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.