Page 40 of Give Me What You Will

Frankie loved Papi like his own grandfather and practically lived at his house when Sam had finally moved out of his mother’s house and into Papi’s. He had welcomed Sam in without a word of protest or complaint, walking his only bag into the spare bedroom. He lived with him through school, and it wasn’t until he got the job in LA that he finally knew it was time to move out. And then… Papi did, too. He passed away in his sleep, never experiencing any pain. The best way to go, in his opinion. He swallowed, refusing to dwell in his grief—at least not here.

Sam headed to the door, ready to leave this smoke-infested, toxic place.

“That’s it?” She asked irritably. “That’s all the visit I fuckin’ get?”

He slipped on his sunglasses and opened the front door. “Yeah. I wasn’t here for you.”

She growled, “And why would you be? I only birthed you.”

“That’s all you ever did, Millie.”

He heard her cursing his name as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Chapter 8

The radio hummed in the background, but he didn’t hear it, nor did he feel the heat licking up his back, making him sweat in his garage. He couldn’t smell the motor oil, grease, or waxing polish he had just finished coating his baby with. In fact, he couldn’t even appreciate how good his vintage muscle car looked right now because his mind was stuck on one fuckin’ thing.

Sammy was coming over.

Frankie did his best to rationalize what had happened last night. He told himself that he was drunk, which he wasn’t. He told himself he was confused, but he wasn’t. He told himself that he didn’t want Sammy like that, and that thought rolled around in his mind all damn day.

Up until last night, he thought with complete certainty that he was straight.

Jesus Christ.

He raked his fingers through his hair, pulling at the roots. He needed to know how Sammy felt about last night. He had already confessed to wanting Frankie for years.

Years.

Fuck, I’m such an asshole.

Of course, Sammy wasn’t going to say no to him if he wanted to...

What, Frankie? Fuck him?

He nearly stumbled at the thought.

No, no, no.

He didn’t want to make things worse between them. It was already hard enough to get Sammy to stay in the same room with him, let alone talk to him. He couldn’t risk his dick getting involved, too. And if he had to choose what he wanted from Sammy, it was his friendship first, above all else. If he agreed to stay friends, Frankie would somehow try to rewire his brain so he wouldn’t be infected with images of his best friend covered in their cum, looking like a porn star with those pouty lips, heated eyes and thick, beautiful cock.

He sighed, shifting on his feet and easing the tingle in his balls, needing to focus. He reached inside to wipe down the cream leather material once more, wondering if he would have the time today to take her for a ride.

“Hey.”

He glanced up and was greeted by a pair of aviator sunglasses and a soft smile above a dimpled chin. His heart fluttered at the mere sight of Sam, and he braced himself against the open driver-side door, gazing over the hood at him. He needed to act normal and stay fuckin’ cool.

“Hey,” he said, ignoring how rough his tone was.

Sammy looked fuckin’ good. He wore a plain white T-shirt, dark blue jeans, and boots, with a gold necklace glinting at the base of his throat, hidden beneath the shirt. His biceps strained against the material. His tanned skin glowed with that California sunshine, and his body was tense.

Because of last night.

Because of him.

He noticed the cut and slight swelling above his eyebrow as he slid off his sunglasses and placed them on the collar of his T-shirt. Frankie instantly moved, unable to take his eyes off the damage he had done, regret clawing at his insides. He was on Sammy before he could react, cradling the side of his cheek and forcing him to tilt his head down so Frankie could take a closer look. Sammy was only a couple of inches taller than him, but from the angle and location of the cut, he needed to see it up close.

“Jesus,” he muttered, cursing under his breath. “I’m so sorry, Sammy. I did a fuckin’ number on ya.”