Logan's Lady Chapter One
She walked into the bar and looked around.
She walked into the bar? Seriously? Did I really just write one of the most cliché opening lines ever? What is wrong with me and where did that come from?
Unfortunately, I know the answers to both of those questions, I think bitterly as I hit the backspace key and delete the world's greatest cliché from the page.
He is what is wrong with me, and that opening line came from my own personal experience: what I did the night I met him.
I happen to be a very successful writer, having churned out ten New York Times bestseller list top 10 books over the last eleven years; two of which even made Oprah's Book Club list.
My family doesn't see me as successful. They think I'm lazy and spend all day sitting around on my butt. They fail to realize how much work goes into one of my books. I research everything obsessively. I decide on the story's main arc, then plan out each character and how he or she fits into the arc. I have several characters so well-developed that they practically write themselves.
My main character, the "star" of my ten books, is a Detective with the NYPD. He's loosely based around one of my best friends from high school who decided he wanted to be a police officer when he grew up. Jason went straight into the police academy after graduation, spent three years as a beat cop, kept taking classes at the academy, and requested a move to the Vice Squad. He was brutally gunned down by a drug dealer on his second night with Vice. I write in his memory, and for the memory of all fallen police everywhere.
He left behind a wife, one of my oldest and dearest childhood friends. She was 6 months pregnant with their first child, a son. We named him after his father. Ten percent of every book's profit goes to her. It's the least I can do for my god child and his mother: one of the strongest women I know.
Because of him, I found three of his fellow cops who would talk to me about everything it takes to be a cop, especially a cop in a city like New York. That was the start of a strange and wonderful set of friendships that are now going on twelve years of joys and sorrows, highs and lows, insights into police work and insights into the lives of police spouses. Through them I have gone deep inside the police academy, the training facilities, their hearts and their minds. Through them I have seen the inside of a Rikers jail cell, spent the night in The Tombs, and plumbed the depths of the criminal mind, the innocent and the guilty alike. Through them I have witnessed countless autopsies and questioned several medical examiners; learned forensics, and practiced on the shooting range. Through them, I have become successful. Through them I have lived.
Or so I thought.
The bar I walked into, the bar where he was, was one I frequented regularly when I was researching a book. My forays into "cop bars" always landed me one or two old friends, and one or two new ones, all in law enforcement, all eager to talk, all in need of someone to listen. Buy me a drink and I'll let you talk my ear off. I'm cheaper than a therapist, as long as you let me take notes and ask questions.
Him.
I sigh.
Realizing there will be no more words flowing from mind to fingers to computer screen as long as I continue thinking of him, I stand and stretch. I save my work and go to bed. I sleep. And I dream of him.
Morning brings a day of research. When I first thought of writing a crime novel to honor Jason's memory, I was terrified of failure. So terrified that I planned out every last detail before I ever started writing.
I begged Jason's former partner to give me several "ride-alongs", as well as get me an audience with police academy instructors. I had to sell Nathan on the story, its concept, and basic storyline before he would agree to help me. I pestered him with so many questions I thought he was going to shoot me to put himself out of misery. Surprisingly, he answered every one with great patience; providing more insight and details than I could possibly use. I took copious notes as well as recorded our conversations. I did the same with everyone I talked to. By the time I was done researching and note-taking and listening to interviews over and over and over, I felt like I was a police officer myself.
When I finally began to write, the words just flowed out of my brain, through my fingers and into the computer as if by magic. I found it hard to stop as the story seemed to write itself. I had so thoroughly developed my main character that he took on a life of his own, filling my thoughts, occupying every spare inch of space in my brain, even appearing in my dreams. Scenes for the book would suddenly unfold in my mind and I couldn't wait to grab my laptop and start writing, for fear the images and scenes would be gone by the time I could start to let them out.
All my hard work paid off.
A college friend was a junior account executive at a publishing house and she agreed to take a look at my manuscript. Before she was even done reading the first chapter she was in her boss's office, exclaiming over my work. The two of them sat in his office until after midnight, spellbound, reading every word.
The first thing words out of her mouth when I answered the phone the next morning were, "When's the next story going to be done?"
My formula and my leading man were successful. I write every book the same way. Why mess with a good thing?
Now, it's nearly twelve years later and she is a full account executive and my personal editor and publisher; her boss is a vice president. My books have made us more money than we could possibly ever spend in our lifetimes. My lead character, Adam Dalton, is about to become a movie star. My parents have finally accepted that what I do for a living is a valid occupation. My life is perfect.
Or, so it would seem.
But, I'm lonely.
My best friend in the whole entire world, my little sister, my glorious ray of sunshine, was brutally murdered three months ago. Her storybook life was ended horrendously by a slighted man who had an unrequited crush on her. She left behind a wonderful husband and the cutest, brightest little boy in the world.
