Wolf (Filthy Rich Alphas)

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.