Identity of the Heart (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 1)

by Mary Crawford

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I hiss as I instinctively pull my foot out of his hand leaving my sandal dangling from his finger like Cinderella’s forgotten slipper at the ball.

  Marcus’s eyes light up with glee as he chuckles, “Sugar, I’m like a lethal assassin, I just take knowledge and tuck it away in my steel trap of a brain for use at a later date when you least expect it.”

  “Oh wonderful,” I reply sarcastically. “How is it that you already know two of my Achilles heels and I know next to nothing about you?”

  Marcus stands up and murmurs in my ear, “Ivy, I don’t know if you noticed, but if you packed any more of a punch, I’d be breathing into a brown paper bag.”

  With my deep olive complexion I’m not typically prone to blushing, but I seem to be making a habit of it around Marcus.

  Rogue snickers as she volunteers, “Don’t worry Sis, I’ve got you covered. I know more dirty secrets about Marc than you’d ever want to know.”

  Marcus turns to Tristan and remarks, “Dude, I owe you an apology. I totally understand what you mean now about ‘help’ not always being helpful.”

  Rogue grins at me as she says in a stage whisper, “See, that’s a perfect example right there. You’d never guess that Marcus actually has a college degree in Marketing and Graphic Arts because he insists on talking like a high school surfer dude.”

  “Ro, you’re going to mess with my bad boy image.” Marcus protests. “I only did it to be a good example for my little sister. Well, that and it helps with the marketing of Ink’d Deep Inc.”

  This conversation is so ludicrous that a bubble of laughter erupts from me even though I’m trying to be polite. My mom is always telling me that my sense of humor is going to get me in trouble someday.

  Marcus shoots me a quizzical look.

  When I stop giggling, I attempt to explain, “I’m sorry. It’s just that this conversation is too surreal. I’m sorry to burst your bubble Marcus, but whoever gave you the impression that you were somehow a bad boy was serving you a load of rainbow-colored unicorn poop.”

  Marcus chokes on the Pepsi he’s drinking, “Excuse me?” he asks, sounding slightly indignant.

  “You heard me,” I answer. “I have a feeling that you’re a total pretender. You’re a nice guy who pretends to be shallow so that nobody will figure out that you actually give a crap about life.”

  “But I own a tattoo parlor and I ride a motorcycle,” he argues, crossing his arms so that his biceps bulge. His flint-gray eyes are intensely focused on me.

  I shrug nonchalantly. “When done correctly, tattoos can be amazing,” I reply in an even voice. “I bet that your shop is immaculate and that every person who works for you has the proper safety training and certification, right?”

  Marcus nods at me, the muscle in his jaw still a tight knot as he retorts, “Damn straight! I’ve got the best shop in Gainesville. My philosophy is simple: ‘If you’re not going to do it right, don’t bother to do it.’”

  I nod sagely as I question him further, “… and your motorcycle? I’d be willing to bet that you took a safety course when you got that too. Although I suspect you like to tell the women that you’re a wild and crazy party animal on your Harley. Yet, I’d bet you don’t so much as have a speeding ticket.”

  Marcus uncrosses his arms and pops a couple of oyster crackers in his mouth before arching an eyebrow at me. “How did you know I have a Harley?” he asks.

  I let loose with another giggle, “Really? I give you all that, and that’s your question?” I retort sardonically. “That was the easy one. After all, don’t all bad boys ride a Harley? It’s a stereotypical rite of passage.”

  Marcus’s lips turn up in a sexy smile at my cheeky comment as he replies, “Well, I don’t know if I know you well enough to confirm or deny the accuracy of your statements, but maybe you should try this game from the other side of the table just to see how it feels.” His gray eyes are twinkling with anticipation as he waits for my response.

  Maybe it’s the former athlete in me or maybe it’s my tendency to be a perfectionist, but I find it nearly impossible to back away from a challenge even when I know better. Something in Marcus’s slightly smug expression tells me that he has a sense of that too. Despite my better judgment, even I’m slightly shocked when I hear the following words come flying out of my mouth, “Okay Marcus, tell me what you know about me.”

