“So if we put the third eye on our forehead, then where is this third ear supposed to be painted, on my neck?” Coco asked.
I laughed at my friends. “Coco, I don’t even know why you’re sitting there discussing this seriously with her.”
Mary got on Coco’s side and whispered, “Red is just mad because her ears are clogged with spray paint. That’s why she’s always getting her behind in trouble.”
“Which is why I’m coming along.” Coco gripped my hand and then Mary’s. “We don’t know these people in here. Keep your masks on. You never know, but you could be smoking right next to your boss, preacher, or even a family member. Don’t talk to anyone—”
“Well, that’s just extreme.” Mary gasped. “I didn’t wear these fuck-me heels to sit at the table with a joint all night.”
Coco lowered her lips into a frown. “You better be joking. There will be no fuck me of anything happening this evening. It’s a freaking weed party, people. We joke with stoners. We party with stoners. We even get a hook up from stoners, but we don’t fuck stoners.”
“That’s your rule.” I pointed at her. “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 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.
I reached my hand out to open the door.
Coco stepped in front of me. “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.”
Chapter 3
And the hungry beasts spotted her.
Wolf
People partied throughout my penthouse.
I remained alone in my art studio, painting my obsession.
My butler’s voice played from the bud in my ear. “Sir, Red has entered the first floor’s lobby. She is with two women.”
I set the paintbrush down. “Let me know when she steps inside of the penthouse.”
“Yes, sir.”
I studied the picture of Red next to me. I cut it out from a magazine. The image only revealed half of her face. In all interviews and 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 artists 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.
Stunned, I’d stood there in front of Red’s massive mural, doing my best to process every choice in color and concept.
A giant black woman covered most of the space. She was naked, sitting, and holding her legs toward her chest as if it were 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.