In a weirdly twisted way, her murder is the reason I met him in the first place. I mean, he was there, in that bar, with my brother-in-law, when I walked in. He was protecting my brother in law from anonymous threats against his mother and his family. He took my breath away. He still hasn't given it back to me.
I sigh and force myself to focus on my research. But, do I really want to write another installment in the thrilling saga that is the life of Detective Adam Dalton? It's not like there isn't plenty of material out there for me to use. Crazy things happen in the world, some you can't make up. Usually all I have to do is read the paper and ask myself, "What would Adam do?" to get my creative juices flowing. My computer is full of all sorts of scenes. The common thread between them all is Adam fighting crime; he gets a case, he works the case, he solves the case. Sometimes along the way there is romance (he currently has a girlfriend), sometimes there is conflict (he also currently has an ex-wife). Sometimes there is death (he lost his partner of 6 years in the first paragraph of my latest book). I don't think I'll ever run out of things to write for Adam. What I'm running out of is the desire to write them.
My desires are turning elsewhere at the moment. Like towards a certain 6 foot 3 inch, brown eyed, sexy man. A man who I don't think realizes just exactly how sexy he can be. He knows he's good looking; he knows that women are attracted to him. I know that stuff doesn't bother him. Now, that's not to say he doesn't notice the ladies back, especially the pretty ones, or appreciate them, because he does; that's not the sexy I'm talking about. What I'm talking about is that in his quiet moments, when no one is looking, or when he's focused on his work, he can just be so damn devastatingly sexy it hurts.
But again, I digress. He makes it very hard to focus on my writing. I keep wanting to write about him, about us. I've never written in first person before, or autobiographically, but when I write about him, and us, it seems more like the journaling we were forced to do in high school English class, except that the words just seem to flow naturally out of my fingers. Like it wants to be put on paper; like it needs to be told.
So, I think I'll put my book on hold for a while, and just let these other words out.
I guess that means I won't be researching the black market trade in bear gall and bear paws to South Korea and China, or poaching, or diamond smuggling, or figuring out how that all ties into the murder of a 6 year old girl in Queens and becomes Adam's toughest case to date.
Which is okay by me; I'd much rather research Detective Studmuffin.
I look at my watch. We are supposed to meet for lunch today; he said he'd call by 10 to finalize arrangements. It's now 8:45; I have just enough time to shower, primp, preen and wait by the phone.
I bolt for the bathroom and turn on the hot water. Twenty minutes and much pampering later, I immerge from the shower and wrap myself in a big, fluffy towel. I wrap my long, thick red hair in another towel and hustle nervously to the kitchen to check the answering machine. Just in case he called early, while I was in the shower, and I missed it.
Nothing. The red light on the machine stares, unblinking, back at me. I don't know whether to feel nervous or relieved.
Nervous wins out.
Lately, nervous seems to win out all the time when it comes to him. I keep telling myself it's stupid, really, to feel this way about someone, but I can't help it. It's like my heart and my emotions have minds of their own. His smile sends my pulse racing. Hell, the memory of his smile sends my pulse racing. Every time I call him, I get butterflies in my stomach, a massive case of nerves, like a school girl; part of me can't wait for him to answer so that I can hear his smooth, deep voice in my ear again; part of me doesn't want him to answer so that I don't make a fool of myself trying to be calm, cool and collected.
Oh, who am I kidding? When it comes to him, I don't think I'll ever be calm, cool and collected.
He's very easy to talk to, and even though I want to rip his clothes off and have wild monkey sex with him, there's no sense of urgency. He turns me on and makes me feel safe all at the same time. It's a strangely intoxicating mix of emotions. I've never been with a man who makes me feel that all is right with the world and that sex with him would be the utmost lovemaking experience I've ever had. And yet, I'm dying to get to know him better before I jump into bed with him. And that's also something new for me.
I can't wait to find out where this is headed.
I pad back to the bathroom and dry my hair. I lotion my body, apply my makeup and put on my clothes. I pick out shoes and jewelry. At the last minute, I decide to brush my teeth. As I finish rinsing my mouth, the phone rings.
It's him. Oh. My.
Work has him heading to So-Ho to meet with an art gallery owner. He is a former NYPD detective who now works for the Wainwright Association as their Assistant Director of Security. As such, he goes around the city meeting with various business owners and managers and arranging security and logistics for special events that the Wainwright Winery will be involved in. Lately, as I mentioned earlier, most of his job is providing personal protection for Trey Wainwright, my former brother-in-law. I worry about him and Trey; they are under threat of a bomb going off at the City Center theatre during the Wainwright Foundation's annual "Evening on Broadway" fundraiser gala.
