Wolf (Filthy Rich Alphas)

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.