Page 20 of Man of His Dreams

“Researched?” Looking a little dazed, Scratch crossed the room and sat on a straight-backed chair that didn’t exist when Flip was awake. “He researched me?”

“He heard a few family stories about you and tried to look you up in old records. There were some ads with your name and, uh, a newspaper article about….” Not wanting to mention the murder, Flip made a vague hand gesture instead.

But Scratch had conjured a tentative, sweet smile. “They remember me? You ain’t tryin’ to fool me, are you?”

Great. This made him the second Bergeron today to break Flip’s heart. “I’m not fooling you. They do remember.”

“I ain’t never met him. Ain’t seen none of my family since I died.” He spread his hands. “I can’t go far from here, and none of ’em have come close enough for me to see. Sometimes I hear a little from other ghosts. Our… territories overlap a little, yeah? So we can pass news on. But facts get lost or changed….”

Like a spectral game of telephone. “What about Miss Amelie?” Flip asked.

“Ah, my jolie fille. She tells me things too, when she can. But she ain’t like you—she can only see me every now and then, and not for long.”

“Okay, but couldn’t she tell your other relatives about you? Then they could come visit you.”

Scratch shrugged. “She tried a few times over the years. Got tired of ’em tellin’ her she’s crazy.”

Well, Flip could understand that. He’d doubted her even after seeing Scratch himself. “It must be frustrating for you.”

“Something like that.” Scratch chewed his lip for a moment, staring down at the floor. Then he looked up. “It hurts. Not a physical pain—I’m past all that. But a pain nonetheless. I lost my future, my connections. I’m not a part of anything no more. Can’t do nothing that makes a difference. Can’t even sit and have a cold drink and shoot the breeze with someone, feeling the sweat trickle down my back and smelling good food on the stove. Can’t go down to the river and watch the boats. Can’t… can’t touch nobody. Until you.”

He stood and walked to Flip, grasped Flip’s shoulders almost too hard, and kissed him.

There was fire in this kiss, and desperate need—and not all of it was from Scratch. Even with his eyes closed, Flip could picture the two of them, lit up like a Bourbon Street sign, crackling with energy like a thunderstorm. The kiss flooded him and he welcomed it, wanted to submerge himself in it. Didn’t even care if it destroyed him.

But then he staggered back, out of Scratch’s grip. “Tony,” he rasped.

“Nobody calls— Oh.” Scratch’s jaw tightened. “Him.”

“I spent the day with him.”

“So? I’m here and he’s not. He’s got no claim on you.”

Technically, that was true. They’d just met and hadn’t so much as kissed. Neither had made the other any promises, and when Tony had reached out for something more, Flip had clearly turned away. And sure, there was Miss Amelie’s prediction, but even if it wasn’t complete bullshit, it didn’t obligate Flip in any way. He hadn’t consented to being a party to whatever she had in mind for him and Tony. Hell, neither had Tony.

Yet Flip felt that if he were to follow through with Scratch, they’d both be betraying Tony.

“I can’t,” he said with genuine regret.

“He’s alive. He’s got the whole world. I got a couple blocks in the Quarter and you.”

“You don’t have me. Neither does Tony. Fuck, I barely have myself. I feel like I’ve been falling apart, bit by bit, for years, and now I don’t even have the ground beneath me anymore. I can’t… I just can’t, Scratch.”

Scratch’s shoulders sagged and he swallowed a few times. “It’s not fair of me to ask. You didn’t choose any of this.”

“Neither did you.”

“I made bad decisions, and?—”

“And so did I, and here we are. But I think this”—Flip waved a hand between them—“would be a bad decision too.”

After a pause, Scratch nodded. He bent and picked up the umbrella from the floor next to the straight-backed chair. “Thanks for this,” he said, holding it up, “and for your company. They’ve both meant a lot to me.”

Then he was gone, and Flip was alone in his dream.

Chapter

Nine

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