Chapter 1 #2
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?”
“I’ll text my location.”
Cal was gone without even saying goodbye.
Cal and Lyssa, Daniel Spencer’s younger sister, had a handsome baby boy together—Owen, who was now nine months old.
A billionaire in his own right, Cal Danniger still managed the Mavericks’ joint ventures.
That now included the projects the Harringtons pulled together with the Maverick Group, especially the new resort Clay’s older brother Dane was building for special needs kids and adults.
Cal managed the cash flow and investments.
The Harringtons and the Mavericks had begun doing deals together more than a year ago.
They’d all just… clicked. Maybe it was their backgrounds.
The Mavericks had been raised in a seedy Chicago neighborhood, dragging themselves up with the help of Susan and Bob Spencer, who acted almost as foster parents to the scrappy group of boys.
The Harringtons had lost their parents just about the time Clay started high school.
They’d had to drag themselves out from under the mountain of debt their parents had left behind.
Now the two groups, Mavericks and Harringtons, were like family.
It didn’t take more than half an hour for Cal to get there, but already a massive crowd had formed. The info could only have come from Dylan’s social media post. The kid was probably gaining thousands of followers.
He spied Cal’s head above the throng as the man pushed his way through. Reaching him, Cal said, “The whole freaking art world knows about it now.”
Clay clapped him on the back. “I swear, it hasn’t even been a full hour since we found it. I can’t believe how fast the news traveled.”
But Cal wasn’t paying attention, starstruck by the great man’s latest work, the detail, the message. “Wow,” he said in a low, awed voice that resembled Dylan’s when he’d first seen the mural.
Finally, his gaze still on the masterpiece, Cal said, “To think it was only eighteen months ago that Delic told me San Holo was an artist to watch.”
“Delic?” Clay asked.
Cal smiled as if it was a fond memory. “He was our guide on that street art tour Lyssa and I did back in London.”
Clay suddenly understood why the man was smiling.
He’d heard the tale from the Mavericks, how the two had known each other for years, Cal twenty years her senior.
On that trip to London to see Dane, Cal and Lyssa had fallen for each other.
The rest was history. Now the two families were inextricably entwined.
“It was only a couple of months later,” Cal explained, “that San Holo did the London mural on Brick Lane—” A famous spot for street art.
“—and suddenly the guy’s art went viral.
” He pointed. “After seeing this latest piece, I think he’s going to be almost bigger than Banksy. He’ll certainly be bigger than Lynx.”
Clay had researched all the big street artists, Banksy being the most famous.
Lynx, whose real name was Hugo Lewis, had also been an amazing street artist a few years back, although his work over the last five years wasn’t anywhere near as good as his early stuff.
Lynx had lost his edge. Unlike San Holo, whose work showed more brilliance with every new piece.
Cal’s canvases and first edition prints would rise in value after this latest piece.
San Holo’s work might even start to rival Banksy’s, some of which went for as much as fifty thousand pounds for just a print.
There were even Banksy museums in New York City and London.
Street art wasn’t just tagging anymore; it had become one of the most lucrative art forms.
Now San Holo’s street art had solidified him as an uber artist.
Cal was saying, “I’ve already tripled my investment. I really appreciate the art.” He turned to Clay. “I’ve got to have this one too.”
Clay searched for clues as to the artist’s real identity. “You think the guy’s British? Since he got his start over there?”
Cal shrugged. “Probably. But his stuff pops up all over the world. He could be from anywhere.”
The whispers rose in volume all around them.
“San Holo has made a new one.”
“There’s no one like him.”
“It’s amazing.”
Still staring at the mural, Clay asked, “Do you know who his agent is?”
Cal snorted. “Got her on speed-dial.”
“I want to commission a mural for the warehouse,” Clay told him.
Cal was already scrolling through his phone contacts. “I’m sending her info.”
A moment later, Clay’s phone pinged. Then Cal elbowed him lightly in the ribs. “But don’t you try buying the canvas of this work out from under me.”
Clay laughed. “I want something that’s specifically for my warehouse. Something no one else has seen.”
And he would have it. Along with the artist’s true identity.