It's a terrifying thought, a bomb going off in a building you're in, possibly killing off your family, hurting you, or worse, killing you. Trey handles it with great aplomb. I've asked him a time or two how he's holding up under all this pressure; he says he's fine, but I'm not sure. I don't know if he'll ever be truly fine again now that my sister is gone from his life. I don't know that I'll be truly fine, either.
Back to So-Ho. We decide on a place and time to meet and hang up. I check my watch again. I have plenty of time to run several errands on my way to the bistro. I grab my favorite lipstick and my hairbrush and drop them into my purse. I grab my cell phone off its charger, scoop up the outgoing mail and head out the door.
It is now lunch time and I'm walking towards the bistro. The sidewalk is littered with the typical lunchtime crowd one expects to find in a neighborhood like So-Ho. The weather is surprisingly clear for early November, despite the chill, and I wonder if the owner has put tables out on the sidewalk as I draw my collar closed with one hand and cling tightly to my purse with the other.
The crowd thins slightly and I see the red and blue striped umbrellas typical of the sidewalk tables in front of the bistro. The crowd parts even more, and there he is. He has chosen one of the outdoor tables. His back is to the wall, his eyes alert to the crowds passing in front of him. Ever the cop, his brain is analyzing everyone who crosses his line of vision. He is dressed in jeans, crisp white button down, plaid tie, blue sport coat.
He sips his drink as his gaze begins to move back in my direction. Our eyes meet, gazes lock; my breath catches in my throat and I force myself to smile widely and keep walking towards him, even though my initial response is to stop in my tracks and stare idiotically at him, still in disbelief that he is even interested in me.
His face softens and his mouth slides slowly into the sexiest, lopsided grin that lights up his whole face. I know his smile is sincere; even his eyes smile when he sees me. That is something I can't get over, either – his sincerity towards me. It is genuine and heartfelt and I have never gotten it so strongly from any other man I have ever known or been interested in, with the exception of my father, my brother and my former brother-in-law. I'm not worthy.
Before we move onto lunch, I'm afraid I need to digress and explain a few things here before I lose you completely. I'm no slouch of a woman and I know it. I've been described as luscious, curvy, sexy, pretty, gorgeous; a red-headed Marilyn Monroe. I know the effect I have on a man; I've known since I was 12. I'm not unaware that I turn heads whenever I walk into a room; I'm not unaware that other women are jealous of my figure. I'm a fabulous size 8; soft in all the right places, full where needed yet firm and well-toned. I have deep red hair, thick and full, with just the right amount of natural wave and curl to make a man go crazy with the need to dive in and run his fingers through it. My voice is husky like Kathleen Turner's or Lauren Bacall's. My skin is the kind of peaches and cream complexion that women spend thousands at the dermatologist and plastic surgeon for; I come by it naturally. In short, I'm what some call a "man killer". I'm also 33 years old and still single.
Yet the man now standing up as I near his table on the sidewalk is so good-looking, so sexy, he seems out of my league. But, he chooses me. He wants to be with me. He claims he wants to get to know me better and comes across as honest when he says it. It's humbling and more than I have ever imagined; it doesn't seem real. I'm not sure I deserve someone as wonderful as him, which is why I don't feel worthy.
I return his smile as I reach the table. He gently places his hand on my shoulder and warmly kisses my cheek as he says hello. He pulls out my chair. He never takes his eyes off me.
"You look beautiful, Judith," he tells me softly.
"Thank you, Mike," I answer in return.
I notice he has ordered me water and a Diet Coke.
"Thank you," I tell him as I sip the soda.
"You're welcome," he responds warmly. I get goose bumps. "How was your morning?"
"Okay. I didn't get any research done on my book, but it's no big deal. I don't have much interest in writing another Dalton book right now anyway." I shrug. "I think I'm going to write something different."
I look him square in the eyes as I go on. "I think I'm going to write a romance novel. Something very erotic." I wait for his response.
He chokes on his drink and sputters. I notice the blush spreading up from his neck line to his jaw line and smile coyly. I suggestively raise one eyebrow, open my lips slightly and touch my tongue to my teeth; my gaze never leaves him. His eyes widen and he appears as though he has just swallowed his tongue.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes."
"But…why?"
I shrug again. "I don't know. I've always wanted to and decided now was as good a time as any." I wasn't about to tell him it was because of him; that I wanted to write down everything that I've been imagining doing to him and him to me since that first night we met. I force myself to maintain my coy composure and leave the ball in his court.
"Well," he says. He straightens himself, messes with re-aligning everything in front of him on the table. He can no longer meet my gaze. He is clearly flustered.
I am clearly enjoying myself.