Wolf (Filthy Rich Alphas)

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.