  “Oh hell no!” mutters Rogue under her breath. “So help me, Marc, if you make my sister cry I’m going to hide your Twinkies and Ho Ho’s for a month.”

  I look at Rogue in shock as I blurt, “How in the world does he eat those and look like that?” I vaguely gesture toward his long lanky body that’s presently casually draped in the chair in a way that only guys can sit. He’s wearing a vintage Bruce Springsteen T-shirt that’s so threadbare, you can see the outline of his abdominal muscles so clearly that they might as well have been highlighted. Earlier he was wearing a beat-up denim jacket with a patch sewn on the back that said, ‘If you don’t like my opinion, form your own.’ His jeans are tight in all the right places, but not obscenely so. Overall, he’s about as irresistible to me as catnip to a cat. There’s only one problem—he’s cute and he knows it. Generally guys like that have no interest in girls like me.

  Rogue grins at me as she responds, “I know, right? He’s like a freak of nature. If I ate like he did, I’d weigh 300 pounds, but instead, he’s so hot that the girls fall all over themselves to get his phone number.”

  Marcus has the good graces to blush as he chides, “Rogue, I don’t think you’re helping me here.”

  “Since Ivy was pointing out your hot bod, you may not need much help,” Rogue teases as she winks at me.

  For the first time, Marcus appears to be truly uncomfortable. “Enough about me, it’s Ivy’s turn now,” he declares, sitting up straight and studying me intently. If I thought Marcus was intense when he was being lackadaisical, focused Marcus is a whole different experience.

  I feel like he’s de-coding my soul with his gaze. It is equally terrifying and arousing.

  Under his thorough scrutiny, my heart starts to race and my palms start to sweat. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to stop myself from blurting out random comments. I have this ridiculously bad habit of spilling completely inane, bizarre comments when I’m nervous. The higher my stress level, the more unintelligible my thought process becomes. Unfortunately, this can result in some painfully honest confessions.

  Marcus’s eyes darken as his eyes zero in on my mouth. He lightly clears his throat as he shakes his body out like a track athlete getting ready to run a race.

  “Let’s see here,” he begins to speak in a serious voice, “Before me I have Exhibit One, otherwise known as Ivy Montclair. Ivy is well known to the outside world as the model child. She is perfect in every way. She is a model student who gets nearly perfect grades and the scholarships to match. She is a gifted athlete and one of the popular crowd, yet she’s likable enough that even the unpopular kids at school feel that she’s one of them. What no one knows is that Ivy doesn’t really feel like she fits in her own skin. Because under that calm, cool, sophisticated exterior lies the heart of a fierce bohemian artist waiting to emerge. I get the feeling that she’s been waiting many years for the world to figure out that the Ivy she chooses to show the world isn’t who she is on the inside.”

  I gasp. No one on this planet knows the true me — Not my parents, not Jessica, no one. I don’t know how he did that. Maybe it’s because he knows Rogue so well.

  “So, how did I do?” Marcus asks eagerly.

  I’m still sitting in stunned silence, stripped raw by his words.

  Rogue whirls on Marcus as she hisses, “Shut up! You’re hurting her.”

  Marcus looks baffled, “How?” he asks.

  Throwing her hands up in the air, Rogue confesses “I don’t know how I know, I just do. Her chest hurts and she’s having trouble breathing.”

  Rogue turns to me and runs her
hand down my cheek. “Ivy, talk to me. Are you okay? You’re scaring me. What’s going on? I can feel that you’re not okay.”

  “Please get my purse,” I wheeze, the feeling of suffocation is starting to make my vision gray around the edges.

  Tristan reaches under my chair, grabs my purse and dumps the contents on the table. “She must be asthmatic. Here’s her inhaler,” he says as he tosses my inhaler to Marcus. “You had pretty good luck keeping her calm earlier. Give her a puff of this. Do you know how to do it?”

  Marcus nods, “My grandma had emphysema and asthma from smoking two packs a day. I used to have to help her.”

