Page 22 of Give Me What You Will

“Speaking of dates,” Joel scoffed, hitching his head to…

Mikey-Fuckin’-Blue-Balls. He arrived less than an hour ago and headed straight to Sammy. Frankie had been playing beer pong with the boys, and nearly lurched forward to stop him, forcing himself to shift backward on his heels, surprised by his reaction.

Mikey wasn’t the scrawny guy anymore, either. He had filled out and finally grown into his body and height. He had at least a foot on Sammy, who smiled affectionately at him, his face warming at the sight of him.

“I never liked that fuckin’ guy,” Frankie heard himself mutter, hand fisting around his plastic cup.

“Right?” Joel said bitterly. “Always tiptoein’ around Sammy and you. I thought for a while there he was into you, Frankie, but then I realized he had the hots for Sammy. Sammy never looked twice at him. But he is now.”

Yeah, he was.

Sammy’s heated gaze was now directed at Blue-Balls, who was beaming like a fucking idiot, clearly delighted that Sammy was finally paying attention to him.

“Mikey looks good, too. Jesus Christ on toast,” Joel whined. “Do all gay men get better-looking as they age? Gay men suck.”

“Well…” Brendon said with a snort. “I think they do suck, Joel.”

Fuck, now that’s back in my goddamned head.

He could still somehow feel Sammy’s rasping words against the shell of his ear and how his cock had twitched between his legs. And it had been a fucking miracle to feel his dick rise again, because ever since LA, his dick had been broken. Or that’s what he told himself, anyway. Whatever Sammy had done to him that night, pinning him to the wall, manhandling him, had ruined his dick.

Frankie tried his hardest not to think about it. But feeling his cock, after months of inactivity, made him feel incredibly relieved. Even if it was short-lived because of who caused the resurgence of life. Frankie had prided himself on his sexual prowess, always having a strong libido. Yet anytime he’d gone to masturbate lately, his mind would inevitably take him back to the rain-soaked alleyway, the feel of rough hands pushing him against the bricks and palming his cock.

He could never finish. Refusing to climax thinking about his best friend.

It was wrong and confusing…

He tried porn. Couldn’t focus. He tried thinking of other women he’d slept with. Couldn’t fucking focus with that, either.

Then Brit, his on-again-off-again booty call, walked into his bar last week, begging him for some fun bedroom play. Believing this would resurrect his dick, Frankie went home with her. Brit had been gloriously naked, sprawled out on her bed, tits bouncing in his face, and to his everlasting shame, he couldn’t even get a semi-hard-on going. And he tried. He frantically locked himself in the bathroom, desperately attempting to pump himself to life. He felt the tingling build in his balls and chased it, stroking himself from root to stem.

And that’s when it happened—again. His mind returned to strong hands on his body, of Sammy’s warm breath on his lips, the deep timber of his raspy voice, and his cock leaked in his fist.

Mortified and blaming it on drinking too much, he practically ran out of her apartment. He hadn’t orgasmed in five goddamned months, and it was starting to show. He was an edgy, irritable mess.

“I need something stronger,” Frankie announced and headed into the bar, keeping his gaze firmly away from Mikey and Sammy, but by doing so, he ran straight into a firm pair of glittered breasts that were wrapped in a paper-thin red tank top with sequined fireworks on it. He recognized the tits and glanced up to see Brit, whose face was caked in a thick layer of makeup. Her lips looked sticky rather than shiny with her overlayered gloss.

Great. Let’s make this night even fuckin’ better.

Brit batted her fake eyelashes up at him. “Hey, you,” she drawled, chewing provocatively on her lower lip, giving him the clearest ‘come-fuck-me eyes’.

He couldn’t help but compare her eye-fucking to that of Sammy’s.

Sammy, at the very least, wasn’t this blatant. His gaze was unashamed and sensual, almost appreciative of Frankie, without making him feel like some sexualized object.

He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering if he’d lost his damn mind comparing them.

Dear Lord, just give me whiskey.

“Brit, good to see ya,” Frankie said as politely as he could muster. “Mind? I’m gettin’ a drink.” He gestured for her to move out of the doorway.

She chewed harder on that lip to the point that it was mildly concerning. “Can I join ya?”

“Not tonight.”

She pouted, and her long acrylic nails decorated with American flags latched onto his shirt. “We didn’t finish what we started the other night, Frankie…” Her pout became a simper. “I miss you, baby.”

He gritted his teeth.