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After Clay had descended, Dylan grabbed the stepladder and put it back against the side wall where the artist had left it, almost as if he didn’t want anyone else to consider climbing up.
His hazel eyes glowed with flecks of amber. “This is how a gold miner must have felt when he found a vein of gold.” He slapped his hand to his chest. “We’re the first!”
Clay had to correct him. “You’re the first. I never would’ve known.” He was so impressed, he’d forgotten the stink in the alley. Or maybe the beauty of the street art banished it.
Dylan stepped back to take another photo. “I’m putting this on my social media.” His fingers moved like lightning over his phone screen.
Since he followed Dylan’s social media, Clay heard a ping on his phone.
“You really get it, don’t you,” Dylan finally said.
Clay smiled his agreement. “Since you introduced me to San Holo’s work, I’ve been captivated. But this one…” He opened his arms to encompass the artist’s latest. “It blows everything out of the water.”
“I mean you really get us artists.” Dylan looked at Clay as if he walked on water. Which Clay knew was far from true. But Dylan went on, “That’s why you find places for all of us in your warehouse. Even though you don’t make art yourself.” He shook his shaggy head. “I really don’t get why you’re not an artist yourself, but maybe that’s because you give it all to us.”
Clay had a hundred studios in his San Francisco warehouse, with a total of five warehouses in the US and plans to expand internationally. He understood that artists spoke a different language, that their thoughts were in colors or shapes or ideas, wherever their artistic endeavors led them. He appreciated that language and knew that when inspiration sparked, there was no stopping them from jumping into it. Many went to sleep dreaming of their next artwork, or their next novel, or their next piece of music. Their ideas could not be leashed and couldn’t be slotted into someone else’s formula. That’s what his warehouses and Art Space were all about, allowing artists to dream their dreams the way they needed to be dreamed. They could post their works, their thoughts, talk about their process, whatever.
It pleased him immensely that Dylan understood how Clay felt about art and artists. The kid, not even eighteen yet, was perceptive, and that would make him one of the greats.
A fervent light gleamed in Dylan’s eyes. “If I could talk to San Holo—” He sucked in a breath, blew it out harshly. “It would be my dream to ask him even one question. He wouldn’t need to be creating art at that moment. Just to stand next to him would be the best thing that ever happened to me in my whole life.”
Clay’s heart turned over for this kid who’d lost his parents when he was only ten years old, his father into the prison system and his mother to a drug overdose. He’d bounced from one appalling foster home to another. Until a couple of years ago, when Gideon found him. Now the kid was in a decent foster home, and Clay had given him the artist’s studio to work in.
In the face of this kid’s hero worship, Clay couldn’t help committing himself. “You know what, Dylan? I’ll make this happen for you.” Even if he had to commission a massive piece of San Holo’s artwork, he would get it done.
The malodorous alley no longer mattered. There was only the bright light of zeal in Dylan’s eyes. “It’s impossible,” he said on a gasp. “It can’t be done.”
Clay shook his head. “I can do it. And I never break a promise.”
Dylan dug his fingers into Clay’s arm. “If you think you can…” His eyes were like fire. “OMG, man.” His voice trembled. “If I could meet him, life could never ever get better than that.”
“I’ll make it happen,” Clay vowed to both Dylan and himself.
Then Dylan was bouncing through the alley like he was at a rave. “I’m so freaking inspired. I have to go paint now.”
Not wanting to tamp down his enthusiasm, Clay still had to say, “But you’ve got school.”
Excitement rolled off Dylan in waves. “Would you call in for me? Just this once? I’ll never ask again, I promise.”
Both Clay and Gideon had been given the privilege of dealing with the school on his behalf, rather than his foster parents. Dylan had never abused that. But Clay knew that if he didn’t let Dylan dive into it now, the kid might lose the inspiration that had struck him as he stood before San Holo’s latest masterpiece.
“All right,” he agreed. “This one time.”
“Thank you.” Then Dylan took off running, punching his fist in the air. The warehouse was only a couple of blocks away.
Clay made the call, standing just outside the alley. Once he was done, he strolled back in, gazing up at the great man’s work. He still couldn’t believe this had been accomplished overnight.
He’d considered commissioning a mural for the exterior of the warehouse. Just as he’d commissioned a lobby sculpture from Charlie Ballard. She might be Sebastian Montgomery’s fiancée and part of the Maverick clan, but she was an amazing metal artist, and the art she’d created was magnificent. Now he’d promised Dylan he’d find a way for the kid to meet the great San Holo. The two things dovetailed perfectly. He wanted a mural that spoke of his love for art, of his respect for artists, and his gut told him that San Holo was the right artist for it.
While he commissioned the piece, he’d find out the artist’s true identity and fulfill his promise to Dylan.
Alone in the alley once more, he pulled out his phone. Since Cal Danniger had shown him those first edition prints, Clay knew what it would mean to Danniger to see this new work.
Cal answered, saying, “What’s up, dude?”
With no preliminaries, Clay laid it on him. “You need to get down here right now. We’ve found a new San Holo. And it’s freaking incredible.”
Cal didn’t even question him. “Where are you?”