Loree Lough - Devoted to Drew

Movement to his right stunned him back to the here and now. After the SUV’s driver backed out of his slot, Logan fired up his engine and peeled out of the lot, swerving in and out of traffic as he raced up Russell Street.

Until flashing lights and a siren stopped him.

And a policewoman stepped up beside the car.

“License and registration, please.”

He rummaged through the glove box and his wallet, found what he needed and handed them to her. Before she looked at either, she grinned.

“Logan Murray?” She read the identification while he read her name tag: Mullins.

“The Logan Murray?”

And so the pendulum swings back to celebrity athlete, he thought.

“Are you aware that you were doing sixty-five in a forty-mile-per-hour zone?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He tapped the steering wheel. “Sometimes this baby has a mind of its own.”

She returned the documents, put one hand on top of his car and said, “You’d better learn to control her, or people might get the impression that all that stuff in the papers is true.”

Which stuff? he wondered. The “Murray Moves Fast, Even Off the Field” headline? Or maybe even the “Magic Murray Has a New Lady” nonsense online?

He slid the license into his wallet and put the registration back into the glove box, figuring he had a 50-50 shot of getting a ticket.

Logan turned on what the entertainment reporters called “The Murray Charm.”

“You’re right, Officer Mullins,” he said, flashing his flirtiest smile. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“See that you do.” Winking, she tapped the car’s roof. “The city expects a Super Bowl win from you this year.” And with that, she strolled back to her squad car, hiking her gun belt as she went.

Logan eased into traffic and drove until he ended up in Fells Point, where he parked across from The Horse You Came In On Saloon, Baltimore’s oldest bar. Would his agent, or Knights’ management, leak the story? he wondered, stepping off the curb to cross the street. How many days before reporters started dogging his heels?

A horn blared, startling him so badly he almost dropped his car keys.

“Hey, idiot! Find someplace else to commit suicide!” the driver bellowed.

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered and continued across Thames Street.

Inside, he took the stool nearest the singing guitarist.

“What’ll you have?” the barmaid asked.

“Whiskey, neat.”

Either she hadn’t recognized him, or she wasn’t a Knights fan. A relief either way because it meant he could feel good and sorry for himself while he got good and drunk. As he waited for her to pour a jigger, Logan wondered if self-pity had driven Edgar Allan Poe to this saloon on the last night of his life. Wondered, too, if Poe had decided against calling a woman who wouldn’t be there for him.

Self-pity, Logan thought as the barmaid delivered the drink, was a dangerous thing. He lifted the glass, said a silent toast to the sad, sickly author, then tossed back the shot. Maybe I’ll take up writing and drinking, just like you, Eddie, he thought, signaling the barmaid.

His college roommate, who’d sold a novel loosely based on their campus shenanigans, explained his success this way—“Gotta write what you know, man. Only way to make it in this wacky biz.” And since the only thing Logan knew was football, he crossed “author” off his Now What? list.

He put the glass to his lips and laughed to himself. Drinking...now, there’s something you know about.

CHAPTER TWO

Ten years later...

“GREAT INTERVIEW,” Marty said. “Hundreds of emails and Facebook posts came in while we were on-air, same as last time. Come on back any time, dude. You’re good for ratings!”

Logan shook the newsman’s hand. “I’ll have my people call your people.”

Grinning, Marty checked his watch. “If I didn’t have to do the weather in a minute, I’d offer you a cup of coffee.”

The assistant producer breezed past them. “There’s a fresh pot in the production office....”

Point made and taken: Bianca Wright didn’t believe in rolling out the red carpet for the show’s guests. At least not once the cameras stopped rolling.

They’d met briefly six months ago, during his first visit to The Morning Show. That day she’d been so preoccupied corralling the gaggle of octogenarian belly dancers whose performance followed his segment that she barely had time to escort him to the studio. She was cute. Smart. Not famous. Everybody was after him to find a stable woman...someone who didn’t jump at every opportunity to draw attention to herself. So, despite the fact that he had a radio interview on the other side of town in an hour, Logan fell into step beside her.

“Marty’s right. That was a great interview,” she said, scribbling something onto her clipboard. “The kind that will have me answering tons of fan emails for the next couple of days.”

Her tone of voice told him she wasn’t looking forward to the task. “Next time I’m on the show,” he joked, “I’ll try not to be so personable.”

She made a noise—something between a snort and a grunt. A moment ago she’d been friendly and outgoing. But now? He crossed “sense of humor” off his Good Things About Her list. Women, Logan thought, should come with warning labels. And instruction manuals.

She sat at her desk and adjusted the tilt of a silver-framed photo of a young boy. Must be Bianca’s son; he had the same eyes as her. And if the boy’s mischievous smirk was any indicator, he was a handful. No photo of a husband, he noticed, but then, there wasn’t much room for one on her work-cluttered desk. Maybe a thorny divorce explained her sudden mood shift, or juggling family and career was more than she could handle today. And maybe, he thought, stifling a grunt of his own, she was like every other woman he’d met: impossible.

“Help yourself,” Bianca said. “Mugs are in the cabinet above the coffeemaker.” She put her back to him and began tapping numbers into her cell phone.

“Hey, sweetie,” she said as he filled a station-logoed mug. “It’s so good to hear your voice!”

Word for word what his ex used to say...before rehab. Funny how she’d liked him better all boozed up. The reminder was enough to crush all desire to get to know Bianca better. Well, that, and the possibility that she was married.

Logan glanced at his watch. If he left right now, he might just make it to his next interview on time. He waved, hoping to get Bianca’s attention so he could mouth a silent thank-you for the coffee before hitting the road.

“I know, I know,” she was saying, “but you still have to do what Grandmom tells you to. Rules are rules. We’ve talked about that, remember?” She covered the mouthpiece and exhaled a frustrated sigh before continuing. “Tell you what. If you do all your chores and don’t misbehave today, we’ll go out for ice cream after supper. Okay?

“I love you, sweetie. See you in a few hours.” Eyes closed, she held the phone to her chest for a split second, then spun the chair to face Logan. “How’s the coffee?”

“Better than Starbucks.”

Bianca gave him a quick once-over. “If you say so.”

“No. Seriously. It’s really good.”

“Well, I’m two cups over my daily quota, so you’re welcome to what’s left.”

He put the mug on the counter. “So that was your son on the phone?”

“Mmm-hmm.” A tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth as she glanced at the picture. “Drew. He’s seven.”

“I have two sisters. The youngest has a boy about his age. Maybe they go to school together.”

“Baltimore is a big city, surrounded by dozens of suburbs.”