Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
C lay 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. ”
Tears leaked from his tormented eyes. With Dylan’s arm slack and the knife falling to the floor, Clay wanted to take the boy into his arms. Yet he was terrified it wasn’t what Dylan needed.
He turned to Saskia in the doorway. His ruptured heart reached out to her, and she understood his anguish, clearly felt the same herself. “Let me talk to him,” she whispered.
It was the right thing. She was so good with Dylan. She would talk him down.
Because Clay didn’t think he could live with himself if she didn’t.
Saskia sat on the only stool in the studio. She half expected Dylan to pick up the knife and slash the last painting.
“Come here,” she said, her tone gentle.
He grumbled back, “I’m not talking to anyone.”
She had to be stern with him and used a rougher, louder voice. “By God, you will talk to me. Turn around.”
He answered in a grumpy teenager’s tone. “ Okaaay , man.”
She took his hands in hers. He was a tall young man, but she had a feeling he would grow even taller. He was thin, too, the bones of his wrists standing out. He wasn’t yet eighteen, and he would grow into his body.
Just as he would grow into his talent.
When he didn’t pull away, she said, “Your work is fantastic, no matter what anyone else says. They’re jealous.
They see genius, and they can’t handle it.
You’re so young, and your work will get even better.
You’ll find your own style.” She squeezed his fingers, and when he didn’t squeeze back, she kept talking.
“Sometimes what we make isn’t perfect in other people’s eyes.
But if you want to be an artist, you need to have a thick skin. Like a cockroach’s carapace.”
Dylan glanced at the door, at Clay who still stood in her periphery, and said with the stubbornness of youth, “No, Clay said he would take care of me.”
She shook her head. “Clay is a wonderful human being and an amazing mentor. He wasn’t wrong in telling you to put your real, brilliant, heartfelt work out into the world.
” She paused to let that thought sink in.
“But you’re a little ahead of the curve.
People didn’t get that they had to see what was in your painting.
That it could be a dragonfly or a butterfly or a flying cockroach.
Or whatever they needed to see. Their minds were closed. ”
She thought of Gareth’s self-portrait, knowing he’d been through the same thing. People hadn’t understood. So he’d stopped painting. She wouldn’t let Dylan do that.
“Until the rest of the world catches up with you, Dylan, it’ll be a rough road.
” She had to be real with him, couldn’t spoon-feed him tender words.
If she did, he might never make it. “This is just how it is. You have to hear what they say and ignore it. You have to not care.” Just like she hadn’t cared what her parents said.
“Not everybody will see your brilliance. Not everyone sees San Holo’s brilliance either. ”
He snorted. Here was the moment when she wished she could tell him. She hated lying to Clay, but it broke her heart not to let San Holo speak to Dylan. The way he felt right now, she was afraid he wouldn’t believe her any other way. But she had to test him. “Do you think you can hack it?”
He stared at the floor. Then his gaze flashed like fire over the ruins of his art.
She prompted him. “What’s your answer?”
Finally, his shoes scuffing the floor, he mumbled, “I can hack it.”
It was a start. He might hug himself when he fell asleep tonight, maybe even shed an ocean of tears when no one could see. But this was a start.
She didn’t let go of his hand. “I know you can. I just wanted to hear you say it.” She pointed at the destruction.
“You can redo your work. Or you can paint new stuff that’s even better.
But trashing everything isn’t how you want to handle this kind of thing in the future, right?
Destroying what’s good because you feel bad? ”
Dylan took another long moment to answer. “Yeah. You’re right.” Finally—thank God—he gave a half-hearted smile. “Some of my stuff is actually kinda good, right?”
She held his hand tight. “Your art is amazing.” She pointed at the one painting he hadn’t destroyed. “Your cockroach really did fly, no matter what anyone else says.”
She smiled, then glanced at Clay standing in the doorway, his face impassive, immovable, unreadable. He left Dylan’s studio without another word.
Clay bounded up the stairs to his loft, his guts roiling.
How could Saskia think that Dylan had to put up with such cruel criticism from the jerks who’d trashed him? He didn’t understand her.
In the flat, he threw himself into his computer chair, brought the monitors to life, called up the internet, and began searching all the online comments.
His guts ached for Dylan. Just as he’d been responsible for what happened to Gareth, he was responsible for Dylan. He would fix this, and his fingers flew over the keys as if they had minds of their own.
He scented her first, even before he heard her footsteps. Damn, the way she smelled. Her beautiful mango aroma made everything in him tighten.
Yet that sensual need didn’t erase the ache in his belly.
He spoke without looking at her, because that might be his undoing. “Why would you tell Dylan that he should just take it?” He couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice. “He’s been through the wringer, and we need to help him. I have bots that can get rid of all these nasty reviews.”
The warmth of her hand on his shoulder seeped through him, and he saw the haloed reflection of her in the screen.
Then her soft, sweet, gentle voice washed over him.
“You can’t do that, Clay.” She didn’t pause long enough for him to speak.
“Because the minute you’re not in his life deleting bad reviews, he’s going to be ill-equipped to handle any criticism.
” She stroked his nape, sifted her fingers through his hair, slayed him with her touch, and robbed him of words.
“I get what you’re doing, and your idealism is beautiful.
But I’ve seen it all as San Holo’s assistant.
San would tell you himself that this is the reality Dylan has to face. ”
As much as he wanted to drink in the sight of her, the scent of her, he stared at the screen instead, fighting for control.
Her soothing voice drifted over him again. “Even San has to face it. Honestly, a couple of times, clients hated his work so much they painted over it.”
Clay couldn’t resist the temptation to turn to her then. “Didn’t that just kill him?” His voice sounded hollow.
She shrugged. “San has a thick skin. The artist in him knew the work was good. They were just people who didn’t get it.” She smiled. “Luckily, San always has the canvases on which the original idea grows before going on a wall.”
But Clay wondered if San Holo’s reaction was worse than Saskia knew. He couldn’t imagine the great artist not throwing a fit when his work was painted over. Maybe the man showed only Saskia what he wanted her to see.
His voice came out low and hoarse. “No one would dare paint over San Holo’s work now. It’s too revered.”
Once again, she shrugged. “In the beginning, the work was painted over. Because that’s what happens with street art.
But you’re right,” she admitted. “No other street artist paints over San’s art now.
” She caressed him just above his collar.
“But clients don’t always feel the same. Even if he is an icon.”