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a hook up from stoners, but we don’t date stoners.”
    “That’s your rule,” I said. “Not mine.”
    Coco snorted. “You haven’t even dated in years, so it doesn’t really matter.”
    “I’m remaining career-minded.”
    “You’re just so caught up in your art, and high so much that you forget to talk to men,” Coco said.
    I stuck my tongue out at her. “Lies. All lies.”
    “I’m not even talking to you, Red. One day, I just know you’re going to call me up and declare that you’re a lesbian.” Coco pointed to Mary. “I’m talking to Miss Hot to Trot over here.”
    “Eh!” Mary raised her hands. “Hey, I’m just saying. If the moment comes with a sexy guy, I won’t blush like a virgin and run away. It’s been a minute since I’ve had a sexual escapade. Almost a year.”
    I chuckled. “It’s barely been a month. You were just with Jeff at Marino’s. I know you both hooked up.”
    “Bad sex doesn’t count,” Mary said.
    We arrived at the door.
    Coco jumped in front and refused to let us walk in. “Remember. We stick together. We don’t separate. Just because these people are smoking weed, doesn’t mean they always keep their drug use natural. There could be meth heads in there waiting to rape a high female.”
    Silence passed between all of us.
    I released an exasperated breath. “As usual, Coco sucks the enjoyment out of the situation and scares the shit out of us.”
    Coco shrugged. “Better to be scared than dead.”
     
     
     
     



And the hungry beast spotted her and the basket.

    Wolf
    R ed stepped inside my penthouse with her two friends.
    Security had already notified me an hour ago that she’d entered the first floor’s lobby. I’d shown them her picture from one of the magazines I owned. Granted, the image only revealed half of her face, but no one could ever forget those eyes and that hair.
    In interviews and in photoshoots she tied the black scarf over half of her face and let those red strands outline her in mystery. That was how I spotted her in the first place. She’d been big news, a local street artist that had somehow managed to get world-wide attention for her murals.
    And those murals. . .
    Wynwood Art District was the only part of Miami where graffiti artist could legally cover up buildings to their hearts desire. It was the one place where if you drew on the sidewalk, you didn’t go to jail.
    The only unspoken rule: Don’t paint over other people’s work.
    I’d gone down to Wynwood, myself to witness Red’s murals, see if the images came alive like they did in the magazines.
    Dear God. Her murals.
    Red had a gift with color, but even more important, she owned the wall, made her viewpoint come alive right on the brick.
    I’d stood there in front of Red’s massive mural.
    A giant black woman covered most of the space. She was naked, sitting, and holding her legs toward her chest as if that was all she had left in the world. On her face, a mask hid her identity, one made of dead babies and rotting kids, their eyes closed to the world, their bodies graying. Red gashes decorated their tiny faces. Intestines dangled from their swollen bodies.
    And all around the giant woman, chaos happened on the ground under her. Tiny police pointed their guns at mysterious figures in black-hooded sweatshirts. Wicked men with jeans hanging down to their knees, gripped crying women by their necks and appeared to be strangling the life out of them. Discarded liquor bottles leaked onto the floor and formed puddles where hypodermic needles floated.
    At the top of the entire mural, it read,
    Ode to Hip Hop: I used to love her.
    At the bottom she tagged the mural with her signature—a smoky woman covered in a red hood.
    Instantly, that mural sparked something inside me. It woke me up.
    How long had I walked the streets and seen the same old drawings, or even worse, art that had basically been ripped off from my own creations? Where had all the innovators gone? Who would take the