WOLF

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  WOLF

  Copyright © 2021 by Kenya Wright

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2021

  www.KenyaWrightBooks.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1THE STALKER’S SONG WOLF

  CHAPTER 2THREE STOOGES RED

  CHAPTER 3AND THE HUNGRY BEASTS SPOTTED HER. WOLF

  CHAPTER 4OH, WHAT BIG EYES YOU HAVE! RED

  CHAPTER 5THE RUSH INTO THE WOODS. WOLF

  CHAPTER 6THE BIG BAD WOLF RED

  CHAPTER7 AND SHE SWALLOWED HIM WHOLE. WOLF

  Chapter 1

  The Stalker’s Song

  Wolf

  Me,

  following her home.

  Her,

  thinking she's alone.

  Brown skin and red hair.

  Most nights she snuck off in jeans, boots, and a black scarf that covered half of her face. She understood the rules. If the cops and public didn’t know her identity, then they couldn’t blame her for the graffiti.

  I stayed several feet behind.

  She never noticed, never glanced over her shoulder, never wondered whose footsteps that was in the shadows, never cared. She had a goal. The buzz of creation. A dream. Some hot, throbbing thing that tugged at her insides and forced her to rush out into the evening, and create the vision burning through her chest.

  Bags of spray paint dangled in her hands. She crept all over Miami, decorating brick walls with the ill images that flashed in her mind.

  For hours, I watched her paint,

  I sat in the darkness.

  I marveled at her talent.

  Years ago, before the money and underground fame, I’d been just like her, a youngster with something to say, a rebel of street art, leaving my mark on public buildings, to taunt the government and humor the public.

  Now I was a business man. My graffiti covered public walls all over the world. A private company sold prints of my street images at insane prices, gave me my portion of the profits, and kept my identity secret, still to this day.

  People called me, Lobo.

  That was Spanish for wolf.

  Growing up in Miami’s Little Havana, every Cuban boy had a nickname that just stuck with them. Wolf clung to me, and then imprinted. As I grew older, with each year, I transformed into that creature, stalking and praying on many.

  And with her hair,

  so red,

  she’d caught my eye.

  Then, her murals captured the rest of me.

  My little red riding hood.

  Brown skin and long red hair.

  On the streets, I asked around about her. Someone claimed she was Cuban. Others decided she was a mix of something. People came up with many things—Black and White, Haitian and Cuban, Jamaican and Korean, and on and on. But no one truly knew. She kept to herself, not running in any of the other art circles in the city.

  So, I watched her.

  My little red riding hood.

  And in my bed and with my eyes closed, I pictured those red strands. My old ongoing nightmares shifted to fairytale dreams of a naive girl in red, just making her way to grandmother’s house, and me, the fierce beast that stood in the shadows, just waiting to take a bite of that soft flesh.

  During the day, her stilettos clicked on the streets of Miami.

  I stayed close by, whispering her name and wondering if one day she’d turn around and look my way.

  I dreamed of Red.

  I imagined her brown skin between my teeth, those crimson strands outlining her nude body, my tongue tracing long lines down the swell of her breasts, my nose breathing her in, no longer from a distance, but her naked body against mine,

  soft, twisting, and sliding down,

  our limbs entangled.

  And when I finally got a chance to thrust into that moist flesh between her thighs,

  nothing would save her,

  not grandma

  nor the lumberjack.

  Chapter 2

  Three Stooges

  Red

  Mary, Coco, and I left the elevator and stepped onto the twelfth floor of a swanky high-end apartment building in the Brickell District. That area was the posh part of Miami—where women’s fake lips formed artificial smiles and men’s gazes only fell on make-up-coated, ex-beauty queens.

  I hated Brickell, but the 420 party was located here, and wherever the marijuana went, I followed.

  The couple that had been riding the elevator with us, strolled by and waved at us. “Happy 420!”

  Like us, they were dressed in designer clothes and masks.

  I winked and waved back. “Happy 420 to you too!”

  The term 420 had embedded itself in weed culture even before I’d been alive. Most used it as a codename to identify other smokers. Some went as far as posting 420-friendly on their dating profiles. True stoners made 4:20pm their ceremonial time to partake of a smoke.

  Almost all celebrated and smoked April 20. It was our cannabis holiday. From London to Los Angeles. South Africa to Iran. One could yell out the term to strangers. If they smoked, they nodded and understood, maybe even shared a little something with the person.

  There were so many origin stories on the term 420. Crazy tales flooded the internet. Sites claimed that in the 70s a group of California kids coined the phrase due to that being the time they would always meet in a certain area and smoke. Apparently it caught on and spread. Old stoners declared that Grateful Dead fans made it up. Youngsters boasted about 420 being a plot from the government, some secret way to discover all of the weed violators.

  None of that mattered to me. I just loved having a day to smoke with others, to stop hiding and sneaking around with the habit, and to just have one day to freely say, in the privacy walls with a select group of people, “Let’s smoke!”

