Ghosts of The Heart -- Ch. 8 is up.

Anna slipped out onto the fire escape of the apartment she shared with Lucas, cell phone in hand. She glanced back, making sure Lucas was asleep; he was, curled on his side on the couch, his ponytail held in one hand like a security blanket. She slid the window shut behind her and sat down, her back against the brick wall.

Her cell phone said it was two minutes to three in the morning. She held it in one hand, so she would feel it vibrate. She’d turned the ringer off to make sure Lucas wouldn’t hear. Her stomach hurt from what was to come. She was tired of hiding things from Lucas.

Earlier, when Patrick had called, she’d hid in her bedroom and spoke as quietly as she could get away with. She didn’t know why she was hiding Patrick from Lucas; she thought they would actually get along very well. She’d met the thirty six year old English teacher about six months before they’d bought the theater; Lucas had still to this day never even heard of him. She’d met him a few times; they lived close enough so that getting together was possible about once a month. The third time, she’d slept with him. The fourth, she started to think she loved him. A month ago, she’d been absolutely sure.

Since then, she’d been trying to come up with a way to tell Lucas. Part of her had believed at first that hiding Patrick from her best friend had been for peace’s sake; Lucas had not tolerated either of the two men she’d gotten serious with in the past years, and the few she’d even considered dating he’d run off before she could see them more than twice. She knew it was selfish of him, but she also didn’t blame him. He wouldn’t know what to do without her, and she was honest with herself enough to know she felt the same about him. Still, now that things had become what they were with Patrick, she saw the hole she’d dug for herself. Seeing a guy would make Lucas surly and difficult to be around. Falling in love? Lucas would have a heart attack.

It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want her to be with someone. She knew that it was mostly the idea of secrets, and the idea that she would go away. And she knew that even though she had no intention of leaving him, she’d been keeping one hell of a secret.

The phone buzzed, snapping her out of her thoughts. She looked at the screen, which displayed a pizza parlor’s name that hadn’t existed since she was a kid. She flipped the phone open and pressed it to her ear.

“We have a serious problem.” She said softly, closing her eyes and leaned her head back against the bricks. “I’m talking nuclear holocaust.”

“How politically correct of you.” David said, sounding tired but amused. “Tell me the bad news in a moment, though. I’ve had a terrible week. Tell me something good.”

She thought about this. “Patrick wants to take me to Paris.” She told him, and heard his soft laughter. “He wants me to run away for a week.”

“What a wonderful dream.” He said, and she didn’t miss the slight emphasis on the last word. “How is your faraway prince?”

“Good. Teaching summer classes. How are your roses?”

“Business is booming, roses are blooming.” He mumbled, obviously around something she knew would be the neck of a bottle of beer. She smiled at the familiar rhyme. “I’d like to send you some.”

“Roses or business?” she asked.

He laughed. “Both, actually. Some associates of mine are in your city for the next month or so; some class or something. I don’t know. I gave them the address of your place, and your phone number. Hopefully you can hook them up with something special.”

“I’ll work something out.”

“Tell me this bad news.”

She sighed and rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “The loft across the street from our theater.” She said, and he ‘mmhmm’ed at her. “There’s a kid.”

“There are many kids.” He told her, as if imparting some great wisdom.

“David, he looks exactly like you.”

There was silence. She waited, the phone against her ear. After a moment, she heard the faint metallic click of a lighter, and then a long exhale of breath. “Anna…” he managed to make her voice drip with warning, sorrow, and uncertainty.

“I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking it too.” She paused, thinking. “I want to look in on him, see what the situation is.”

“If it’s him…” he stopped, and she heard him breathing for a long time before he spoke. “Will you tell me if it’s him?”

“I will. You know I will.”

“Lucas saw him, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.” David muttered. “He took it badly.” It wasn’t a question, and Anna didn’t answer it. “What’s going to happen?”

“Nothing’s certain yet.” She told him. “It might just be a coincidence.”

“I need to go, Anna.”

“All right.”

“Hug him for me.”

“I will.”

“Until next month. The roses will be there next week.” The line went dead, and Anna flipped the phone shut. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin against her knee. Things were getting out of hand, she knew. She also knew that she was the only one who could do anything about it.
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Deacon stuck the end of his paintbrush in his mouth, biting down on the wood to keep it steady. He backed up, studying the canvas intently. It was four in the morning. Johnny was asleep in Deacon’s bed, the sheets tangled in his legs. Deacon had awoken from a nightmare he couldn’t remember, sweaty and shaking, two hours ago.

