Chapter 2
the second chapter
AMOS
The way I see it, they’re stories written on skin.
Permanent. Intentional.
Moments that people choose to carry with them for the rest of their lives. I reflect on this as I walk toward the bookstore, a paper cup of caffeine in one hand.
People don’t come to me for meaningless ink.
They come with memories. With vulnerable emotions.
A brother lost in a flood.
A newborn’s heartbeat traced into a delicate line across a ribcage.
A scar turned into art instead of something to hide.
A name that meant something.
Love. Courage. Survival. Identity.
Ink isn’t just design. Ink is truth.
This was the entire reason I created Ink by Amos in the first place.
I slow my pace on the footpath for a moment, observing the facade of the building from two blocks away.
The sign. My name, etched on it.
It still feels kind of unreal.
Once upon a time, it had been nothing more than a wild idea in my head.
But I’m a man who knows what I like.
No gritty side alley vibes.
No unswept floor or metal music.
Floor-to-ceiling light.
Clean lines. Vinyl records.
Endless plants and the aroma of freshly brewed beans.
Sketchbooks scattered. Art on skin.
I’ve spent years building my dream from scratch, saving every spare dollar.
Intricate designs perfected long past midnight.
Grinding through bookings and guest spots.
Learning from artists who have a similar vibe.
Failing. Improving. Repeating.
Slowly, painfully, stubbornly turning it into something real.
And tomorrow night will be a celebration of that.
The official launch.
Friends. Clients. Corks popping.
Music drifting up to the rafters.
I wanted a studio that reflects beauty instead of intimidation and darkness.
This event needs to capture that energy.
Which is why, despite my severe allergy to spreadsheets and schedules, I eventually agreed to hire an event planner.
Vonnie claims that Marco Adams is the best in Brisbane.
I trust her with every aspect of my day to day life.
Other than pizza toppings.
Calamari is not my thing.
So even though the whole concept of a pre-event planning sign off already makes me yawn, I’ve agreed to make an appearance.
Nine something. Nine thirty, is it?
I can’t remember.
My Friday morning priorities are, as always: Coffee. Yoga. Coffee. Walk.
And by walk, I mean perusing shelves to find the sequel to a page turner I’ve just devoured. No monotonous decisions, micromanaging event planners or paperwork will interrupt my flow.
Vonnie is better with that kind of bullshit anyway.
She’s always been the adult in the room.
I pay her in gourmet donuts, obviously.
◆◆◆
“You owe me more than donuts,” she whispers over the phone. “This guy is intense.”
I close my eyes, sitting casually on the corner of a sofa.
“You said he was the best. An unforgettable experience, rather than a stiff corporate vibe.”
“He's the walking personification of stiff,” she sighs.
“Darling, you love a stiff man as much as I do,” I tease. “He probably gets off on being bossed around by women like you.”
She ignores me.
“He's printed an alarming number of checklists. Spiral bound of course. And he drives an Audi.”
Say no more. Hopefully he’ll be gone by the time I get there.
“Sounds like a tosser,” I grumble. “Send him away before I get there, will you? I need to check one more bookstore to see if they have it…”
“You're browsing books?” she hisses. “Get your ass here now, Amos!”
Before I can form a witty reply, she hangs up on me.
Brown paper parcel tucked under one arm, I emerge from my cosy literary haven to face the checklist beast.
One of those guys, huh?
Probably plays golf on weekends. Most definitely has a girlfriend who wears runway worthy dresses when he takes her to the Maldives.
Bet he listens to crypto gurus when he jerks off, I laugh, as I side eye the sleek silver car parked outside.
Taking a sip from my cup, I shoulder press the door.
I suspect this meeting is going to be painful.
◆◆◆
The event crew scatter like ants.
Black shirts and hushed voices.
Tables are assembled in neat rows.
Decor and food samples spread across them.
Planning boards lean against the wall.
The room holds a quiet, purposeful energy.
They’ve been waiting for me. Damn.
I avoid Vonnie's glare.
But her death stare is nothing compared to Marco's.
My heart gives a small, traitorous kick.
That's right, look at me like I'm in trouble, I concede.
Because apparently I am.
Oh no.
That complicates things.
Mr Event Planner and his fuck me eyes.
Inconveniently ravishing.
Impeccably dressed.
This bossy diva is very much my brand of catnip.
Marco is roughly six foot two, a little shorter than me.
His body is sculpted in a way that suggests discipline and stamina.
Golden brown locks catch the sunlight as he steps into the centre of the room.
It’s abundantly clear that he’s the conductor of this orchestra.
