Chapter 9 #2
“Baby, I’m sorry. My two o'clock is here.”
“Oh.”
“They’re waiting for me.”
I hear a dramatic sigh through the phone.
“I’ve been waiting longer. Rude of them, seriously. Flip the sign. Lock them out.”
“I have to go, beautiful man. I'm sorry.”
I wave from the hallway as my client takes a seat.
“Miss you so much,” I whisper into the phone.
“Miss you more,” he sulks. “Come over tonight. I'll cook your favourite.”
I pull my zipper tight.
“Counting down the minutes til you're mine,” I say.
The line clicked as it cut out.
◆◆◆
Vonnie has noticed the way I melt every time another message comes through.
“Ink by Amos,” she answers, for the thirty seventh time today. “Yes, we're open on Tuesday. We have one last slot available at eight thirty.”
I’m not a morning person.
Or a Tuesday person.
I make a face at her.
When the studio is empty at last, she pats the seat next to her.
I knew better than to ignore a seat pat.
Am I in trouble?
“Babe, you've earned your way to the top,” she says. “You've worked your ass off to get this far.”
“That's true,” I shrug.
“So make your own hours. I work from home half the time anyway. I can do your admin from anywhere.”
“Ah, that explains why your tan is looking so dewy and fresh,” I laugh.
“I'm serious, we could make it work,” she says. “Let me make a few calls.”
“You’re saying… swap my days around?”
She nods.
“Work when Marco works?”
“Uh huh.”
“You’d swap your weekends for weekdays?”
“Honey, most of my friends work hospitality hours anyway. I’d finally get to see them.”
“And you’re sure you wouldn’t…”
“It's not just for your benefit,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I've had enough of your gloomy, horny ass. Go get laid.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve…”
“Leave it with me,” she says.
“I owe you, Von. Thank you.”
We hug goodbye.
◆◆◆
Within a fortnight, the shape of our days transforms and blooms.
A shuffle of my studio availability realigns to prioritise what matters most.
Now I earn my crust during Marco’s whirlwind weekends.
“Parallel hustle,” Vonnie calls it. “Work when he works. Play when he plays.”
I take that last part very seriously.
Lots and lots of play.
Mostly between the sheets.
Endless hours for walks, talks, licking ice cream spoons.
And licking other things.
The sex is phenomenal.
Pleasure and intimacy encompass far more than hungry desire.
One thousand little moments create a mosaic of connection and trust.
Quiet evenings on the couch, sketching his portrait while he reads a book he's stolen from my bedside table.
Flirty notes stuck to every half empty mug that I’ve abandoned.
Wrapping my arms around him while we cook.
Fine… while he cooks, and I hand him the ingredients.
Without either of us saying it out loud, we’ve begun to orbit each other.
And neither of us seem remotely interested in drifting away.
◆◆◆
Three months pass, almost four.
A blur of moons chasing the sun across the sky.
The Tuesday rush has faded.
Brunswick Street lamp posts flicker to life.
Inside the studio, only one client remains.
A nervous college student.
She’s chosen a simple poetic phrase for her wrist.
“It's my first time,” she confesses.
“I promise I'll take good care of you,” I smile, guiding her arm onto the mat.
Marco arrives early, of course.
“Got you some dinner,” he whispers as he walks through the door.
He sets a large paper bag on the coffee table.
It smells divine.
The girl tenses every time the needle makes a mark.
I pause to give her a moment.
“Almost done,” I soothe.
But I look at Marco when I say it.
Mr Chocolate Whisk has made himself comfortable, reclining in the same exact position he was in while filming himself on a certain other couch.
With one knee bent, he slips a hand between his legs.
He loves to get a rise.
I send him a silent warning, jaw tense and brow raised.
I try and fail not to think about that video.
The way Marco's back curved.
The rough edge of his voice, breaking as he surrendered to desire.
Adjusting a small desk fan, I hope the chill might distract me.
My pants grow tighter anyway.
Dark hair falls across my brow.
I hold my hand steady to form a delicate swish.
The curve of the letter E.
My client’s arm relaxes, cool air from the fan calming her nerves.
“You're the bravest customer I've had all day,” I tell her. “I really love the quote you chose.”
“I saw it on a fridge magnet,” she smiles. “I can't remember the name. Henry, maybe?” “Henry David Thoreau,” I confirm. I know it by heart. “The second half of your quote says: There is no remedy for love… but to love more.”
I hear an audible sigh from the couch. Marco has melted into the cushions.
Neither of us have dared to say the L word yet.
But sometimes we trace the outline of a heart in mid air or on bare skin.
It’s an unspoken thing that only started happening about a week ago.
I turn my head just in time to see the second loop of his declaration.
He holds my gaze until the client clears her throat.
Wiping her wrist one last time, I inspect each fresh line with quiet satisfaction.
“Let's get you wrapped up,” I say, opening the drawer beside me. I apply a gentle aftercare balm. “That should heal nicely in a few days,” I assure her. “Feeling okay?”
She nods, unable to stop staring at her arm. A look of wonder fills her eyes.
It’s the same with most first timers.
That newbie joy has become one of the things I love most about my job.
Removing my gloves one finger at a time, I toss them into the bin.
◆◆◆
As soon as she's gone, my eyes return to Marco.
A pair of arms curl around my waist before I’ve even locked the door.
“Sometimes I daydream about your first time. If you ever wanted to…”
“My first tattoo?”
Marco's voice softens. He looks away.
Until now, I've never been this intimate with a man who has virgin skin.
He doesn’t have a smidge of ink.
Not yet, anyway.
So many stories left untold.
But he doesn’t seem keen.
“Better eat these kebabs while they're still warm,” he says.
He’s never subtle when he changes the topic.
I wash my hands.
Best if I don’t bring it up again.
“Don’t know about you, but I’m famished, ” Marco grins.
He takes a bite before we’ve even sat down.
Back at my apartment, I can’t help noticing that he’s still a little quiet.
Marco has barely said a word since the mention of getting a tattoo.
It’s the same look he had when I asked about those scars.
Perhaps I’ve stirred up an old memory, or somehow made him feel unsafe.
“Want me to read you another chapter later?” I offer.
My smile is returned with a soft yes.
Our new cosy bedtime ritual involves Marco wrapped in a blanket like a burrito as I read aloud to him.
It seems to lull him to sleep.
And more than anything right now, I want to comfort him.
Whatever shadows from the past have shaped him, whatever he’s still running from, perhaps I’ll never know.
All I can do is continue to be the kind of safe haven that he can run toward.