Now, he contemplated the new piece he’d began almost as soon as he was awake. The tiny pieces he could recall of the nightmare were there, in the painting, swirls of red and mossy green, a pair of delicate, long fingered hands posed as if mimicking a bird in flight, the nails caked with dirt and grime. He frowned at the canvas, chewing on the end of the brush a little. He wanted a cigarette, but he wasn’t about to break his concentration.

He stepped forward again, pressing his brush into a glob of paint the color of rust. His hands moved frantically, as though they knew he needed to get this out of him before it ate him alive. Some pieces were like that, he knew. They would tear at you until you got them out, and it you didn’t, there was no way you were sleeping or functioning as a normal human.

Johnny woke up slowly, aware of the emptiness in the bed beside him. He rolled over to watched Deacon. He saw that he’d started a new painting, larger than the ones he usually did; this canvas was almost four feet tall, although it was very narrow. Johnny propped himself up on one elbow and watched Deacon work. He was amazed, like always, at the talent he had, the focus. He loved what he did, Johnny knew. There was a part of Deacon that would never belong to anyone or anything other than his art. It would always come first. Johnny mostly admired this, although he knew that no matter how close he got to the dark haired boy, no matter if he could managed to break Deacon’s ties to Jess or not, there would never be enough room in Deacon’s heart for him. Or for anyone else.

Eventually, Deacon’s work slowed, then finally stopped. He dropped the brush he’d been using to scrawl strange, glyph-like words into the background layers of his piece into a jar of water, then pawed through the mess on his work table for his cigarettes. He found them, sticking one between his lips and lighting it with a match.

“Are you up for good?” Johnny asked him, and Deacon turned to squint through the cigarette smoke at him. “Or are you coming back to bed?”

Deacon sat down on the edge of the bed and pushed his hair away from his forehead. His hand left a smudge of red paint on his forehead, above his left eyebrow, and Johnny laughed and leaned forward to wipe it away. “I want pancakes.” Deacon told him, and kissed Johnny’s wrist. “Let’s walk down to the diner and get breakfast.”

Johnny glanced at the alarm clock. “It’s four thirty in the morning.” He pointed out. They had school all year round, unfortunately, and neither of them could really afford to skip another day this term. He knew that if they went to the diner, they’d end up on one of Deacon’s crazy trips. Canoeing or driving halfway across the state to get ice cream or something equally pointless and fun. “We really shouldn’t.”

Deacon rolled his eyes and hit his cigarette, tapping the ash off onto the floor. He ignored Johnny’s scowl at this display of slobbery. “Come on.” He goaded. “It’ll be fun.” He flashed Johnny his wide, perfect-toothed, crooked smile, and knew by the change in Johnny’s eyes that pancakes would be eaten shortly. He stood up. “I’ll even pay for you.”

They dressed and headed out of the loft to the elevator. When they reached the street, Deacon wrapped his arm around Johnny’s waist and steered him towards the diner.
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Lucas got out of the taxi, humming softly to himself. He’d woken up in better spirits than he had gone to bed in, and he was refreshed and ready to get some work done. It was early, only six in the morning. He pulled his wallet out to pay the driver.

When the transaction was complete, he headed into the theater, his humming becoming whistling. He spun the key ring on one finger as he shut the door behind him.
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“Wallet. Johnny said, pointing at the street. Deacon looked. They were walking back to the loft, hand in hand. He let go and jogged out into the street, ignoring the car that had to swerve to avoid him. It was black leather, and worn. He went back to Johnny, flipping it open and pawing through it. “Anything good?” Johnny asked.

“Forty… three dollars.” Deacon said, counting the cash. “A couple of credit cards. An I.D.” he squinted at the narrow faced, long haired man in the photograph. “Not very flattering, but he’s kind of hot. Lucas Maxwell Chase.” He read, pulling the I.D. out and handing Johnny the wallet. “Thirty one. I think I’ve seen him before.”

“Where?”

“I think he owns the-“

“Oh my fucking GOD!” Johnny shrieked, making Deacon wince.

“What the hell is your-“ Johnny shoved a photograph into his face, nearly taking his eye out with it. Deacon snatched it away, scowling. “You don’t have to assault me with the fucking thing.” He muttered, looking down at the photograph. “Oh my fucking god.” He whispered, his voice somewhere down near his stomach and heart, which had both dropped at the sight.

The photograph was obviously taken years ago, and kept in the wallet for a long time. It was faded and worn, the crease in it almost all the way through. It was of the long haired man, but he was young, a teenager. There was a short, curvy blond girl beside him, her head on his shoulder, beaming happily. Beside the long haired boy was another boy, his head tilted a little, his eyes somewhere away from the camera, a cigarette between his lips.

“He looks like me.” Deacon muttered.

