Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Now, as they ate a late breakfast in the kitchen, they discussed the practicalities of how he would guarantee San’s anonymity, such as a movable tent that could be rolled around the building.
Before a bite of eggs, Clay said, “If you let me meet the man, there’d be no need for all this secrecy.”
She laughed and poked him in the chest. “What about all the other people walking around San Francisco? We’d still need a tent to keep everyone out. And security.”
He had yet to let Dylan know the commission was a reality. The kid hadn’t even come to his studio yesterday. But Clay would still tell Dylan that somehow, some way, he would arrange a meet between the great man and the up-and-coming street artist. He’d never even considered that he’d have to back down.
Even as they ate scrambled eggs on toast—the way Saskia liked them and he was beginning to like them too—he had a brilliant idea. “I know how we can do it.”
She waited for his brainchild.
“I don’t have to meet the man. Because it’s about Dylan. You can talk him into meeting with only Dylan. We’d find a completely private place where they can talk for hours. Then San Holo melts away again without Dylan ever knowing his real name.”
She immediately shut him down. “No way. Even if I could get San to agree, there’d be a leak. Someone would find out.”
He wanted to smack his fist into his palm. It was a brilliant idea. But he smiled instead. He’d keep working on her, and eventually Dylan would worm his way into her heart, and she’d get San Holo to agree.
A clamor started downstairs, the noise carrying through the thick walls of his apartment. They’d both risen to their feet when footsteps hammered on the stairs. His gut wrenched as he imagined vandalism or, worse, one of the artists needing an ambulance.
He opened the door just as Otto raised a fist to pound on it, barely missing Clay’s face.
“You must get down there,” Otto said in his accented English. “It is Dylan. The scum of the earth have spray-painted hateful things all over Dylan’s wall, saying it is total crap. Things like, ‘Who does this guy think he is? What the hell is this, we can’t even tell.’”
The man’s face crumpled in on itself with the pain of Dylan’s trashing. Because every artist in his warehouse had been there. They all knew.
A tear opened up in Clay’s heart.
He didn’t even ask what wall. He knew. He’d encouraged Dylan to put his precious art out there, and Dylan had finally done it. Only to have it trashed.
It was the worst thing that could have happened.
It was like Gareth.
And Gareth had never painted again.
Chapter Fifteen
Clay almost elbowed Otto out of the way, taking the steps three at a time, Saskia close behind him. He skidded to a halt just outside Dylan’s sacred studio.
A groan welled up from deep in his gut as he surveyed the devastation. Dylan came from a rough neighborhood—a criminal father, an addicted mother. He’d taken a knife to every single canvas in his studio, slashing them to ribbons that fell off their wooden frames.
Clay wanted to fall to his knees and weep. There was only one piece left intact. Dylan had purposely saved it for last. His dragonfly/butterfly/flying cockroach.
Heedless of any danger, Clay stepped into the fray, grabbing Dylan’s arm. Saskia’s gasp rang out behind him. But he had to think only of Dylan now, of what he could say to the boy.
While Dylan was a strong kid, Clay was stronger, and he held Dylan’s arm as he murmured in his ear, “Don’t worry, Dylan. Your work is brilliant. People often don’t recognize that brilliance when they first see a new artist’s work. But I’ll take care of this. I promise.”
Though Dylan’s chest still heaved, the tension in his knife arm lessened, and his words came out in a harsh murmur. “You said I was ready. You said people would love it.” He stared at the as-yet-untouched canvas. “I did it in the dead of night. Just like San Holo. I signed my name.” Finally, he turned tear-filled eyes on Clay.
The sight of this amazing young man’s stricken face cracked his heart wide open. All his blood seemed to drain out of the massive fracture he was sure would never be healed. He had done this to the kid. He had encouraged him.
Only he could fix it.
“They came to see San Holo’s latest,” Dylan got out. “And I—” His voice broke on a sob. “I did mine in the same alley. I wanted it to be a tribute. But people posted a photo of my goddamn stupid flying cockroach all over the internet. They said I’d never be like him. I was a wannabe, and I’d never be anything more. That I’d fade away like all the terrible street artists who thought they could be like Banksy or San Holo.”