  I grinned. “I’m excited.”

  “Me too,” Mary said.

  Ignoring us, Coco scanned the hallway as if something was going to jump out and attack us. “So the party is behind the door that the couple went through?”

  I gazed at the black door. It lay several feet in front of us. The hallway had apparently been decorated for the event. The whole scene was straight from that movie, Eyes Wide Shut. There were polished marble floors and strings of tiny white lights that dangled down cream-colored walls. Every person entering the penthouse suite had on a mask.

  Even I.

  We all wore the same disguise, tiny silk marijuana leaves sewn into crushed velvet. The masks only covered the top half of our faces. They’d come with the invitation that had been mailed to my house in a huge, black envelope, with no address or name for the sender. Somehow I’d gotten the perfect number of masks. Three. One for me, and one for each of my best friends.

  Although April 20th represented one of the biggest holidays for weed connoisseurs, the drug wasn’t legal in Miami. So with this crowd, identities remained hidden and high-power jobs protected.

  “There’s no way I’m smoking here.” Coco tugged at her disguise probably to make sure it was definitely on. “I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t leave,” I begged. “We just arrived.”

  “I would rather smoke at my place,” Coco countered.

  Her long black bangs hung over the top of the mask. That dark brown flesh seemed to glow in the dim lighting of the space. Like me, she’d worn an all-black dress with heels that hugged her curvy frame and radiated pure elegance. The attire was so out of character for her. Coco liked gray slacks and pinstripes, business outfits that hid her breasts from the judges who ogled her as she fought for her clients in the courtroom.

  In the legal world, they called her Colleen Shaw, fighter of justice. To us, she was simply Coco, the grandmother of the group, Miss Boring and Responsible.

  “This is dangerous. We don’t even know who invited you here.” Coco studied the door. “And with your hair so freaking red and all the publicity you’ve been getting on your street murals, you’ll be recognized.”

  I stared longingly at the black door that sat at the end of the hallway. Every time someone opened it, laughter and jazz music escaped out, and excitement surged through my veins.

  “How did I let you convince me to come to this?” Coco asked.

  I tossed her an innocent smile. “My lawyer advised me not to answer any questions that might paint me in a harmful light.”

  In all fairness, I’d guilted her into putting the clothes on and even coming to this event. She’d missed my birthday and promised to make it up to me.

  Today, I cashed in.

  “I shouldn’t even be at this. . .party,” Coco continued. “What if the cops come and arrest everyone? That’s all I need right now—”

  “Cops don’t rush up to penthouse suites in Brickell and arrest people. When’s the last time you saw some big news report of rich people going to jail in this area?” I tucked my red hair behind my ear. “The cops are too busy harassing poor people.”
  Although I kept my mask on, there was really no need for me to wear it. Not many would know who I was, since I kept most of my face hidden. My Haitian parents gave me my rich brown skin, hustle, and fire hot attitude.

  Many thought I dyed my hair. I didn’t. My parents had four kids. I was the only redhead. Those odd red strands came from a recessive gene. Two copies of the gene had to be expressed. That meant both of my parents carried the gene somewhere in their bloodline.

  On both sides of my family, people whispered that my mother must’ve cheated with a white man. Due to that, my father demanded a paternity test. The results showed that I was his. Unfortunately, that didn’t help their marriage. They divorced a year later.

  And I carried the weight of their decision on my shoulders for too long. Sometimes, I dyed it black to fit in.

  When I grew up, I began to appreciate my oddness. My friends began calling me Red. And I embraced the nickname and my hair.

  I hope no one recognizes me here.

  Now more than ever, it was hard to stay under the radar. New Times Magazine had just released a full layout of my life and presented huge color photos of my top murals. In the pictures, the bottom half of my face remained hidden. Still, many knew it was me.

  I’m glad the host has us wearing masks.

  Coco grabbed my attention. “Red, I can’t believe I listened to you.”

  I held her hand, scared she’d run off and leave me at this place with Mary, who stood on my other side silent and high as a kite.

  Just to make sure she was still mentally with us, I turned her way. “Are you okay, Mary?”

  “The whole place is just vibrating with rhythm,” Mary whispered.

  I nodded. “O-kay.”

  “Like an African drum, beating hard like the heart beats of a tribe that has known so much strife. I’m talking death and starvation, maybe even some form of human trafficking and genital mutilation—”

  “Hold on, Mary.” I held my hand up to stop her. “Let’s finish this conversation, once we drag Coco inside of here against her will.”

  “I’m not going in there.” Coco pointed to the door ahead of us.

  I ignored Coco, dug into my pocket book, and gave Mary the small bottle of water I kept for emergencies like this. “Drink, Mary.”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Come on. Do it for the tribe.”

  Sighing, Mary grabbed it with her free hand. The other one was holding her shoes, that she’d apparently thought was okay to take off before walking into a high-end party. They were clear heels with gems that reminded me of Cinderella’s slippers, all sparkling and exuding hope that the owner would go to the ball and catch her prince.