“Except you don’t have hair the color of a smurf.” Johnny pointed out. “And the tattoos.”

Deacon looked closer and saw that the boy who had his face also had swirling, intricate patterns crawling up both his arms from wrist to where they disappeared under his sleeves. Deacon felt a little sick. This was just too weird.

“Who do you think it is?” Johnny asked.

Deacon shook his head. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”
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Lucas dug through his pockets, frowning. He couldn’t find his wallet. He needed that wallet. What the hell was he going to do? He knew he could replace the cards, and the cash wasn’t much. But the photograph…

He put his face in his hands and tried to control his breathing. He would not cry.
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Johnny rolled onto his back and glared at the ceiling. “Deacon, you’ve been at this for almost three hours now.” He told him. Deacon had gone into the loft and immediately called himself in sick at school. After a hesitation, Johnny had done the same. When the twins found out they were staying home, they called off as well. Unfortunately, they’d gotten bored with Deacon’s lack of attention for any of them and had disappeared into Lex’s bedroom. Johnny could hear them arguing about something.

Deacon ignored Johnny’s commented, his eyes scanning the computer screen carefully. He was sitting cross-legged on the couch, his laptop perched on his knees. He’d been biting at his bottom lip and chain smoking the entire time, and Johnny was starting to get annoyed with him.

He was about to complain again when Deacon’s face broke into a brilliant, happy smile. “I found him.” He whispered, and looked up at Johnny. “His name is David Johnson.”

Johnny got up and sat down beside Deacon on the couch. He looked at the computer screen. “An editorial?” he asked, and Deacon nodded.

“He owns a bar in Columbia.”

“Where?”

Deacon rolled his eyes. “It’s the capital of South Carolina, Johnny.” He snapped, and Johnny glared at him. “The bar’s called The Rose Garden.”

“Weird name.”

“He’s a rose breeder, too.”

“This guy that you think is your father breeds roses?” Johnny wrinkled his nose. “That’s sort of gay.”

Deacon shrugged. “It’s different.” He said carefully. “Anyway, this article on him says that he’s only thirty two. I mean, that doesn’t really add up, does it?”

Johnny did the math. “He would’ve been fourteen when you were born, man.”

Deacon nodded. “Maybe it isn’t him, then.”

“Then why do you look so much alike?”

Deacon shrugged. “Maybe he’s a long lost brother.”

“How did you find him?”

Deacon smiled. “We know that Lucas guy’s name. I looked up his school records, did some cross referencing. Turns out some girl from his graduating year put up the year book photos on some website. Look.” He switched over to another window; there were rows and rows of old senior photos; the boy who looked like Deacon was one of them.

“How’d you figure-“

Deacon sighed. “Johnny, it’s common sense. The picture is obviously from a long time ago, and they’re teenagers in it. High school. Easy.”

“Lucky that girl is a weirdo. Who would go through all that trouble to put your yearbook on the internet? And why?”

“Apparently she’s putting together a reunion or something. The website’s part of her getting in contact with people.”

“Well, this certainly took long enough. What are you going to do?”

Deacon shook his head and worried at his bottom lip. “I don’t know. There’s over 25 listings for David Johnsons in Columbia. I guess I could find the bar address…”

“Address?” Johnny looked at him, confused. “Why not phone number? You aren’t seriously thinking about actually GOING to South Carolina, are you?”

Deacon shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know.” He said vaguely. “I want to talk to that Lucas guy first.”

“Well, the theater opens tomorrow. We’re still going, right?”

“Of course we are. I can talk to him then.” Deacon looked back at Johnny and grinned. “This could be something, you know. Something real about my parents.”

Johnny put his arm around Deacon’s shoulders. “Don’t get too excited. Don’t get your hopes.”

“I won’t.” Deacon said automatically, but Johnny could tell by the look on his face that his hopes were way over the moon.
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a/n. hey, breath caught holding, why the sudden lack of love? =(

Anyway. So that's chapter 2. It might seem like I'm rushing it a bit; I'm not. All will be revealed.

What's everyone think of that weird little twist on David's job? Funky, no? It has a purpose, trust me, and hey, look up black baccara roses, those are the kind he breeds. Beautiful, aren't they? All will be revealed... eventually. This chapter is about getting the ball rolling.

More chapters of other stuff almost finished, so look out for that.

Also, I'm putting together something NEW AND EXCITING. *gasps* An interactive story? What? YES! You can either shoot me an email (misomcfly@yahoo.com) or go to my blog (which is linked in my author page) and let me know if you want to help me write a story that YOU all control. I'll contact the people who contact me with ALL the details. I promise it's bound to be great! How awesome is that? Shyah, I know!