Page 94 of Give Me What You Will

Silence stretched between them, and Frankie saw the ache, the sadness in his best friend’s gaze. He wondered if Sam thought that the letter had pushed him away. That he was running. He wasn’t. He had work to do and things to finish. And then he would take what was fuckin’ his.

He was about to stride forward, capture Sam’s face, and wipe that sadness from it when his phone pinged in his pocket. The driver was almost here.

“I’m sorry,” Sam murmured unexpectedly.

“For what?”

Sam swallowed, stepped back and pushed his fingers through his hair, looking so adorably strung out and nervous.

Frankie strode forward, dropping his bag at the door, and with both hands, grabbed Sam’s whiskered cheeks, slamming a hard kiss against his parted lips. Sam whimpered, instantly throwing his arms around him and returning the kiss with such fervor, such force, that it made Frankie pause, wondering if Sam thought this was their last time.

He could understand his concerns. Sam had seen him do this dance with countless women before him. Except this had been different from the very start, and Frankie had no intention of leaving him.

“Baby,” he whispered, “Baby—c’mon. Stop it.” He urged, feeling the insecurity and fear leak from Sam as if they were his own emotions. “You’re comin’ home in two weeks. You’re stayin’ with me. And you’re packin’ light, because you ain’t leavin’ my bed all fuckin’ weekend, you understand?”

Sam trembled against him, eyes firmly shut, as if refusing to take in his words.

“We’re celebratin’ your birthday, okay?” His fingers raked through his curly graying brown hair, determined to make him understand that this wasn’t it. This weekend was just the beginning. “Say you’re comin’.”

Sam dropped his temple into his and stepped back, expression pure vulnerability.

His phone dinged. His car had arrived.

“Say you’re comin’,” Frankie pressed.

Sam paused for the longest minute of his fuckin’ life. “I’ll come.”

He clenched his jaw and launched forward, grabbing him by the back of the neck and kissing the hell out of his best friend. “Damn right you are. You’re mine. Don’t you fuckin’ forget it.”

Later, sitting in the terminal, a cup of coffee in hand, Frankie pulled out his phone and set his plan into motion. He texted Joel first, arranging a time to meet at the bar later in the week.

The next text he sent was to the two goons on his back about his father’s debt, sending the final amount of the loan via bank transfer. He had scraped every penny from his savings, but decided last night while feeling the weight of Sam asleep in his arms that being free of his father’s debt would mean finally getting his life back, away from his father and the dangerous men who held it.

He needed a fresh start—a new chapter. And that chapter was with Sam, but he had to make sure his shit was in order before that could happen.

His final text message was to Caz, a nervous flutter tightening in his belly as he hit send. He sipped his coffee and sighed, mind churning and hoping to hell that everything would fall into place.

He suddenly heard his father’s mocking voice in his head: “Well, you know what they say about plans and God—never tell the old bastard, ‘cause it’ll only make him laugh.”

Chapter 17

John, Sam’s coworker and closest friend here in LA, was leaning over the charge station, one hand on a black tablet as he flipped through end-of-day patient charts with his black-rimmed glasses propped low on his nose, his gaze flickering from the screen to Walsh.

Sam strolled over to him, joining him at the station and also appraising Dr. Walsh, who was by the staff entrance, having just walked in. His backpack was still slung on his shoulder, sunglasses on, with—was that a lollipop in his mouth? Tanya, Saint Sierra’s Hospital Director, was speaking with Walsh, who looked utterly annoyed and bored by whatever it was she was saying.

“What’s that on Walsh’s face?” Sam frowned, assessing the messy, haphazard reddish-brown beard.

“Oh, I believe that would be his protest beard,” John replied, sighing.

“Protest beard? For what?”

“For a lot of things, I’m sure.”

Sam studied Walsh, frowning. “I heard one of the nurses talking about that teen program he created.”

John nodded, eyebrows arched, watching Walsh and Tanya. “Yup.”

“What’d he do? Upset a couple of parents?”