Page 21 of Give Me What You Will

Bad.

His unapologetic eye-fucking was a problem. People were bound to notice—right?

Frankie did, and he didn’t understand what the hell was happening to his common goddamned sense because whenever there was a lull in conversation, his eyes wandered over the party, actually trying to find Sammy. He blamed it entirely on how things used to be. In parties like these, they were normally playing beer pong together, hanging out with the boys, and loitering in the bar like flies in a kitchen. They did everything together. So, knowing Sammy was here and not by his side made his shoulder tick.

His eyes finally found Sammy.

He was standing with Blue-Balls by the fire pit in the empty parking lot, looking relaxed and smiling at something the idiot had said. The reddish-orange firelight illuminated Sammy’s classically handsome features. One hand in his jeans pocket and the other holding a beer, his attention was solely on the one guy Frankie hadn’t invited. Sammy looked confident and self-assured. Maybe it was LA—maybe it was something else. Whatever it was, he looked completely at ease with himself, and it radiated off him like the sun. It was damn near mesmerizing, and the complete opposite of the Sammy he had met 15 years ago.

This was a different man entirely.

He watched as Sammy raised the red solo cup to his lips and took a sip, throat working as he swallowed. His sharp emerald eyes glanced toward Frankie in that split second, as though he knew exactly where he was. Their eyes collided across the darkening parking lot, and Frankie’s pulse thrummed to life.

Why the fuck was he reacting like this?

It was Sammy, for fuck’s sake!

Except all night, all Frankie could do was recall those dirty, whispered words from his best friend. He had infected his brain, and he couldn’t stop imagining Sammy—on his knees—his mouth full of Frankie’s cock, letting him be rough while he fucked his face. His large, skilled doctor hands on his hips, guiding him in, not stopping him, because Sammy wouldn’t stop him, he’d be fucking moaning for it. For him.

Jesus Christ, stop!

I’m not into dudes.

“Shit, man, Sammy looks good,” Brendon said, following Frankie’s gaze, which he immediately jerked away. “He’s jacked.”

Sammy was jacked.

He noticed it the second he walked into his bar, wearing a tight, form-fitting black T-shirt, dark navy-blue jeans, and black boots. His thick wrist sported an all-silver watch that glinted in the firelight whenever he tilted his beer up to his lips. The silver and black he wore matched the silver and dark streaks of his hair. He had filled out since he was away. His physique was thicker, and his arms were corded and roped like hardened steel. And his clearly defined pecs beneath his shirt were big. He was looking more and more like Superman every time he saw him.

He bit back a sigh. He had never told Sammy that was the nickname he had given him. It was embarrassing. Because Sammy was incredible. Brave, wicked fuckin’ smart, kind, a doctor that literally saved lives every time he showed up to work. He was everything Frankie wanted to be. He always had been, and now, with this confident fuckin’ swagger and muscles…

He suddenly imagined those heated, intense green eyes looking up at him from the ground… on his knees… Frankie’s cock pushing past his lips as he—

Fuck!

He raked his fingers through his hair, pulling at the roots, trying to dislodge whatever brain worm Sammy had implanted.

I need something stronger than beer.

“Which makes sense,” Brendon continued. “He’s in LA now. Probably a gym on every street corner.”

“He’s a doctor, he’s prescribing himself steroids,” Joel chimed in sarcastically.

Frankie read the jealousy all over Joel’s face as he stared across the dimly lit parking lot at their old college buddy. Joel had been packing on some weight ever since entering the corporate world. He also drank more, but Frankie didn’t have the heart to confront him on his life choices.

“He’s probably keeping in shape for all the hot dates he’s going on,” Brendon said, taking a sip of beer. “He never dated much here. Not even with Blue-Balls.”

Frankie jolted, realizing that Sammy hadn’t dated anyone seriously while he lived here. Sammy spent all his time with him. Training at the gym with him, working at the bar with him, going to concerts, and road trips. Then med school happened, and the only time they had to hang out was at the bar or Sammy coming to one of Frankie’s fights. Or dinners at Papi’s once a month. Their lives may have gotten fuller over the years, busier even, but they had always made time for one another.

Frankie frowned, thinking back to what Sammy had said to him earlier.

Years.

Had Sammy been attracted to him the whole time and never said anything?

No. No fucking way.

He refused to believe that. He couldn’t imagine being hung up on someone for that long and never doing anything about it.