Josie laughed and lay her head back down, wishing she could remember the moment. She wanted to see his adolescent face surprised by her aggressive behavior. More than anything, she longed for that connection to a boy who had shared so many of her firsts.

“It also happens to be the same night my mom caught me masturbating,” Tristan added.

“Ha! No way!”

“Yes, it was traumatic. I don’t think I looked her in the eye for a month.”

She let her fingers trace his ribs, tapping out a soft rhythm like pressing piano keys.

“Stay with me for another week,” Josie whispered.

“I can’t. The sooner I find out what’s going on, the sooner you’ll be safe.”

“Five days?” Josie begged, placing a kiss over the red-and-blue anatomically correct heart tattooed on his chest. “Imagine how many times we can do this in five days,” she teased, shifting her naked body against his.

“One day,” he bartered, trying to remain unaffected by her charms.

“Three,” Josie countered, nibbling gently on the edge of his jaw.

Her fingers drifted down his body, beneath the sheet, tracing invisible patterns below his navel. She lowered her hand and continued with a feather-light touch to where he wanted her most.

“Deal,” Tristan barely got out.

Josie grinned triumphantly and kissed his lips. He smiled and pressed his lips back to hers, wanting nothing more than to devour her again. Now that he’d tasted the sweetest flesh, he would never settle for anything less.

Josie shifted her hips. She usually felt empowered by the way she could coax physical reactions from the men she subjugated. Josie would become drunk on the power of seduction. With Tristan, it was different. His body moving beneath hers and his salty inked skin alone made her euphoric. She’d gladly relinquish all authority just to be with him.

Tristan sat up in bed holding Josie. Her legs straddled his lap and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Skin to skin, they cradled each other in a warm embrace, each breathing in the other and wishing to never leave the moment.

“Can we stay like this for the next three days?” Tristan asked, reaching behind her to pull back the curtain.

Bright morning light flooded the room, highlighting their combined form like a spotlight. Josie’s messy hair glowed a fiery red in the white-hot light, the wavy tendrils like flames. She stared into his eyes, which were usually dark emerald but in the sunlight had become the color of springtime grass. The hair on his face gave a beautiful shadow that look stippled in by pencil.

“Yes,” she answered. “Forever.”

Mort slid stealthily through the apartment. The sound of the shower running let him know that he had approximately ten minutes to complete this search. His shoes made no sound against the tiled floor as he glided from room to room. Ghosting his fingers along the kitchen counter, he paused briefly to flip through a few pieces of mail, finding junk and several bills. Next, he entered the small office nestled next to the den and opened her idle laptop. It was password protected, so he closed it and moved on.

Slipping into her bedroom, he could now smell the floral scent of her soap and shampoo, mixed with the steam escaping from the cracked bathroom door. He didn’t bother checking her dresser or nightstand; he knew that those searches never revealed much more than perverted sexual secrets. Instead, he was drawn to her logo-emblazoned designer bag, sitting on the corner of her bed. Still comforted by the running water, he dug through the cavernous purse and fished out her smartphone. All he needed was a contact, some kind of physical connection to Josie, and he would be set.

He knew for sure that she was still here in the city, and that Monica still had contact with the girl. He couldn’t believe his good fortune when he’d discovered that little gem, courtesy of a Monica Templeton breakdown. The poor woman hadn’t even known she was confessing the much needed information and it took Mort only a few seconds to connect the dots. Scrolling through her contacts, he came across Josie’s name. He entered the number into his own phone before returning Monica’s to her purse. With today’s technology and a small fee, this number could be used to track down Josie’s exact location.

The water cut off, and through the door he could hear Monica’s soft voice singing Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face.” He smirked, imagining her petite, curvy body covered in water droplets and steam coming off her skin. He adjusted himself, took one last look around, and slipped out of her room.

Monica emerged from the warm confines of her bathroom to find absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

Different illuminations that the moon undergoes during its orbit.

Josie left Trader Joe’s loaded down with bags. Tristan was working his last shift at the Darkroom, so she didn’t have the convenience of a car to carry them in.

She liked Gavin and she liked making sure the kids down at the plaza had enough to eat. When she was comfortable in her apartment with running water and a roof over her head, she felt guilty for having things they didn’t. Her time on the streets had been short compared to most of them. Many had been homeless for years.

It had been during those nights of wandering empty streets that she’d noticed graffiti. At first she saw the big pieces, entire walls or top to bottom on a train. They were always such a stark contrast to the whitewashed bricks or gray metal. The way each one had a identifiable style amazed her. Later, Josie started to notice the smaller pieces. Someone’s name thrown up on a bus shelter or one-word mantras on freeway signs. She realized that it was everywhere.

Soon she stole her first set of permanent markers and was tagging JayBee on every pristine surface she could reach. Then she moved on to paint markers. She adored the bigger selection of colors and the way the glossy paint looked when it was dry.

While sneaking through the streets of San Diego, she’d run into a couple of other taggers. There was never any animosity, only an understanding that this was their art. A mutual appreciation for self-expression and attack against society was their binding force. There were rules to this art, though, and through trial and error, she learned them. Gangs claimed parts of the city and Josie avoided them at all costs. She was just a girl putting herself out there; she didn’t want to fight their fight.

As she turned onto Sixth Street, Josie noticed a small piece thrown up on the side of a dumpster. It was a three-color job. The outline was messy and ran down in tiny dripping rivers. She smiled and shook her head. This was someone just starting, just learning how to control the flow. Eventually, he or she would learn to cut the caps or tighten the wrist movement.

Josie had bought a few extra things, and the weight of the bag handles were cutting into her palms. She flexed her fingers and shifted the bags a bit to relieve the ache. Taking the familiar path through the park, she was surprised to find no one there. Usually Gavin would be sitting on the left side, her large frame and dirty clothes covering the green slats. Every drawing and inked word was visible on the empty bench. It chilled Josie to the core.

She set the bags on the bench and looked around.

“Gavin?” she called out.

She didn’t want to be too loud. In these late hours, hidden away from the main path, sometimes people you didn’t want to find, found you.

Josie sat on the bench and waited for her friend. After an hour, she was annoyed. She felt like maybe Gavin didn’t appreciate what she brought. Maybe Gavin was upset that Josie came around less these days. Nigel came by offering his usual products, but Josie declined.