Mine

by Kenya Wright

  Swim.

  I considered checking on Baptiste. He was next door. While he wasn’t a fan of the resort’s clothing optional stance, he enjoyed the luxury and peace. I had a vacation home in Jamaica that was further away, tucked in a private bay. But the home brought back too many memories for him, so we planted ourselves here.

  No. I’ll let him sleep.

  The suite opened up right on the beach. On this side, it was only Baptiste and me.

  Naked, I placed a towel on my shoulder and left my room. The dark night sky glittered above. Off in the distance, waves crashed off. When I reached the point where water and sand met, I dropped my towel, raced forward, and dove in. My muscles flexed with the movement. Cold liquid swallowed me up. The ocean held me in this liquid embrace.

  Relax.

  I took my feet off the bottom and sank down into the cold, dark water, holding my nose with one hand and shutting my eyes. Waves circled me. Suspended in watery darkness, I thought about a mermaid coming to take me away. Some sea nymph with big breasts and stiff nipples, yearning for a human with a big cock to suck on. Unfortunately, I surfaced with no luck of a mermaid.

  Zola’s locket slipped back and forth on my chest, riding the water. She was my best friend, York’s sister. In some ways, she was my sister too—not by blood, but by love. Their mother had adopted me when I was thirteen. She’d been eight at the time.

  York and I had been best friends since kindergarten. Around elementary school, York’s mom, Mrs. Ellen started noticing the burns on my skin. By middle school, Mrs. Ellen filed a case with social services and battled for custody. My mom went to jail later. Social services and Mrs. Ellen thought they knew the whole story of my abuse. I’d just stopped at the soft parts.

  For the rest of the time, I lived with York’s family. At eighteen, I joined the Army. By then, Zola was fifteen. I visited on the holidays, watching her become more stunningly beautiful with each trip.

  She was tall—a little over six feet. A book nerd turned model by accident. Rich, chocolate skin. Large, expressive eyes. Heart-shaped face. Delicate lips. Brown, unruly curls.

  I’d never touched her, never tried. Had she stayed that bony little kid with the braids, life would’ve been easier. But she turned eighteen, shifting into lush curves and throbbing flesh—and it got to the point where I couldn’t hug her on the holidays without going hard.

  My feelings for Zola were complicated, a dark urge hidden far away, in a chained box at the bottom of an ocean. I hadn’t been home for the holidays in five years. I planned on fixing the cowardice problem. Now I was thirty, and she was twenty-five. Surely, I’d gained control.

  One problem at a time. Mourn Nakita. Help Baptiste. And then, deal with Zola.

  Floating in the dark ocean, I gripped the locket tighter as if the more I touched it, the more things between Zola and I would be fixed.

  For all this time, that little trinket had managed to appear brand new. I’d made modifications throughout the years. The heart’s sides had been reinforced with titanium to keep it waterproof. A jeweler had put a Z behind the heart in diamonds, along with a GPS chip.

  Just clear your head.

  Letting go of the locket, I swam far off into the ocean, not caring what slipped and slid deep within the waters.

  An hour later, I made it back to my room, showered, and ordered food.

  I’d been pouring myself the expensive whiskey when my phone rang.

  A knock came at the door.

  I opened it.

  The phone rang again.

  Room service pulled in a large cart covered with fresh bread and slabs of pate and foie gras.

  I grabbed my phone and checked the screen.

  York’s name appeared.

  I answered. “York, what’s up?”

  Room service left.

  “You’ve been quiet for the past few weeks,” he said.

  “I’m always quiet, but that’s not why you’re calling.” I picked up a butter knife, selected the thickest piece of foie gras, and smeared it on warm bread.

  “Are you busy?” York asked.

  “No.” I stuffed my mouth, relishing in the savory excellence.

  York’s voice sounded tense. “It’s Zola.”

  I swallowed the food and dropped the knife on the plate. My cock went hard. Need rose inside of me, uncoiling into heat.

