. “Hello, Dr. Sheep.”

  “Hello to you too.” He gazed at my hand. “Did you enjoy the Oracle?”

  “You sent the gold joint?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.” I kept my hand in front of me. “It was heavenly. Remind me to return the favor one day.”

  He said the next words as if it was a funny question. “You’re going to smoke me out, one day?”

  “Yes. It’s only fair.” I shrugged. “It won’t be Oracle. It’ll probably be regs, truthfully. I don’t have the money for the high-end stuff.”

  “That’s fine. I’m definitely going to take you up on that.” Smiling, he captured my hand.

  I could’ve sworn he licked his lips like a wild beast ready to take a bite, but that had to be my own high imagination. At the appropriate moment, I attempted to pull my hand away. He tightened his grip just a little and kept my hand encased in his. A warmth spread through me.

  It couldn’t have been him inciting my body to react. It had to be something else—the marijuana, brownies, the electricity in the air between us, the bright stars glowing around the moon, my lack of love life, my feeling at peace.

  It couldn’t have been this man, making me ache between my thighs.

  And they ached,

  so bad I squeezed them together and bit my bottom lip.

 

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