The COMPLETE Coventon Campus Series: Books I, II, & III

by Wright, Kenya

  I stood in the center of the room. My heart seized for several more lines in the song, and then I struggled to block the music out.

  “Can’t he play something else?” I put on a clean pair of jeans. The soft denim slid up my thighs. I’d been forced to buy a pair from ShopTown, a place Evie would always try to drag me into. She’d never won.

  Evie would’ve loved to see me stumble around that giant monstrosity.

  I was lucky to get out alive. The shopping cart wheels squeaked and rattled. Who the hell was in charge of the equipment there? I’d had to go to the bathroom, spotted the dirty men’s room, and decided to hold it. And then there were the racks of tacky clothes as well as shelves stocked with anything from toothpaste to hammers.

  Did the place not have a focus? Were they just going to fill it with all types of shit?

  I preferred specialty stores where one person attended to my needs and handed me a nice glass of champagne as I checked out the attendants modeling the clothes for me.

  The employees did not hand me champagne. They only had attitude. Rude little people chomping their gum and gazing suspiciously at my scars. Those black uniforms merged with their brown and black auras. All of them had either been through something or were dealing with stress and depression.

  “Is that all?” the cashier asked.

  I slung all the clothes on the black surface that moved everything to her. “This is it.”

  She didn’t grab the items as they came to her. Instead, she continued to lean on the cash register and chew her gum. “Do you have a ShopTown card?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “It could be attached to your phone number.”

  “It isn’t. Umm. Should I have a card to get these clothes?”

  The cashier frowned. “No.”

  I waited for her to ring the items.

  “Do you have any coupons?”

  “No.”

  She stopped leaning against the register and stood. “Can I get your name and email address?”

  “For what?”

  “ShopTown sends coupons and information to your account—”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  She still hadn’t rung up any of my clothes. “And your zip code is?”

  “What is that for?”

  She blew out a pink gum bubble and then sucked it back into her mouth. “Research purposes.”

  “33140.”

  “And your phone number?”

  “I don’t have a phone,” I lied.

  The woman eyed me suspiciously. “Would you like to donate ten dollars to—?”

  “Are we going to ever get this show on the road? I just want to buy this stuff, have it go in a bag, and then leave where I can go to the bathroom in a clean space, one mopped and not covered in feces.”

  Never again would I enter ShopTown.

  A Michael Jackson Beat It t-shirt covered my upper body. I’d gotten a new jacket with a hood and promised to get that guy’s name who I stole from and send him a new one. The shirt and hat I put on was mine. I’d swiped a couple of things from my hotel suite before racing away to Wynwood.

  I studied myself in front of the cracked mirror. Back in the day, I would’ve worn a sparkling white glove just for kicks. But then, back in the day, I didn’t stand in front of a mirror and wonder how I could hide a bunch of scars.

  I placed the hood over my head and tugged it down as much as I could.

  “Never thought we’d be done, never thought the darkness could shield out the sun,” the blues singer cried over the saxophone. “We moved like the ocean does on a summer day. We unfolded, broke down, and now we’re in disarray.”

  “Enough already with the sad song, Kush.” I put my glasses back on my face and placed a Miami Heat sports cap on my head, not even combing my hair. Back in the day, I would’ve still felt like a million bucks. Combed hair or not.

  But this wasn’t back in the day anymore.

  Shit had changed.

  “Please, don’t go baby.”

  “This is me,” I whispered to the damaged reflection in the mirror. “I’ll be okay. In a week, I’ll be laughing and just...”

  “Oh baby, the way you loved me yesterday makes the tears come more today.”

  A sigh escaped my lips. I headed out of my studio and went to my neighbor’s door.

  Is this Saka back? She probably won’t be happy to host some strange guy in her place. Does he live with her, or she stays with him? He said she wasn’t a girlfriend. Maybe they’re just close like Evie and me.

  I scanned my brain and considered if I’d heard any moaning coming from their place.

  No. I would’ve remembered that.

  Raising my hand, I knocked on his door.

  I hope he changes this song.

  He opened the door. His aura spilled out of the doorway and almost blinded me. “That was quick.”

  I blinked. “I’m not a diva.”

  “That surprises me.”

  I gestured to the scars. “Really? I would think I seemed scarier.”

  “I know scary. You’re just a kitten.” He drank me in, taking his gaze from my face to my feet. “Naw. You’re just a bruised kitty.”

  “Thanks. That’s a great compliment.”

  He admitted, “I’m not known for my poetry.”

  “What are you known for?”

  He moved out of the way and signaled for me to come in. “Hmmm. What am I known for?”

  I entered.

  “I guess everyone knows me for my big cock.”

  Shocked, I glanced over my shoulder at him.

  “I’m blessed.” He shrugged. “Others know me for my art.”

  “But your dick is where you’ve gotten your main fame?”

  “That’s what I would like to think.” With caramel fingers, he gathered up all of those beautiful locks and stuck them in a big rubber band at the back of his head. It looked like an intricate ball of silky brown intertwined with darker shades.

