Chapter 3
the third chapter
MARCO
Saturday evening arrives.
That man has been on my mind relentlessly since noon yesterday.
I barely slept all night.
My imagination ran wild.
And so did my hand.
It’s been a while since I… since my body…
Why can’t I stop thinking about him?
I hardly know the guy.
But the way he leaned in close to touch me?
That happened, that was real.
Eyes locked on mine, mouth right there…
Oh my God, stop it.
Focus.
There’s still so much to do.
The studio is humming with a charged, restless energy.
The kind that gathers just before something beautiful begins.
Music rolls softly through the speakers, a low bass line vibrating below my feet.
Laughter drifts from the bar where someone is polishing glasses.
Everything is flowing like clockwork. So far.
And at the centre of that clock is me.
It’s my job to keep it ticking, in a way that feels invisible and seamless to the guests.
Pressed suit and clean shave, I wanted to look my best tonight.
Obviously I’ll never see him again after this.
But I can still leave one final lasting impression.
I can make this night memorable for him.
My earpiece is in position to make sure my team meet every cue.
Tapping the stylus against my screen, I walk with the confident precision of a man who knows exactly how every moving piece fits together.
Straightening a folded napkin, I pause near the entryway to survey the scene.
Amos might be a handful, but I desire nothing more than to please him.
Professionally. For networking purposes.
Behind me, the kitchen door opens with a rush of warm air.
“Food coming through, move that butt,” Porter announces.
I turn as he passes me, two trays balanced carefully.
My eyes flicker briefly down the corridor.
“Those look great. Table on the left, please.”
I make a quick note on my tablet.
Fuck, I’m tense.
I don’t usually get this nervous before a gig.
“You’re so serious when you’re in event mode,” Porter laughs. “Remember to smile.”
“I’m efficient,” I shrug.
Deacon sets the crates down and starts unloading containers.
The two of them move together so naturally, one of them reaching for something before the other even asks. I notice the way they soften around each other.
Has Porter said it yet?
Has he asked him out?
We spent hours yesterday laughing and whispering about his little crush.
He just needs a wingman, that’s all.
An encouraging nudge.
Shyness aside, it’s about time that boy got laid.
Okay, perhaps I’m a hypocrite.
Someone calls my name.
“Marco, quick question about the bar setup.”
“Give me five minutes,” I reply.
◆◆◆
Vonnie's voice crackles through the earpiece.
Amos is about to arrive.
My attention narrows immediately.
And there he stands in the doorway.
Shirt sculpted to his body, chest revealed.
Tattoos on full display as he works the room.
So much for never letting myself crush on a man with ink.
Somehow he makes body art look personal, sensual.
Not intimidating.
Observing him now, I notice that he listens attentively whenever someone speaks.
He rests a hand on their shoulder as he thanks them.
Maybe when he’s not being such a tease, he has a kind soul?
Guests swirl around him, vying for his attention.
There are some big names in this room.
But his gaze lands on me. And stays there.
My stomach drops.
Just breathe.
What is it about this man that unravels me so easily?
Amos is a magnet for the popular crowd.
But he doesn’t seem fazed by it at all.
Wherever I stand, those intense dark eyes follow.
Quit looking at me like that, I whisper.
And then he starts walking toward me.
Slow. Unhurried.
As though he’s enjoying the view.
I adjust my shirt, focusing intently on the cufflink.
Even when I can feel the heat between us.
“Here, let me help with that,” he says.
He reaches down to uncuff me, sliding a warm hand inside my sleeve.
Pushing the fabric up toward my elbow.
“Much better,” he whispers. “Not so stiff.”
The words have never sounded so erotic.
I open my mouth to respond, but can’t.
“The studio looks beautiful. Even more magical than I hoped it would,” he says.
A hand brushes my hip.
The contact is casual.
But I feel it everywhere.
“Your team really pulled out all the stops. I'm so impressed.”
He gives my bicep a light squeeze.
I force myself to speak.
“You're a hard man to please, Mr Vale.”
Amos leans closer.
Close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath against my neck.
“I mean it,” he says. “You've exceeded my expectations, Marco.”
My name melts on his tongue.
His hand moves slowly down my arm.