  Stop it. Calm down.

  I stepped away from the table. “What happened?”

  Worry tinged York’s voice. “Zola has a stalker. Her bodyguard isn’t doing shit about it. Meanwhile, this creep has been going further and further.”

  “Like what?”

  “He started mailing her letters two months ago. I’ve got pictures.”

  “Send them to my phone.”

  “I am,” York said. I heard movement on the other side and hoped he was doing it now. York continued, “Then, this creep showed up at events.”

  “Why are you just telling me now?” I tried to keep my anger out. “Don’t ever let things go this far, when it comes to her. She’s a top model. Thousands of men salivate over her every day.”

  I wasn’t shocked she had stalkers. I’d been stalking her for years.

  “You’re right, Hunter. I’m sorry. You haven’t even heard the worst. Zola swears the stalker has stolen her panties. All of the red ones went missing.”

  If I was taking her panties, it would be the red ones too. But you’re not me, motherfucker. Your games are done.

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “I’ll be in New York tonight.”

  “You?”

  “Me.”

  “It’s just that…I figured you would send one of your men. Not handle it yourself.”

  “No.” Zola’s face flashed in my head. Lust vibrated through my body. I was hornier than I’d ever been in my life. I knew I would have to jack off before seeing her.

  “Do you want me to tell her you’re coming?” York asked.

  The day of reckoning has arrived. I’ll have to explain why I broke off communication.

  “No, don’t tell her I’m coming.” I touched the locket. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “You won’t see me. Unfortunately, I’m not in New York.”

  I twisted the locket in my hand. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Tokyo. I’m trying to set up a soda endorsement for her.” York had been managing Zola’s career for the past years. So far, I assumed he’d been doing a good job. No one complained, not that I stayed in touch enough to find out.

  “When are you coming back?” I asked.

  “In two weeks, so… let’s make sure we maintain our temper, Hunter.”

  “I don’t do anger management.”

  York sighed. “Okay, man. Just don’t…have me regret this.”

  “Thanks for the support.” I hung up.

  Worry hit me. It had been five years since I’d seen Zola. My feelings for her still felt wrong.

  In this world, I’d dealt with a lot of shitty, violent, rapey men. For once, I was trying to be a part of the male population that stood for something more than their cocks and money.

  I must maintain control.

  My emotions shifted whenever she was around. Even when we were both young, she did that to me. She would crawl into my bed. It was never sexual. I was thirteen. She was eight. I’d just been happy to be comforted, to feel someone near me. Growing up in a house without my actual family, sometimes loneliness closed in. Sometime only darkness served as my anchor.

  Zola became my light.

  Every night, I pretended to be asleep, and she would sneak in my bedroom with her teddy bears, place them on my pillow, and then pass out right next to me. And as soon as she dozed off, I pulled her close, hugging her and secretly pretending she was my mom.

  Every morning, when I woke up, she’d be gone.

  We never talked about it.

  Then, I grew older, and she did too. I would come back from military duty. By then, Zola was seventeen, and I was
twenty-two. Unfortunately, she figured we could cuddle like we used to. But I knew better.

  My bedroom door clicked.

  I opened my eyes and grabbed the gun under my pillow. After being in Special Forces for so long, sleeping with a gun had become a habit. The door screeched open, and I remembered as I woke up that I wasn’t on base.

  I was home.

  Still, I waited.

  A small shadow tiptoed across the wall. I already knew whose lovely shadow it belonged too. Barely a second passed before my comforter shifted, and Zola slipped onto my right.

  I closed my eyes, not wanting her to leave, but knowing that we were no longer kids. I was a man, and although she was growing, she was no woman yet. My heart raced. Dark urges roared inside of me, telling me that the cuddling would be okay.

  But I knew it wouldn’t.

  Zola scooted closer, right next to me, and placed her hand on my chest. She was so warm and soft. The shit scared me.

  Fast, I grabbed her wrist.

  She gasped.

