Page 119 of Give Me What You Will

The two men laughed, mirthless glee dancing on their faces.

“You him? That faggot doctor?”

He didn’t answer, just poured another round of shots, his blood boiling.

He only had to get through ten minutes. Ten minutes, and hope to God that he didn’t do one of two things: have a full-fledged panic attack, or reach across the bar and slam a heavy glass bottle over their fuckin’ heads.

Ten minutes.

What could go wrong?

Chapter 22

Ten minutes. Ten minutes for him to get to Sam before that fuckin’ mouth of his popped off. He couldn’t risk Sam getting into trouble with these men. Men who also knew how to sever limbs.

Frankie peeled off the highway and down the exit toward the bar, his heart in his throat and pulse racing. He had no fuckin’ clue why Richie and Sal were back. He paid them off last week. His father’s debt, including interest, was paid. Their business was done. They had no right to show up at his bar without announcing themselves. Unless… unless they liked having Frankie and his bar on the hook. Which meant they wanted it to be a drop bar, and they were there to make him an offer.

Fuck.

Fists clenching over the steering wheel and leather cracking under his grip, Frankie accelerated down the road, less than a minute from the bar.

If something happened to Sam…

If they hurt a single hair on his curly, beautiful head—he would kill them.

He wouldn’t hesitate. He would beat them to a bloody pulp with his bare damned fists and spend the rest of his life in prison without any remorse.

Sam was his, and he wouldn’t lose him again.

He scraped the undercarriage of his Chevy on the curb, recklessly hauling ass into the parking lot and recognizing the all-black SUV parked out front. Pulse roaring in his ears, Frankie popped the trunk and grabbed the only weapon he had: a heavy steel tire wrench. He slammed the trunk closed and raced to the door, flinging it open.

Broken glass crunched under his boot, and the breath in his lungs evaporated at the sight of the wet, crimson blood soaking the floor of the bar.

Sal, the shorter of the two brutes, was sprawled out on the floor, unconscious, with a broken wooden barstool lying shattered around him. The music was still playing and the lights were on, but it felt eerily still.

“Sam!” He called out, voice cracking with fear.

No answer.

No!

Frankie raced forward, eyes frantically sweeping the bar for signs of Sam. He saw a pair of boots and legs that lead up to Richie, who was also unconscious and lying on his stomach, blood smearing the side of his face. The old register his dad had had since the 80’s lay broken in plastic bits around him.

“Check…” he heard a whispered grunt. He whirled and saw Sam, hand on his chest, legs sprawled out in front of him, sitting on the floor behind the bar, glass everywhere. “His… pulse…”

He quickly reached down and felt the steady beat of the pulse at his neck. He jerked up and ran to Sam, tire wrench clattering to a thud beside him. He framed his face with his hands, shaking uncontrollably.

“Where are you hurt?” He asked, searching his body for signs of blood or injury.

“I’m… okay…” Sam huffed out, trying to catch his breath, and Frankie suddenly realized he was having a panic attack.

“Fuck,” he hissed, and without thinking, grabbed him beneath the arms and dragged him to his feet, clutching him against him, their hearts beating together, their bellies sucking in air.

“Breathe, baby. I’m here. I’m here.” He murmured, kissing his neck, his cheek, his hair, anywhere and everywhere his lips could touch. “That’s it.”

Sam hummed, taking deep, gulping breaths, his tense body seeming to loosen one limb at a time.

“Keep breathing like that, baby.” He kissed his parted lips, down his chin, on his neck.