Fingers trace through the fabric until they reach my hand.
Such a devastating smile.
Most definitely an eye fuck.
He releases me, turning toward a group of guests who have just arrived.
He crosses the room as though nothing has happened.
I stand completely still.
Having an erection is not ideal, here of all places.
But my dick is begging for him.
◆◆◆
Holding the tablet in front of my crotch, I hurry toward the bar.
“Soda water with lime. Extra ice.”
Perhaps the frosty glass will nullify my yearning.
But my heart is still racing.
And the night has barely begun.
I move quickly down the hallway.
My shoes echo on the polished floor.
At least he won’t see me down here.
Turning the corner, I enter the bathroom.
Fresh hand towels. Check.
Soap pumps, full. Check.
Mirror clean? Yes.
Sliding the device into my pocket, I wash my hands.
In the reflection, a stall door opens.
My breath quickens.
For a moment neither of us speak.
“Amos, we’re about to...”
He takes hold of my hand.
And before I’ve had time to process what is happening, I’m being tugged sideways along the corridor.
The supply room door clicks shut behind us.
Shelves line every wall, stacked with boxes of tattoo equipment.
Bottles of ink, folded towels and cleaning supplies.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Curious fingers lace through my hair, sweeping a soft strand away from my brow.
“Amos…” I murmur softly. My voice has lost all authority. “You’re a client.”
The words sound weak as I say them aloud.
But instead of pushing him away, I pull him closer.
“I’m only your client for another four hours,” he replies. The hunger in his voice rivals mine. “You decide what happens next.”
I close my eyes, letting the words hang between us.
This could ruin my career if word gets out.
He steps back just enough to leave me wanting more.
I try desperately to regain some sort of composure.
“We shouldn’t be in here. We can't...”
Amos steps behind me, easing the tension from my shoulders.
Those strong hands feel unbelievably good.
He reaches behind the door.
His fingers clasp something smooth hanging from a small hook.
A vibrant green necktie.
He places it gently in my hand. The silk is cool against my palm.
Low and hushed in my ear, his voice holds me captive.
“Wear this after midnight, if you want me to kiss you.”
Then he steps back, opening the door, and walks out into the hallway again.
◆◆◆
The sound of the bass rushes back in, no longer muted.
I scrunch the tie into my pocket.
Our little secret.
The party has found its rhythm, softening into a steady hum of conversation.
Glasses clink. Laughter rolls across the room in waves.
Porter’s food has disappeared faster than anyone predicted.
I allow myself a moment to take it all in.
Then as always, my attention drifts back to him.
Amos stands near the bar, one arm resting casually along the counter.
He listens attentively to an athlete who has flown in from Sydney.
I’m not much of a sports nut, but I recognise his face and know the invite list by heart.
They laugh at something he says, and gesture toward the tattoo on his leg.
Moving through the crowd, he seems completely at ease.
God, he’s attractive.
Especially the way he cares about people.
That quiet presence he offers.
The relaxed confidence in how he carries himself.
I drag my attention back to the job.
Be good. You’re at work.
I’ve spent years building my reputation in this city, establishing trust.
I’m not about to ruin that over some guy.
Across the distance, our eyes meet.
Only for a second, before I look away.
Inevitably, it happens again.
He flips through a sketchbook with the drummer of a well-known band.
But his eyes return to me with that same gentle smile.
My pulse kicks harder.
This is ridiculous.
Fingering the tie inside my pocket, I make a beeline toward the bathroom.
Leaning over the sink I turn the tap to cold, splashing water on my face.
Get a grip, I whisper.
Staring at my reflection for a moment, curiosity gets the better of me.
I drape the tie loosely around my neck.
The color is striking against the fabric of my suit.
For a second I consider it, but then come to my senses.
No. This is exactly how things get complicated.
I don’t do complicated.
Not anymore.
I’m not interested in something cheap and meaningless in a back room.
And for what? Just to be discarded after a night or two?
I’m not good at casual.
Especially with a man like him.
But every time Amos comes near me, I evaporate.
Maybe just this once, I should let myself live a little.
By the time the clock creeps toward one, the party has reached its final hour.
Guests linger in clusters, sipping the last of their drinks.
They pose for photos in front of the artwork, exchanging numbers before parting.