  “Go back to your room, Zola.”

  She trembled. “I thought you were asleep. I wasn’t going to stay.”

  “Then what were you going to do?”

  “Cuddle with you a little.”

  “We’re too old to cuddle, Zuzu.”

  She swallowed. “Then, what can we do?”

  I couldn’t let myself fall into the things that I was imagining. “Goodnight, Zuzu. We’ll hang out in the morning.”

  She left, and she had to. I wouldn’t have wanted to just hold her as she slept anymore. I wanted to caress her soft skin and cup that ripe, curvy ass. I wanted to taste those stiff little nipples that had begun getting hard against my chest as we hugged. After she left, I locked my door. And from then on, I locked it before sleeping.

  Stop thinking about that shit. Focus on the present. Her stalker.

  My phone buzzed.

  I checked it.

  York had sent five pictures of the stalker’s messages. Each image showed a letter with only one word scribbled over and over on each page:

  MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE.

  MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE.

  MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE.

  MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE.

  The psycho left a cursive signature.

  Brokenhearted.

  I glanced at the pictures, shaking my head at that one word written over and over. Fire blazed in my chest. I grabbed my phone and dialed Baptiste.

  Baptiste answered on the first ring. “Hunter?”

  “I need your help.”

  That creole accent rode his words. “Anything. What’s wrong?”

  “Zola’s in trouble. Someone’s stalking her in New York.”

  “This day has come. Your call to adventure.”

  I didn’t understand what he meant. Too much adrenaline pumped in my blood. Nothing could happen to her. No one should have the right to scare her. Whoever the psycho was, I would do him worse than we did Nakita’s killers.

  “When do we go?” Baptiste asked.

  “I’m leaving for New York tonight. You can show up tomorrow.”

  “I can leave with you—”

  “No.” I needed alone time with Zola first. “Get some rest. Show up tomorrow.”

  “Okay, but make sure you get a seat that isn’t thirteen.”

  “Okay.” I rolled my eyes. “No to seat number thirteen. I’ll try to remember.”

  We hung up, and every moment after that went fast-paced as I bought the ticket, drove to the airport, and rushed onto the earliest flight.

  As I sat in my first-class seat, I went over the stalker’s letters again. Brokenhearted didn’t have a lot to say. He didn’t waste words. Pages after pages, the same black letters. Sometimes it was scribbled in pencil. Other times ink. Once, he’d typed it over and over.

  MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE. MINE.

  Turning off my phone, I pulled the locket out and slipped my thumb along the heart.

  Zola is yours? I don’t think so, motherfucker.

  2

  The Dark Side of Beauty

  Zola

  Half-naked, I sat on a massive zebra. The sun bore down, almost melting my brown skin. The Zebra’s name was Ziggy.

  I’m sure this is some form of animal cruelty.

  Earlier, Ziggy hadn’t appreciated me on top of him. I understood. I didn’t really want to get on top of him either, especially wearing only a zebra-printed bikini. The silver tipped stiletto heels didn’t help with keeping balance. It took two people to get me on him without stabbing his sides.

  And he snapped at me a few times. Fortunately, his trainer shoveled a large pile of herbs, grass, and twigs in front of him. It was then that zebra gave up with knocking me off.

  He’d been eating and shitting for the past hour.

  “Zola, look this way.” The photographer snapped his fingers in his direction. I pretended not to smell the stench of zebra poop and curved my lips in a seductive smile. “There we go.”

  The camera flashed in my face. My eyes watered from the blue contacts.

  We’re almost done. We’re almost done.

  I’d been on set for nine hours. This shoot was supposed to be Livid magazine’s top spread. The concept was expensively dressed women on a safari.

  I smiled at the camera, showing how confident and beautiful I must’ve felt in the zebra patterned bikini. Even though the swim set was a thousand dollars, it was a few scraps of cheap material that itched against my skin. Hopefully, no one would rush out to buy it.

  “Yes, Zola, yes.”

