Written in Scars(4)

Sam didn’t dwell on events of the past. When given the chance to talk, he confidently directed the conversation to the reason he was there; to high-light the knife amnesty currently taking place. “People carry knives for all kinds of reasons,” Sam said. “Maybe they think it’s for their own protection. But in an altercation the knife can be taken away and used against them. Or they lose their temper and lash out in a way they wouldn’t have done if they weren’t carrying. It’s a nasty, vicious cycle. The very act of carrying a blade, increases the chances of serious, life threatening injury. We want to get the weapons off the street and are asking people to bin the blade. Beginning today and for the next four weeks people can surrender their knives at several drop-off points without fear of prosecution. The police are not looking to punish anyone, they only want to get these devastating weapons off the streets.”

He spoke impressively, without sounding preachy or patronising. Logan liked Sam even more as he listened to him.

Inspector Watt spoke next, reiterating the message that the police would not prosecute anyone handing in knives during the amnesty period. He went on to outline all the drop-off points across the region where weapons could be handed in safely and anonymously.

Five minutes later, Sam returned to the green room, without the Inspector.

“Oh, hi,” he said, seemingly surprised, before breaking into a wide, toothy smile. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

Logan rose to meet him. “I wanted to give you this.” He handed him a hardback copy of Guilty as Hell.

Sam took it appreciatively. “Wow. Thank you very much.” He studied the cover before flipping over to the black and white author photo on the dust jacket. “Very handsome. That’s a great picture.”

Logan laughed bashfully, feeling a heat creep across his cheeks. What the hell?

“I wanted to congratulate too. You were great out there. I had no idea this was such a big concern.” Then he remembered Sam’s history. Fuck. Idiot. His mouth was running away with him. “I was sorry to hear what happened to you. To your friend too.”

Sam broke eye contact, gazing meaningfully at the book cover.

“It’s an important message to get out. A lot of people don’t know it’s a problem, not until it affects them. I was like that too. I used to think knives were cool when I was a kid.” He gave a small laugh. “I’ve got the scars to prove otherwise.”

Silence sat heavily between them. A beat. Two.

“I’m sorry,” Logan said at last.

“You weren’t to know.”

“No. But I’m sorry for being tactless.”

Sam looked at him again, dimples bracketing his desirable smile. “Hey, I came on this show to put the word out. Job done.”

Logan laughed. “I’ll say.”

Lord, just being close to this man was driving him mad. Logan’s eyes tore over him, trying to take it all in. The thick waves of his hair, streaked with gold; the smooth skin of his forehead; those dimples; the twinkling light in his eyes. Everything about him made Logan’s pulse race.

Sam opened the book, studying the first few pages. “This looks great. I’m looking forward to reading it already. Hey,” he said, flicking back to the beginning. “You didn’t sign it. Would you? Please?”

“My pleasure.” Logan took a pen from his inside pocket and inscribed his usual message: To Sam. Best Wishes, Logan Crawford. And then, impulsively, before he could change his mind, he wrote his phone number beneath the signature. “There you go.”

As he handed the book back, he caught a quick flash of something on Sam’s finger. He looked again and it as no mistake. There, on the third finger of his left hand, a plain gold band. A wedding-ring.

God damn it. Why didn’t he spot that before writing his fucking number?





Chapter Two





On the near empty metro train back to Jesmond, Sam studied the author photo on the dust jacket of Guilty as Hell. Logan Crawford, he’d heard the name but had read none of his books, and certainly had no idea he was so good-looking. No, he’s not good-looking: he’s drop dead gorgeous. The cover image caught him to perfection – tall, dark, and handsome. In a black jacket and open-neck shirt, he stared seriously at the camera, arms folded. More like a model in a glossy cologne advert than a thriller writer. Even then, the black-and-white photo didn’t do him justice. It captured the firm set of his lantern jaw, and the marble sculpture of his high cheekbones, but failed to show the colourful facets of his eyes; jade green one moment, flashing emerald the next.

Sam had never encountered such a fine-looking man. Not even in the movies. Logan Crawford was a one of a kind hunk.

His insides still churned uneasily from their encounter. Sam had been so nervous speaking to him. His face blushed and betrayed him as he fought to keep his cool. He tried not to stare at Logan as they spoke, but it had been impossible. What a fool he must have made of himself. He’d been more nervy chatting to Logan in the green room than he was in the studio with Gilly, broadcasting live to hundreds of thousands of people. Logan must have noticed the state he was in. Thankfully he’d said nothing.

Sam turned to the front of the book and opened it. There it was: a signature and a phone number. He hadn’t imagined it.

“Give me a call if you’d like to meet for a drink sometime,” Logan had said as he left.