  I scanned his place. He had a bohemian effect going on. Beaded curtains draped all four walls. They were purple and made from a silky fabric. The embellishments decorating the cloth were mainly things from the earth—wood and rough crystals, rock and seashells. They moved in the breeze, lifting up and down as if in the middle of a dance.

  Large, framed, black and white photos and hung on each wall. Saka and Kush stood naked against a white wall, their shades of bare skin clear with the background. His locks dangled over the ripples of muscle. With a closely shaven head, she stood in front of him enough to not get to see his cock but dream about it. His arms wrapped around her chest and concealed nipples but displayed full breasts. Shadows decorated the space between her thighs. My body hummed.

  “You like it?” Kush got to my side.

  “It’s nice.”

  I turned to the other wall. This photo presented Saka’s breasts as she lay naked on snow-white sand, blowing smoke out of her mouth. Glasses sat on her face. Her stiff nipples poked in the air as she arched her back into a seductive view.

  “She’s beautiful,” I whispered.

  “You can have her for twenty dollars.”

  “Not for free?” I walked off to the next photo.

  “No way. She’s at least worth something.”

  “You’re a kind man.”

  Saka had her back to the last photo. Half of her was hidden in shadow, the rest displayed in light. It shined around her curves.

  A record player sat in the corner of that wall, all wood and classic splendor. Records piled in front of it and reached close to my height.

  Was he playing an album the whole time? How did he keep it at repeat?

  The door slammed shut. My chest tightened. I turned to the noise with fisted hands, ready to punch someone. In my mind, I knew it was stupid and that no one was going to attack me, but...in my heart, I thought it was better to look crazy than be a victim, again.

  I’m don
e being the victim.

  Kush held up his hands. “Scared you?”

  “Maybe.” I lowered my hands.

  “Hey, sorry about that. I’m heavy handed. My mom always said I couldn’t just lightly put things down or quietly close a door. Instead, I had to make so much noise. She called me Boom Boom.”

  “Good name. You do make a lot of noise.”

  “Hey, you’re not the first neighbor I’ve had to offer sorry gifts too.”

  “Speaking of the wheatgrass.” I searched around for it.

  “Sit down over there.” He pointed to an olive-green beanbag. “I’ll bring it to you.”

  “No worries. I can just take it with me and bring back the container.”

  “It’s just a shot, but you have to take your time sipping it. The stuff is potent. You have to mix it with your saliva, but swallowed well wheatgrass will provide you with so many vitamins and minerals—”

  “I drink it all the time. I know how to take it.”

  “Cool.” He walked over to his full-sized bed. A large canvas lay on top, almost the whole size of the mattress. “Help me with this first, please?”

  “What you need me to do?” I asked.

  “Just carry this stuff outside.”

  “The canvas and paint brushes?”

  “Yeah.” He grabbed the big leather bag on the floor next to the bed that looked heavier than the canvas. “I’ll get this stuff.”

  I picked up the clean, white board and followed him back in front of our studios. The damn thing was bigger than me. I had to turn it around to get it through the door.

  Good job, Pipe. You followed your own order just like you planned. Get the wheatgrass and leave. Great. Instead of getting it, you’re helping him move.

  We got outside to a sparse patch of glass.

  He dropped the bag on the ground and took the canvas from me. “Your wheatgrass shot is on the table by the bed.”

  I peered into his studio, spotted the tiny cup, and went for it. “Thanks.”

  “So, are you enjoying Wynwood?”

  “How do you know I’m not from here?”

  “You’re too bougie.”

  “Bougie?”

  “High class. High taste. High expectations. A person who thinks his shit doesn’t stink.”

  “Is that the Urban Dictionary definition?”

  “Why I got to get it out of the urban dictionary?”

  “Because it’s not in Webster’s,” I countered.

  “Doesn’t mean it isn’t word.”

  “Just means it’s not recognized by smart people.”

  “You’re bougie. Deal with it. And you’re damn sure not from around here.”

  Wynwood was an odd area. Recently, the district had blown up on the street art scene, week by week getting the world’s attention. All the amazing murals drew in the tourists. Property was cheap. Due to that, business owners bought up property all over the district. The district sat right in the center of the hood. Even my dad had asked me about the area. At the time, I knew nothing of the place. I’d heard only hippies and artists hung there.

  While I enjoyed a good joint, my tastes soared a bit higher than the average creative stoner. I danced around electric lights and sparkling décor. I doubted Wynwood possessed either of those things. All it could give me was a place to hide among the jagged art and clouds of weed smoke.

  Just finish the wheatgrass and go.

  I swallowed the nasty stuff whole. It took a minute to let the bitter liquid slide over my tongue. It tasted like blended grass. There was just no bullshitting the reality of how disgusting it was. But in the end, I never cared about that. I drank it for the benefits.

  “Do me a favor.” Kush watched me set the finished cup back on his side table.

  “What’s up?”

  He had some sort of makeshift easel made out of tires and pipes that stuck out of the ground. “Go stand over there.”

