Page 21 of Painted in Love

Adrian leaned back. “Here’s the kicker. He wants to meet the great man himself. I, of course, didn’t reveal your identity.” Her lips curved in a cheeky grin. “Imagine. He thinks you’re a man.”

Saskia draped her forearms over the armrests in a disgusted gesture. “Why is it that men are always drooling over another guy’s art? There’s tons of stealth female street artists out there who use male-sounding pseudonyms because of the inherent gender bias in the field.” Just like she did. She’d chosen San Holo as an homage to the famous character.

“Sister, you are preaching to the choir.” Adrian leaned her elbows on the desk, the cream color of her crisp silk blouse accentuating her skin tones. “But since you want anonymity, if they think you’re a man, it plays right into that.” With a shrug, she added, “Especially since you don’t want to do interviews.”

Saskia had never wanted that kind of notoriety. She just wanted to make her art without interference.

Now some rich dude wanted to know who she was.

“You’ll never guess who.” Adrian said, almost deadpan. She’d been waiting for this big buildup.

Saskia let her have it. “Who?” she asked mildly.

“Clay freaking-billionaire-who-will-pay-anything-for-your-art Harrington.”

Saskia smacked her forehead, almost giving herself a headache. “Of course that’s why he was here. It was about my art.”

She should have seen it. But then, she’d so enjoyed talking with him and the sex had been so damn good, she’d barely thought about anything else.

Adrian was looking at her, eyebrows knit. “What?”

Saskia simply said, “I can’t do it.”

Adrian burst out with a yell of dismay. Adrian was her agent and whatever Saskia made, Adrian got a percentage. But even more, Adrian wanted Saskia’s career to grow, wanted her art to be seen by everyone, because her friend believed it was absolutely brilliant.

Mouth still open, Adrian demanded, “Why on earth would you not do this?”

She had to be blunt. “Because I slept with him last night.”

They weren’t just agent and artist. Adrian was her best friend, the person she’d counted on. Saskia trusted her implicitly.

They’d been best friends since they were sixteen—half their lives—when Saskia was living in a dingy London garret with some artist friends. While creating her street art—which would always be her first love—she’d supported herself by selling caricatures to tourists. Adrian bought one. They’d been besties ever since, even moved to San Francisco together five years ago. But while Adrian cultivated her British accent, because Americans thought it was posh, Saskia had worked diligently to get rid of hers so she wouldn’t stand out in an American city. Her accent was Anywhere USA. It facilitated her anonymity.

Adrian dramatically pushed her mouth closed with two fingers. “Let me just wipe up my drool.” Then she sighed. “He is so hot. Was it as incredible as I imagine?”

They usually shared intimate details. Not that either of them had much to share recently, and Saskia, not for five years.

She closed her eyes and exhaled a long, satisfied breath before looking at her friend again. “Oh. My. God. It was like… take amazing and multiply by a thousand,” she said just as dramatically. “Fireworks and everything you ever dreamed of.”

Adrian fanned herself. Then she rushed to the water cooler, pouring two cups and handing one to Saskia. “You must be parched after a night of major fireworks.” Seated again, she drained the small cup. “It wasn’t all about him and his needs?”

Saskia shook her head, once to the left, once to the right. “It was all about me. About my fireworks.” She widened her eyes, “Not to say that he didn’t get his.”

Adrian let out a sigh. “You held out for five years until you got the very best.”

Adrian knew everything about her, especially why Saskia hadn’t been with a man in that long. Hugo, the awful ex. He’d been Saskia’s everything. But all the while, he’d been screwing her over. He’d stolen her pseudonym and claimed her art as his, which meant he’d stolen her whole life. She’d had to start from scratch, building her name all over again.

Adrian had seen her fall into a dark pit of despair. “I know how hard it was for you back then.”

But Saskia had to be honest. “If Hugo hadn’t claimed my early work, I might not have made the style switch to stuff that’s truly me.”

“Didn’t Taylor Swift say something about making your best stuff even when your heart is broken?”

Saskia nodded.

“That’s you, baby,” her friend said. “You got even better after Hugo broke your heart.”

Yeah, Saskia thought, she had. She’d always felt a lot of her early work was derivative of famous street artists like Banksy and his girl with the balloon, using symbols and hearts and butterflies and lots of blank space. Though she’d put her own spin on it too. But now she was all about bold colors and diversity and filling up every space with imagery.

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