Page 4 of Written in Scars

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.

Sam looked at the number and smiled, knowing he would never dial it. It was impossible. He couldn’t be friends with a man like Logan. He fancied him too much. Besides, Logan was a famous author, and he was a civil servant. An office-based pen pusher who did a bit of charity work in his spare time. They’d have nothing in common. Still, Logan seemed like a nice guy. Not at all up-himself for someone so handsome and successful.

Maybe he’d send a text when he’d read the book, to let him know how much he enjoyed it. Yes, that would be a laid-back way of keeping in touch.

Going for a drink … that could never happen.

Sam saved the number to his phone.

He gazed dreamily out of the window, not noticing the grim, underground tunnels the train passed through, seeing beyond them to a square-jawed superman with electric green eyes. Imagining what lay beneath the open neck shirt. A taut chest, nice and hairy; a treasure trail of fur leading down, below the waist band of his trousers. Then what? A big cock? He was a tall guy, well-built, it would be a huge disappointment to find he didn’t measure up in the crotch department.

Stop it.

He shook himself out the fantasy. This is ridiculous. He would never know what Logan kept in his pants: he was way out of Sam’s league. He could have any man he wanted. Why would he look twice at Sam?

He was flirting with you. He gave you his number.

No, Sam shoved the idea aside. He was friendly, that’s all. Charming. It was stupid – deluded – to think it had been anything more.

Besides Sam had a husband at home. He shouldn’t be thinking about men like Logan.

The train arrived at his station. Holding tight to the book, he hurried off. The night had turned fully dark as he left the platform and set off for home. The terraced streets were deserted as he walked the five blocks to his house. He was hungry and realized he had eaten nothing all day besides a meagre sandwich, having gone straight to the TV station after work. There’d been food in the green room, but he was too nervous before the show, and then afterwards, too self-conscious to eat in front of Logan.

He hoped Johan had prepared something good for dinner. Usually Sam was the first home and did most of the cooking, but tonight it was all down to his husband.

There were lights on in the living room though the curtains were closed as he walked up the path to the front door. Johan would have been home a couple of hours by now. Sam didn’t mind if he’d eaten without him so long as he’d left something good behind. He was too hungry to start cooking from scratch.

As he entered the hall, all of Sam’s optimism drained away.

There were two strange jackets dumped at the bottom of the stairs and voices he didn’t recognize from the living room. Murmurs and moans.

No, he wouldn’t. Not again.

The scene he encountered confirmed every fear.

Johan Teague, Sam’s husband of seven years, sat topless in the centre of the sofa with his trousers around his ankles. The hairy, naked arse of a stranger was stuck high in the air while his head got busy in Johan’s lap. On the other side of him, another man, young and skinny, had a tourniquet wrapped tight round his left bicep. Undeterred by Sam’s entrance, the man flicked the air bubbles to the top of a small syringe, adjusted the plunger and then stuck the needle straight into an engorged vein.

“Hell, yeah,” he groaned, eyes closed. “Now I’m ready to fuck.”

Sam recognized the same drug glazed expression on his husband’s face. Johan slowly opened his eyes, looking at Sam with huge, dilated pupils.

“Hey,” he drawled. “there you are.” The hairy stranger sucking his cock tried to raise his head, but Johan shoved him back down. The man didn’t resist.

Sam felt the room shrink, crowding in on him.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Not again.

“What are you doing?” he asked numbly. Stupid question. He could see very well what they were doing.

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