My crew has already begun the choreography of cleanup.
One of the kitchen assistants rolls a cart of empty glassware toward the back wall.
I wish I could sit, but I’m not meant to.
So I pretend to take photos, even though the SD card is full of images already.
They’ve turned out beautifully, but there’s one common denominator.
Somehow, every photo I’ve taken tonight includes him.
Amos talking with a musician.
Amos laughing near the bar.
Amos leaning against the brickwork.
That one is my favourite.
Would it be wrong to make a copy?
It’s not like the crush isn’t mutual.
I moan softly and let my head tip back against the wall.
I’m so aroused it’s almost shameful.
But beneath the heat is something more.
Confusion. Frustration.
Annoyance at myself.
One more hour and I never have to see this man again.
I can do one more hour.
Then the thought arrives uninvited.
What if I never see this man again?
I close my eyes.
Letting people close is a risk I’d rather not take.
Too hard to keep a secret when you let your guard down.
I can’t risk anyone finding out about Mark.
Besides Porter and Beth, obviously.
Every time I work at an event with crisp white linen tablecloths, I think of that lonely kid freezing out in the cold.
A hidden past that could stain my reputation.
A past that’s best left behind locked doors.
I’ll carry that name with me to the grave.
It was years ago, it doesn't matter anymore.
I shove the thought from my mind.
All that matters now is making sure this night goes as smoothly as it can.
Especially for him.
Fuck, that man makes me weak at the knees.
Warm between my thighs.
Willing to cross the line.
Professional ethics be damned.
I need boy advice from someone who won’t judge.
◆◆◆
Hooking my fingers into the sleeve of his jacket, I tug Porter toward the door before he has time to protest.
“Come here a second,” I grin.
“This better be good,” he huffs. “I have so much to do.”
He’s no stranger to late night requests for advice or favours.
But I’ve talked him through many boy dramas.
And girl dramas.
He owes me one.
I hold the strip of green silk between my fingers.
He’s not amused.
“You dragged me out here for wardrobe advice?”
I feel like a dumb teenager passing notes in class.
“Amos told me that if I want him to kiss me, I should wear this.”
Porter can’t help but laugh.
Turning the tie slowly in my hands, I already know what I want.
“Dude. He’s your client.”
“I know… I know. But damn, I can't help it. He keeps looking over at me.”
“At least wait until your staff have gone. You can’t smudge the line between work and play.”
He pulls a face as he clocks the hypocrisy in his words.
I look over his shoulder toward Deacon, raising an eyebrow.
“We’re both muppets, aren’t we?”
“Yup.”
“Marco, I need to get this mess loaded into the truck. It’s late. I wanna be in bed as soon as possible.” I tilt my head, eyes twinkling. “Not with Deacon, you perve. I still can't believe you booked us in the same hotel room.”
I serve him a coy look.
He flips the middle finger.
“You’ll thank me later,” I laugh. “You just need a little nudge.”
He glances down at the tie again.
“Maybe you do too,” he smirks. “You’re already halfway gone. You keep looking at Amos like you want that cock in your mouth.”
I can’t deny it.
“Maybe I do.”
He pushes away from the wall, grinning from ear to ear.
“Then wear the tie, kid.”
“Yeah?”
“Wear it,” he calls over his shoulder. “See what happens.”
“You’re a terrible influence,” I tease.
“Don't even start. Now let me do my job so I still have some energy left to… play.”
Deacon overhears that last part.
I catch him smiling before Porter turns around.
◆◆◆
Slipping the knot into place, I tighten it beneath my collar.
So seductive and sensual between my fingers.
Straightening my jacket, I toss a mint under my tongue.
Walking back toward the party, I whisper to Roz that she’s in charge for the rest of the night.
“Feeling a little dizzy,” I say.
And it’s not entirely a lie.
For a few agonizing minutes, nothing happens.
Then Amos looks up from his glass.
He notices the tie.
A flirty smile spreads across his lips.
Handing his drink to a waiter, he passes me without saying a word.
Eyes forward, his hand drifts behind him as he walks, beckoning for me to follow.
I watch him disappear through the door.
The invitation couldn’t be any clearer.
Pausing to take a breath, I follow.