  I turned my head slightly, giving the photographer what he wanted.

  “There we go.”

  I tilted my head at just the right angle for this type of lighting.

  “Just a few more.”

  Translation. Give me one more hour.

  No complaints. I was paid well—too well at times for what I did, but I was grateful, nonetheless. I’d started at $100 per hour. It added up to $1,500 per day for catalogues. Later, my portfolio became stronger. I hit advertising, earning $10,000 per day.

  Unfortunately, I was mentally off on this shoot and having a crisis of character—not sure if I was wasting my life away at modeling. I was tired of this stalker. Tired of New York. Tired of the competitive edge of the industry. And definitely tired of being tired. Guilt and fear spun around my body like I was trapped in the eye of a hurricane. Maybe if I wasn’t a model, I wouldn’t have triggered a weirdo to stalk me. And wasn’t it my fault anyway? I was always naked on magazine covers.

  What did I think would happen? No. No. I can’t think that way. This isn’t my fault.

  My mind said no, but my gut screamed yes. I’d been having trouble sleeping, which didn’t help my mental state. Each new stalker incident gave me panic attacks—shaking, biting my nails, and close to vomiting. Sleepless nights and darkened days.

  The whole photo shoot, I’d sat on the zebra rethinking my life choices and wondering about the cruelty of beauty and the many that it had harmed.

  Should I stop modeling? I saved enough money. I could go back to school.

  It was times like this when I yearned for someone to talk to about this, someone to hold, someone to go home to. Someone to comfort me. Someone to soothe the ache and fuck the stress away with.

  The camera flashed bright in my face.

  I remained in my pose, breathing in and out, not letting my mind go astray. If it went too far and really took in the set, things would go wrong.

  Am I really happy being here?

  This whole set was an illusion along with everything in it—makeup artists gossiping, fellow models judging, and publicists boasting.

  Boy, I’m in a great mood.

  Beauty had become my weapon as well as a curse.

  I was good-looking, but everybody in this world was good-looking as long as they weren’t big murderous assholes. Beauty could be found on any
face, in every tint of skin, in the rise of any chest, and the song of anyone’s laughter. Still, beauty had been a deceptive means to my financial independence, even though I knew I was no prettier than any other. I let them place my face above titles and on magazine covers, knowing that little girls would aspire to be me, even though they were already better and just fine.

  And I did all of it for a paycheck.

  What am I even doing here? Is the money worth it anymore?

  I’d gone to college and earned a degree in sociology, graduated, and had no ability to get a job. And then a woman spotted me on the street, loved my height and lanky frame. The next month, I booked my first job. I felt blessed. How could I not?

  But there were downsides too. This past fall, I’d lost three friends to overdoses. Drugs played a big part in my industry, especially cocaine. It kept the illusion going—that everything would be okay just as long as one remained young and beautiful.

  Bullshit.

  The photographer snapped. “Where are you, Zola?”

  “Sorry.” I arched my back, while my head spun in a downward spiral.

  Since this stalker had come into my life, I’d opened my eyes to the dark side of the beauty industry. The creepy stalkers. The invasive paparazzi. The overdoses and eating disorders.

  Beauty was a cruel business, billions of dollars invested annually to keep everyone unhappy with how they looked. The cosmetic industry grabbed $20 billion a year. The diet industry pulled in $33 billion. Dollars spent on the quest for beauty. Liposuction and breast implants. Face lifts and fat siphoning. Even men did it, hair replacement treatments and silicone implants in their chest to appear more muscular.

  Stop it, Zola. Just stop it!

  Still, I thought about the people I might’ve harmed. The people who my pictures preyed on. The ones who had committed suicide over beauty. The depressed souls thinking they would never match up to a model’s face or the slimness of her frame. The ones that felt empty because of it. The ones that gave up. The ones that mastered the art of being less.

  “Zola!!” Pissed, the photographer snapped his hand. “Your face is screwed up and you look angry.”