  Marcus carefully holds my inhaler in front of my mouth. “Sugar, you have to try to take a deep breath on three,” he instructs. “Ready? One…Two… Three… Breathe!” he commands as he presses the button to release an aerosolized cloud of albuterol. As I breathe in the bitter haze of medication, I feel a sense of relief as it begins to kick in.

  “I’m supposed to take two doses,” I croak, my voice still rough from the wheezing.

  The look of concern on Rogue and Marcus’s faces are almost too much to bear. “Do you want help with this one?” he asks.

  A wave of mortification washes over me. I don’t want them to have to rescue me a third time tonight. “That’s okay, I think I’ve got it,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Are you sure?” he asks, “I really don’t mind helping a damsel in distress. In fact, it kind of makes me feel heroic. An average Joe like me doesn’t get to do that very often.”

  I flash him a weak smile, “Really? You could’ve fooled me. I think you’ve come to my rescue about three or four times just today.”

  I try to hold the inhaler up to my mouth, but my hands are shaking so badly that I can’t even push the button.

  Marcus just folds his hands around mine to steady them. “Count me down and I’ll push the button for you,” he offers.

  I think I shake my head yes, but I can’t really tell because I’m so discombobulated by his touch. “Three… Two… One… Now!” I whisper as I try to coordinate my breath with the puff of medication coming out of the inhaler.

  After the second dose of medicine has had a chance to settle into my system, I notice Rogue standing off to the side, just watching the drama unfold.

  “Rogue?” I call.

  She pokes her head around the corner. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m feeling a little better,” I reply. “How did you know that I was in pain and not just upset by what Marcus was saying?”

  Rogue shrugs as she responds, “It’s really hard to explain. We got a little side-tracked by real life earlier. Remember that study Tristan mentioned? They are really interested in us because we are twins who are identical that had never met. Well, he didn’t tell you the whole thing. Several researchers are interested in us to study the potential healing implications that have to do with teleporting and telepathic communications.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would they want to talk to us? We just met,” I state the obvious as I try to follow what she’s saying.

  Rogue is undaunted by my confusion, “I want to ask you about the scarring on your left ankle. I want to see if it’s as bad as I remember the pain being. I just remember waking up with excruciating leg pain. It was worse than anything I’ve ever experienced in my whole life. What in the hell were you doing at 6:30 in the morning on a Saturday to cause that much pain?”

  I feel the blood drain out of my face. The only people who know what happened that day were my teammates and the people at the hospital. Through a terrible miscommunication, my parents didn’t even get notified until after I was through with surgery. I know there is no way Rogue could have known anything about that day except through some mysterious twin connection.

  “I was playing soccer,” I stammer, still unable to believe that we’re having this conversation.

  Rogue smiles happily, “Were you any good?”

  “I was until a jealous bitch decided that she wanted my spot on the team and conspired with a couple of other players to take me out.”

  “Well, you’ve got me now. We can go get retribution," Rogue nobly offers.

  I chuckle as I reply, “No need to do that. Karma already did a number on her. She turned to anabolic steroids to be a stronger athlete during her junior year, and by senior prom she could grow her own beard.”

  Rogue laughs as she agrees, “Eventually your own stupidity will slap you in the face.”

  “Well, that’s one way to put it, but it definitely fits. I can’t say I’m particularly sorry,” I admit.

  “So, what’s the thing with your lungs?” Rogue asks abruptly. “It was a lot worse when you were a kid, right? Because there were times that I couldn’t even breathe and there wasn’t any explanation for my symptoms. My mom thought I was crazy.”

  Smiling sympathetically, I concede, “My mom thought it a bit nuts too because I would have long conversations with you even though I didn’t know who you were. From a really early age I was pretty convinced that there should be somebody beside me. I didn’t just have a generic invisible friend, my invisible friend was always my sister. Finally, I just stopped admitting to people that I even thought about you.”

  “Your lungs?” Rogue prompts.