  Too bad, Cinderella is already higher than a kite and won’t be able to see Prince Charming or anyone else at the ball this evening.

  She still looked regal that evening. Mary kept her hair pinned up. It was reminiscent of the classic 20’s—flapper girls and Great Gatsby fame.

  Mary and I had grown up together in Pork and Bean projects. It was one of the worst ones in Miami. The residents had named the area due to the fact that everyone who lived there was on government food assistance, which meant that you’re kitchen table held a whole lot of meals with pork and beans.

  I’d painted my way out of the slums. Mary escaped through spoken words that drew in large numbers of poetry lovers to any venue she showed up at.

  “You need to drink water, Mary.” I pointed to her shoes. “And put those back on.”

  “Fine. But why do we even wear shoes?” She dropped them to the floor and then unscrewed the water bottle in her hand.

  Coco frowned. “We wear shoes so we don’t get cuts and scrapes on our feet, or even better scare other people with those horrific toes.”

  “My toes are beautiful,” Mary replied between sips.

  Another group walked in and passed us—five men in masks and suits. Their cologne lingered behind, as they marched on to euphoria.

  “This is crazy.” I waved my hands in the air. “Let’s go inside. If only for a quick smoke and a look around.”

  “I don’t know. The invitation looked wonky.” Coco centered her attention on me. “Who invited you again?”

  “I already told you that I have no idea.” I shrugged. “I’m big news now. I get invited to tons of big events all over Miami, every freaking week. My mailbox is packed with envelopes. Sometimes, I go. Sometimes, I don’t.”

  “Yes, but how many of those invitations don’t have a sender’s name or address?” Coco asked.

  “Well, how many of those invitations are inviting me to a 420 party where we will be illegally smoking? I think it makes sense that the sender wanted to protect him or herself and remain private.” I crossed my arms. “Wouldn’t you have advised me to do the same thing, if I was having it?”

  “I would have told you not to have a party at all,” Coco said.

  “But if you approved it?”

  “I wouldn’t have.”

  “But—”

  “Do you both hear that?” Mary interrupted and leaned her head.

  “No,” Coco and I said in unison.

  “You really don’t hear the tribal drumming?” Mary whispered.

  I almost told Mary to finish the water, when the pounding hit my ears.

  “Oh shit.” I smirked. “There really is drumming coming from the penthouse. Tribal drumming.”

  Mary glared at me. “Of course there is. What am I, crazy or something? I’ve been saying that the whole time.”

  “Come on. I’m not standing out here another second.” I walked off, unable to contain my excitement anymore. Worst case scenario, Coco would leave and Mary and I would use Uber or some taxi service to get back home.

  “Are you really going in there?” Coco called after me.

  “Hells yes. There’s drumming and ganja.”

  “And I feel like the drummer is telling an important story,” Mary added.

  “O-kay.” I glanced over my shoulder at Coco. “Don’t you want to hear the drummer’s story?”

  Coco sucked her teeth. “It just sounds like a bunch of thumping over and over.”

  “No,” Mary said. “Listen with your third ear.”

  “Sorry, sweetie.” Coco followed us. “I only have two ears. I’m not as magical as you apparently.”

  “Hey, if we have a third eye, we all must have a third ear,” Mary argued.

  Coco got to my side and kept my pace. “I don’t believe we even have a third eye.”

  Outrage laced Mary’s voice. “What? We all have third eyes. You’ve never seen people paint an eye on their forehead, sort of like your brain has vision too?”

  “So if we put the third eye on our forehead, then where is this third ear supposed to be painted, on my neck?” Coco asked.

  I laughed at my friends. “Coco, I don’t even know why you’re sitting there discussing this seriously with her.”

  Mary got on Coco’s side and whispered, “Red is just mad because her ears are clogged with spray paint. That’s why she’s always getting her behind in trouble.”

  “Which is why I’m coming along.” Coco gripped my hand and then Mary’s. “We don’t know these people in here. Keep your masks on. You never know, but you could be smoking right next to your boss, preacher, or even a family member. Don’t talk to anyone—”

  “Well, that’s just extreme.” Mary gasped. “I didn’t wear these fuck-me heels to sit at the table with a joint all night.”

  Coco lowered her lips into a frown. “You better be joking. There will be no fuck me of anything happening this evening. It’s a freaking weed party, people. We joke with stoners. We party with stoners. We even get a hook up from stoners, but we don’t fuck stoners.”

  “That’s your rule.” I pointed at her. “Not mine.”

  Coco snorted. “You haven’t even dated in years, so it doesn’t really matter.”

  “I’m remaining career-minded.”

  “You’re just so caught up in your art, and high so much that you forget to talk to men,” Coco said.

  I stuck my tongue out at her. “Lies. All lies.”

  “I’m not even talking to you, Red. One day, I know you’re going to call me up and declare that you’re a lesbian.” Coco pointed to Mary. “I’m talking to Miss Hot-to-Trot over here.”

 

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