  “Why?” I checked where he was talking about. It was a spot with several trees and off in the distance, a brick wall stood with a blue sky and white clouds.

  “I’m going to paint you.”

  I scrunched my face in annoyance. “No.”

  “Why not model for me? You have nothing to do today.”

  “I have things to do.”

  “You can smoke and mope while you model for me.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “You’re not excused.”

  “Have a nice day.” I headed back to my door.

  “Aww.” He held an imaginary violin in his hand and played a sad, silent melody. “Are we back to that? What do you want me to do? I don’t like to beg, but I could.” He continued playing that invisible instrument. “You like my music?”

  “You’re an amazing violin player.”

  He slid the imaginary bow along the unseen strings. “But do you love the song?”

  “It’s a bit off-key.”

  “It’s about a sad guy who got some marks and then decided to hide in despair.”

  “Poor guy,” I muttered.

  “No, don’t feel sorry for him.”

  “Look.” I headed back to my door. “I’d rather you left me alone.”

  “Naw. That’s the opposite thing you want.”

  Instead of grabbing my knob, I turned and glared at him. “You have no idea who I am.”

  “Then let me learn.”

  “Have a nice—”

  “Day. Yeah. I got that.” He bent over his bag and took out of bottles of paint. They represented only a few colors—crimson red and lemon yellow, stark white and royal blue.

  I should’ve gone into my spot. There was nothing else to say. But, for whatever reason, I watched him set everything out like a doctor placing all of his surgical tools with care, making sure that they remained sterilized.

  That crazy brightness around his body dotted with black spots. The darkness made his aura lovely.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  The spots faded.

  “I can model for a little bit, but not for a long time.”

  Without gazing my way, he said, “When you decide to finally walk over to where I asked you to go, take off your shirt.”

  “Why?”

  “I want your chest in the painting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there are scars there.” He took out more brushes. “Are there scars anywhere else?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to put them in.”

  I turned back to my door and stared at the battered wood. “So you want to paint the scars?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Why?”

  “You say why a lot,” Kush said.

  “You overstep a lot.”

  “Not used to that, huh?” he asked. “You’re probably the one who always oversteps.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I probably can read you, though.”

  Sighing, I twisted around and stalked off to where he’d asked. Kush was now a lovely bright green. He’d gotten his way.

  It’s just a painting. Who cares? Not the first time someone wanted to get my image down. I can do this. It could be some sort of self-discovery activity.

  “Take off your shirt,” he said.

  My nerves flared on edge. “You told me that already.”

  “Yet, the shirt is still on.” He grabbed several brushes. Some were long, others short.

  “I’m still thinking about it.”

  “Don’t ponder it too long. I want to get you in the sunlight.”

  I gestured at the sky. “We have several hours until sunset.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t snap pictures. I paint in the moment. I let the universe seize me.”

  “And the universe told you to have me take off my shirt?”

  “The universe often requests strange things.”

  “I bet it does.” I grabbed the ends of my shirt. My hands shook.

  He ceased with setting up and watched my fingers. “No one i
s coming around here but Saka.”

  “No need to scare her.”

  He chuckled. “Scars won’t scare her.”

  “No?”

  “Never. In fact, she’s a big one on scars. Might molest you if I don’t.”

  “Come again?”

  He tossed me a wicked grin. “You would come again and again, whether from me or her. Pick one.”

  I let go of my shirt. “We’re off topic.”

  “You’re not used to having someone shove you off topic. You’re the one that hosts the show.”

  Annoyance dotted my next words. “Not exactly.”

  “It was an observation, not a question.”

  “Stop making them. You don’t know me quite as much as you think you do.” I yanked off the shirt. It dropped and landed on the grass.

  “I knew you’d take off that shirt.”

  “No, you’re just a betting man. You just have solid predictions.”

  “That’s the same thing as always being right.” He gazed at me for a long time. The way he moved his lips as he perused my chest, I thought I would melt right there on the spot. He had a way of searing me with just his focus alone. Had me yearning for his attention.

  It set me on edge.

  “Maybe, I shouldn’t do this.” I itched to pick my shirt off the ground.

  “Take off the hat.” A long plank of wood lay next to the makeshift easel. He poured small circles of each paint on the rugged surface and then gathered tiny scoops of each one and mixed them together in new circles. He continued until he made a pallet full of all the tones of the rainbow.

  “I don’t even know your full name.”

  “The world calls me Kush.” Several different circles of color lay on the plank. “My family calls me Kareem.”

  “And how long will I be standing here, Kush?”

  “You don’t want to be family?”

  “I just want to be.”

  “Call me Kareem.”

  “I would rather call you Kush. It reminds me of weed.”

  “Naw, you’re just keeping those walls up.” He nodded. “Good. You need to protect yourself. You’ve been through enough.”

  “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

  Chuckling, he picked up a huge brush. “Take the hat off.”

  He’s a bossy man. I thought hippies were easy going.

  I pulled off the hat and dropped it on my shirt. “So the world calls you Kush?”