Brooks gave me a grin. “Well, we have to go figure it out,” he answered cryptically.

I cocked my eyebrow in his direction. “Care to explain?” I asked, not in the mood for guessing games.

“We’ve got to go see the picture. Then we can figure out where Compulsion is tonight,” he said, sounding giddy. I could tell Brooks was excited. His enthusiasm was contagious. I couldn’t help but feel a flutter in my stomach as we made our way to the center of town.

“How do you know where the picture is?” I asked. This really did seem like a lot of trouble just to go to a club. What was with the mystery? Why not just hand out flyers?

“I asked around and was told it’s behind the self-service laundry beside the liquor store,” Brooks explained.

“Can’t we just ask where it is? Why do we have to go to the hassle of finding some crappy piece of graffiti for directions?” I asked, knowing I sounded cranky. But the hurdles we were needing to jump to find the club were deflating my already shaky willingness to go out at all.

Brooks clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Aubrey, this is part of the experience. You need to see the picture, then you can find out where it is. And it’s not crappy graffiti. X is an artist, man. His stuff is unbelievable. I’ve heard people saying that galleries have been trying to locate him for the past year, wanting to sell his work. But no one knows who he is. Or how to find him. It just adds to the mystique, you know?”

I scoffed under my breath. “Why in the hell would a gallery want to sell some squiggles spray-painted on a wall? It’s not exactly Monet we’re talking about here.”

Brooks shook his head. “You have so much to learn, young grasshopper. The urban art movement is huge right now. And X has built a reputation as one of the best. He’s only been doing it for the past three years, but if you Google street art, his stuff will be up there with Banksy. He’s awesome!” he said, as though it made perfect sense.

“How do you know it’s a guy? It could be a woman, you know,” I pointed out almost belligerently.

Brooks shrugged. “Who knows? Does it matter?”

“And what sort of name is X?” I mocked.

Brooks gave me a look from the corner of his eye and didn’t bother to respond. Clearly my lack of appreciation for the mysterious X had lost me a considerable number of cool points.

We pulled down a narrow alleyway between two buildings that ended in a small parking lot. There was a group of people standing beside a Dumpster.

Brooks put his car into park and jumped out. “Come on!” he called out to me, hurrying over to the side of the building. There was a large amount of graffiti—your typical gang tags and names.

But that wasn’t what people had flocked here to see.

It was the portrait of a woman on fire that had their attention. It was at least ten feet high and fifteen feet across. It was massive.

“Please explain to me what this has to do with a dance club?” I whispered to Brooks, who had his phone pulled out and was punching numbers into his GPS. He glanced up at me and gave me a distracted smile.

“Not a damned thing, Aubrey,” he replied. I frowned and turned back to the picture. The wind had picked up, bringing with it the rancid smell of old garbage. The small parking lot was disgusting. But the crowd of people couldn’t care less about their surroundings. We were all here for one thing only . . . to find our way to a club that promised things we couldn’t begin to imagine.

I had to admit that the artistry of the graffiti was impressive. I remembered the picture from a few weeks ago, the monstrous hand with people falling from the sky.

That painting had been dark and almost threatening. This one seemed to convey something else entirely.

Longing.

Wanting something you’ve watched from afar.

Desire.

Blatant, unbridled lust.

Somehow, some way, this smattering of paint on a dirty wall conveyed all of these things. And I knew that Brooks was right. That whoever X was, this person was seriously talented.

The picture depicted the side profile of a woman, her long, golden hair licked by bright red flames as they crawled toward her face. You could see only the outline of her nose and jaw, as she was turned away, looking off into the distance.

The rest of her body was done in dark, bold lines that were almost crude and undefined, until you got to her hand. The hand was painted precisely and almost delicately. The fingers were uncurled, the palm was spread open, and from the hand fell lovely, purple blossoms that reminded me of the aster flowers that grew on campus.

The fire at the girl’s feet reached up and seemed to engulf the flowers that were floating to the ground. It was such a contradiction—the power of the fire and the placid gentleness of the flowers. There was a violent sort of possession in the way the flames seemed to devour the petals that fell from the woman’s hand, almost, but not quite, touching her skin, as though they were reaching out for her yet not quite able to reach her. I noticed the characteristic X enmeshed in the red and orange.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the chill in the air raced down my spine.

“I’ve got it!” Brooks called out, a little too loudly. I jumped with a start, having been so fixated on the painting.

“Come on!” Brooks yelled in my ear, and I gave him a look of annoyance. I noticed others were quickly leaving as well, having gotten what they came for. I glanced back at the picture, feeling strangely sad about leaving it behind.

“Aubrey, it’s already late. We need to hurry or the line will be huge!” Brooks urged, pulling me toward his car.