When he swishes his finger one inch to the left, two men move a stack of chairs toward the wall. With a subtle tilt of his head, a woman carrying a tray of decadent hors d'oeuvres sets it down gently on the table.
I do my best to appear nonchalant.
Raising my cup for one final sip, I take a moment to regroup.
Okay, fine. Marco is stunning.
That doesn’t mean that my original assumption was wrong.
He’s probably still a snob.
Not my type at all, I lie to myself.
Resting one shoulder against the wall, I offer no apology.
“I'm here now,” I reply tartly.
I don’t mean to be such a prick.
That’s not like me at all.
But this guy is pissed, so naturally I’m on guard.
Vonnie hands me a stack of forms and spreadsheets.
She’s in no mood to save me from my fate.
And I deserve her wrath.
Not only was I an hour late this morning, she’s been the one tasked with every phone call, email and interrogation up until this point. Now she hands me the baton.
I browse it with a cautious thumb flick.
Efficient. Thorough. Precise.
I respect the competence, but also find lists and wordy paragraphs quietly exhausting.
People like him love control.
Me, on the other hand?
I run this studio like a living organism.
Creative chaos. Artists drifting in and out.
Ideas forming organically.
Freedom from the rulebook.
A notification vibrates in my palm.
I open the message.
It’s my sister Talia.
She wants inspiration for birthday party themes.
I know how much my little nephew loves dragons.
I scroll for ideas, sending her a screenshot.
Then I remember that I’m meant to be signing something.
Handing Vonnie my empty cup, I find an excuse to step closer to Marco.
“Balmain?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
It’s the blush that catches me off guard.
The tension easing in Marco’s shoulders.
The way he exhales slowly before giving me the next instruction.
You liked that, I observe.
You melt when I touch you.
And for reasons I can’t explain, I find that oddly fascinating.
Nudging the boundaries a little, I feel the heat when Marco bristles.
Feisty, huh? Undeniable chemistry.
Perhaps there's no girlfriend after all.
◆◆◆
Drifting deeper into the studio, my attention hitches on something unexpected.
Across the room, Marco is talking with the chef.
“His name’s Porter, in case you’re wondering,” Vonnie whispers.
Talented, easygoing, the kind of guy who lets the dessert platter speak for itself.
And it does.
Those blueberry tarts are to die for.
But that isn’t what catches my eye.
Marco is laughing.
Not the polite, controlled smile from earlier as he directed his team.
This is different. So relaxed.
His smile is warm and genuine, softening his face in a way that makes him glow.
Professional mask off, friendly banter unleashed.
Even hotter than before.
I pretend to watch crew members arrange a display, but my eyes are fixed on one man only.
Because this version of him is extremely alluring.
Playful. Teasing.
Marco says something that makes Porter burst out laughing.
He touches the chef's shoulder in a way that seems overly familiar.
I feel a dash of envy, but try to ignore it.
Their contact lingers just long enough to make Porter bite his lip.
The two of them stand so close.
I bet they’re more than just co-workers.
Why am I so intrigued?
Those walls are way down.
He’s so affectionate and warm when he’s not being a jerk.
So am I, to be fair.
When Marco turns, I turn away too.
But there’s an ache in my belly.
A desire to know more.
Perhaps I’ve judged him too soon.
Vonnie catches me checking out the hired help.
She knows that look.
“Don't even think about it,” she laughs.
“I was…”
“You were doing exactly what I think you were doing.”
Busted.
“Tell me you don't notice it too,” I huff.
It sounds more defensive than I intended.
“Maybe he’s bi or gay, yes,” she admits. “And it’s none of our fucking business.”
Perhaps. But I can’t help myself.
My eyes drift back to Marco’s hand resting casually on his arm.
More than friends, I decide.
Lovers, perhaps?
Another wave of jealousy hits.
He stands behind Porter, tucking in his shirt, whispering something in his ear.
They look back toward the kitchen.
They’re teasing each other about something.
Porter's cheeks have flushed pink.
“I'm an idiot,” I mumble.
Wouldn't be the first time I’ve started crushing on a man who’s already in love with someone else.
The chef returns to the kitchen.
Marco watches him leave, eyes glowing fondly.
And soon after that, Vonnie wanders in their direction too.
A harmless short-lived fantasy, I scold myself.
I have a mysterious habit of swooning at men who later turn out to be unavailable.
Probably why I’ve been single for so long.
Because I want more than that.
I crave a love that goes deep.
And that doesn’t exist in the modern world, right?
Everything’s about swiping left or right.
◆◆◆
Marco eventually moves away to speak with the setup crew about signage, directing a pair of men with ladders toward the far side of the room.
I naturally follow my sweet tooth to the catering area.