Free The Artist (The Game Changers #2) by Shealy James Page B

her goal seemed so accurate. Each image could be anything you made it. Her imagination wasn’t the only one coming through the colors; it was mine, as well.
    Unfortunately, my appreciation of her work was also suddenly tempered by a slight onslaught of uncomfortable emotions. I wondered if he and Blythe had shared some deep conversation about what their art meant to them or what they wanted it to mean to others. Jealousy poked at my gut when he was talking about her art and watching her create it, but reason won my attention. They were just friends. If they wanted to be anything more, they would have already made that leap. Then I realized it was totally possible that they had made a “leap,” and the jealousy found its way back. Ugh!
    “I, on the other hand…” He grabbed my hand, and my attention then led me to another section that was covered in people doing seemingly mundane things, like sitting on a bench reading or walking a dog. “I like to put it all out there. I want to show the relationships people have with each other and with the space around them. My goal isn’t to make you think, it’s to make you feel like you are part of the moment.”
    I stood still while I absorbed his whole wall. “This is beautiful,” I finally said after a long moment. “I don’t know how you make them seem so real, but I feel like I could walk right into that painting and exist.” I approached the wall as if I could do just that. Of course, it was nothing but concrete behind the paint, so I couldn’t climb in the painting like it led me to believe from farther away. I turned to look up at him and saw him watching me with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “So, why the bar if you can do all this?” I asked while waving my hand toward the impressive piece of art.
    “Ever heard of starving artists?” His lip lifted into a sad smile.
    “Of course, but this looks nothing like starving.”
    He shrugged and took the few steps to stand beside me. While staring at his work he said, “It didn’t start out that way. When I finished college, I couldn’t sell anything. I was a no name kid with an art degree. I didn’t matter in this town. I still don’t, really, but I have just enough connections to do what I love without selling out or resenting the job. The bar was my first painting. I was a bartender slash artist. The bar used to be really rundown but still a cool hangout. The original owner, Hank, didn’t care much about the upkeep, but I did. I asked him if I could do some work, and he agreed as long as he didn’t have to spend any money.”
    “Cheap bastard.”
    He let out a quick laugh. “Turns out, the bar wasn’t making any money. Anyway, I painted the mural on the wall and did some other work. When he decided it was time to retire where it was sunny and warm, he sold me the bar for a hundred dollars.”
    “Really?” I asked surprised. “He gave up his bar for a hundred dollars?” Huh.
    “Yeah, but what did I know about running a business? Like I said, I was an art major.”
    “You seem to be doing well now.” I looked up at him.
    His dark eyes met mine, and I could see the seriousness in them. Playful Maverick was long gone. Honest Maverick had taken his place and was giving me a glimpse into where he came from. “Desperation will make you do things that you never thought you would be able to do,” he explained.
    I took a step closer this time and grabbed his hand. I felt the need to show some sort of support, affection maybe. I wasn’t sure. I just knew I needed to touch him. It was the first time I had ever felt grateful that someone was sharing a piece of himself with me. Perhaps it was because he was sharing a genuine piece of himself with me.
    “What about the painting?” I asked.
    “Still there. My buddies Corbin and Brock, and my brother Jack helped me turn the bar into what it is now. One day someone came in asking about the artist who painted the back wall, and just like that, I had