Page 8 of Written in Scars

“Sam,” he said firmly. “I’m glad you did. There’s something’s wrong. I can hear it in your voice. I just need to put my shoes on and grab a jacket then I’m back on the road. Where are you? I’ll pick you up.”

“I’m at the Metro station, heading back into town. There’s a bar near Central Station. Called The Alchemist.”

“I know it. I’ll be there by nine. Okay?”

“Great,” Sam’s voice, though still tense, sounded brighter. “See you there.”

Logan hung up. What was this? There was definitely something wrong with the boy. He heard it in his voice. What could it be? Personal problems? Emotional complications? Don’t forget the wedding ring.

Why call me when we’ve only just met?

Was this really something he should get involved with?

Did he even want to?

There was only one way to find out.

****

Logan had passed The Alchemist numerous times without going inside. A trendy city centre bar aimed at hipsters and the weekend crowds who drank cocktails by the jug, it didn’t look like his kind of place. Stepping through the door, he realised that assessment was correct. It was soulless, all chrome and glass surfaces with framed black and white images of 1960s gangsters on the walls. He might have enjoyed The Alchemist in his twenties, but for a man pushing forty, it looked like hell.

Thankfully mid-week it was relatively quiet.

“Hey,” Sam called from a booth on the far side of the bar, waving Logan over.

He wore the same clothes he’d had on for TV; a brown leather jacket, grey T-shirt, and jeans. There was a near empty bottle of beer on the table in front of him. As Logan approached, he saw Sam’s eyes were red-rimmed and raw. The boy forced a smile.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for asking me.”

“What do you want to drink?”

“I’ll get them. Another beer?”

“No,” Sam said, getting to his feet. “I dragged you all the way back here. The least I owe you is a drink. Besides, you gave me a copy of your book too. So, what’s it to be?”

“Whatever you’ve got, I’ll have the same.”

Slipping into the booth, he watched Sam walk away; admiring his build, his good shoulders and the high curve of his arse. He had to stop that. The boy had been crying. He didn’t need an old man leching over him.

What the problem was, Logan couldn’t imagine. They barely knew each other. Of all the people to call in a crisis. He wondered who he’d reach out to if he had trouble? Probably no one. He had no one close. Not emotionally. He got on well enough with his family, but they weren’t the kind of people to discuss their problems. They just got on with things. When he told his parents he was divorcing Laura and why, he got the impression they’d rather not have known. Nothing unkind was ever said but their silence spoke volumes about their disappointment.

Strangely he had a stronger connection to his ex-wife than anyone. When he confessed his sexually to Laura, it was no surprise to her. She said it was a relief he’d finally accepted a fact she came to terms with years before.

Logan had never been good at talking about his feelings.

Now here he was, a shoulder to cry on for a younger man.

A man he found devastating attractive.

Just how am I going to deal with all this?

Sam returned with the beers. He took off the leather jacket before sliding into the booth. Logan noticed his long, well-muscled forearms, lightly dusted with hair, and the bulge of his biceps; more athletically built than gym-crafted. Sam took a nervous sip of beer. Foam gathered on the bristles of his beard until he licked it away. He raised his eyes to Logan before casting them shyly back to the table.

Logan reached over and put a hand on top of Sam’s arm, gently, no real pressure.

“I’m glad you called me,” he said. “I mean it. We only met for a few minutes at the studio, but I won’t deny it; I felt a strong connection to you. An attraction, for sure, but something more than that. Something deeper. I think you felt it too.”

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