  “Oh yeah, I was born with a blood clot in my lung and I didn’t have enough surfactant,” I explain. “They were able to remove the blood clot before it traveled to my heart or to my brain, but it caused some tissue damage to my lungs. I had to be hospitalized for a long time after I was born to allow for my lungs to heal and mature. To hear my mom tell it, I guess they weren’t even sure if I was going to make it for a while.”

  “Wow!” Rogue murmurs, “I almost lost you before I ever knew you.”

  “I suppose so. It’s weird how fate works out,” I agree. “So after I survived the touch and go phase, I guess the family folklore goes that as long as my parents were changing everything else about me, they took advantage of an error in the hospital records which listed the day the doctors took me off the ventilator as my birthday. My parents just never changed it when they filed for adoption.”

  Rogue turns to Tristan as she announces, “I think that clears up the last big mystery. That explains why we have two different birthdays.”

  A million questions fly into my brain all at once. I guess I knew from the moment I walked into Tristan’s office that day that something like this was a possibility. The fact that I was adopted was never hidden from me. It would have been silly for my parents to try to disguise the fact that I’m adopted since my skin tone is completely different. My parents have much lighter skin. My mom’s hair is beautifully wavy, with a mahogany hue and mine is stick straight. As a child, I used to scour the crowds at the state fairs or other large events trying to find other people who look like me.

  “When is your birthday, or I guess I should say when is my real birthday? Or put even more precisely, when is our birthday?” I ask, excited to know more details.

  “Wow, I didn’t realize that adoptions are still that closed now,” Rogue comments. “I just figured your adoptive mom would tell you. Anyway, our birthday is on February fourteenth.”

  “You’re kidding!” I exclaim. “My birthday isn’t until April fifteenth. Do you think I was really in the ICU that long? That’s just scary! How long did you have to stay in the hospital? Were you adopted too?” I continue peppering her with questions.

  “I guess I must’ve hogged all the nutrients and the surfactant because I don’t think I had to stay in the hospital more than just the normal amount of days,” Rogue responds. “I’ll have to ask my mom to be sure though. Everyone calls her Mama Rosa, by the way.”

  “So, you weren’t adopted?” I clarify.

  Rogue shakes her head, “No, I was raised by our mom.”

  That piece of news hits me hard. After a lifetime of being the player always left on the bench and the last person chosen to be on every team, her deci
sion to leave me behind at the hospital is devastating.

  Marcus immediately notices my crestfallen expression. He kneels down in front of me and puts his hands on my shoulders. Speaking in his low, soothing voice, he directs, “Ivy, look at me.” Slowly, I raise my eyes to meet his steady gaze. “Sugar, I’ve met Mama Rosa personally. There is no way she would have abandoned you unless she had no other choice. That’s just not the way she operates. So please, get those thoughts out of your head.”

  A look of horror crosses Rogue’s face as she processes our conversation. “Oh my God! You think that she chose me over you? If you knew my mama, you would know that she would never do that. She spent her life being a teacher’s aide in a kindergarten class. She absolutely loves kids. Something really weird must have happened for her not to take you too,” she explains emphatically.

  A tear leaks out of the corner of my eye as I ask in a small voice, “Did she ever mention me?”

  Rogue pops up from her chair and hugs me from behind as she murmurs. “Oh Manita, I’m so sorry, but no.”

  I hold her cheek next to mine and sob. Marcus rests his forehead against mine and we collapse into an odd group hug right in the middle of the restaurant.

  After a few moments we break apart. Rogue and I take one look at each other and start to laugh. Our makeup is completely destroyed. Tristan, per his usual, is totally prepared and hands us napkins with one edge pre-moistened with water. As if we had done this a thousand times, we simultaneously begin repairing each other’s face. It is freaky seeing and touching my mirror image. It’s like having a life-size doll come to life.

  Something in my expression must have given my thoughts away because Rogue giggles as she remarks, “Don’t worry, this is just as bizarre for me, if not more so. At least you were aware that you were adopted so you knew that there might be siblings out there somewhere. I was completely blindsided.”