2. Chapter 2 #3
They finished their hot dogs and beers in silence before finally, after a good buzz going on and a stomach full of hot dogs, Frankie let out a sigh.
He would not let this night go to shit. He had waited too long to see Sammy.
He should’ve hopped on a plane the next day and chased his ass down to fix this.
Because Frankie was fuckin’ good at fixing things. And he was determined to fix this.
“I noticed Papi’s house was sold,” Frankie commented.
“Yeah, finally did,” Sammy replied. “I ended up hiring Mikey.”
“Mikey?” he asked incredulously. “Blue-balls-Mikey-Fuckin’-Shaw?”
“The one and only.”
Mikey got that unfortunate name, dubbed by Frankie, because every time Sammy was around, Mikey pined after him like a boy at prom, and Sammy never showed the slightest interest. Everyone in town knew Mikey had a crush but was too cowardly to do anything about it.
“You two…?” Frankie asked slowly.
“Hook up? Jesus, Frankie, no. He helped me with Papi’s house ‘cause I wasn’t living in Boston anymore. I didn’t have the time.”
He nodded, leaning back and drumming his fingers on the top of the leather booth, looking unconvinced.
“Just because he and I happen to be gay doesn’t mean we fucked,” Sammy remarked irritably. “Not all gay people fuck each other, asshole.”
“I didn’t say that,” he countered flippantly.
“You didn’t have to,” Sammy challenged. “I know how you think.”
Frankie frowned, deciding not to be baited into a fight. He knew how Sammy thought, too—how he operated when it came to conflict. Bait, switch, fight. Just like his crazy fuckin’ mom.
“My best friend here is gay,” Sammy said, tone still defensive.
Frankie tilted his head back as though Sammy clipped him beneath the jaw. “Best friend?”
Sammy swallowed another swig of beer, throat bobbing, the dim light of the bar revealing the stubble inching down his tanned skin and sharp jawline… And fuck, why did he keep looking at his fucking neck?
“Yeah,” Sammy retorted, eyes fixed with his. It was clearly a taunt—a challenge—a gauntlet thrown at his feet to get a reaction out of him. Because what else could it be?
“Yeah,” Frankie started to nod, anger flaring in his gut.
“You’re nodding,” Sammy drawled, lips dancing up in that dark, mad smile of his, looking a little too pleased.
“So?”
“It’s the nod of wrath. You only do it right before you're about to knock someone's teeth in.”
“I’m about to knock your fuckin’ teeth in, and that stupid stash, too,” he grumbled fiercely. His lips pursed into a sneer, “So I ain’t your fuckin’ best friend anymore?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You just did, asshole.”
Sammy shot him a hard, leveled look across the table, unfazed by his brewing anger.
Frankie abruptly leaned forward, nearly knocking their beer glasses over. “I’m your best goddamned friend, Sammy.”
Sammy bit back a sigh, finishing his beer. He looked impatiently toward the bar door, as though wanting to get up and walk out of the bar and out of Frankie’s life again.
“Nothin’s changed,” Frankie insisted.
If only that were true.
“Everything’s changed.” Sammy’s face fell, cold and emotionless.
Something in Frankie’s chest hurt, and he shook his head.
“Papi’s dead. Nona’s dead…” Sammy shifted in his seat. “I appreciate you making the flight out here to tell me about Nona. But I got an early day tomorrow and need to get some sleep.”
“You serious?”
Frankie knew a blow off when he heard it. He’d done countless of them throughout his career as a serial dater.
Sammy pulled out his wallet and threw cash on the table.
“You’re really gonna leave it like this?” Frankie asked incredulously.
“How else am I supposed to leave it?”
“I dunno, we catch up. We hang out.”
“We have and did. I’m tired.”
“You’re running, is what you’re doing.”
His green eyes flashed in the dim bar light. “What do you want from me?”
“Your friendship—but apparently, that’s a hard ask for some fuckin’ reason that’s beyond me.”
Sammy abruptly leaned forward. The table light fell over his face, somehow illuminating him in a new light.
He knew Sammy’s face better than his own.
But for some reason, he was unrecognizable.
Maybe it was the stupid mustache. Maybe it was the way Sammy was holding himself, or the distance and time spent away from each other.
Maybe… he never really knew Sammy at all.
No, don’t fuckin’ think that.
He’s my ride or die. Sammy is and always will be Sammy.
My fuckin’ Superman.
“Our friendship is over, Frank.”
Frankie’s chin jerked back like he’d been sucker punched. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. We’re done. What happened, there isn’t any coming back from.”
He stared, dumbfounded, hurt, and confused.
They kissed! So what? He knew for a fact there were plenty of straight men and women who experimented a time or two with a safe, gay friend.
Except Frankie wasn’t the one who had kissed Sammy.
Sammy had kissed him. Still, it wasn’t a good enough reason to end their friendship.
Fuck that.
“It didn’t fuckin’ mean anything, Sammy.”
Sammy sucked in a breath, something revealing in his expression for a split second that Frankie didn’t understand before he was suddenly on his feet, so quickly that he bumped into the table. “Goodbye, Frank.”
“Frank? Frank?!” Anger flared inside him. “Really—Mitchell?”
Sammy spun, fists clenched at the sound of his first name. He hated being called Mitchell. He waited for the punch. But it never came as Sammy promptly pivoted on his heel and marched out the front door. Frankie yanked out another twenty and tossed the cash on the table, chasing after him.
He wasn’t going to let Sammy walk out again.
Not again.
Not ever fuckin’ again.
Cold February air struck his face, and he sucked in a quick breath, scanning the parking lot, but he didn’t see Sammy walking toward his car.
He glanced around and saw him disappear around the corner.
He jogged after him, ignoring the stiffness in his knee from the pace and the cold.
As he rounded the corner, he saw that Sammy seemed intent on walking to cool down the rage still clenched in his fists.
“Coward!” Frankie yelled after him.
Sammy paused mid-stride, shoulders straightening as he turned, “Go away, Frankie. I’m serious.”
“That’s it? Not a proper fuck you? C’mon, man, if you wanna end this like you say you do, maybe you should make me believe it first.” Frankie strode determinedly forward. “I ain’t leavin’. I ain’t givin’ up on 15 years over some dumb mistake—”
The words died in his throat as Sammy, who was taller by a few inches and had a longer reach, grabbed him unexpectedly by the lapels of his jacket and shoved him backward into the alley behind the Hot Dog Palace. His back hit against the brick building, letting out a whoosh of air from his lungs.
He felt the solid weight of Sammy pressing him against the bricks.
The alleyway was dark, secluded, and soaked from the rain earlier, but he noticed none of it. His eyes were riveted on the darkness reflected in Sammy’s angry gaze.
“I don’t think you understand why this has to end, Frankie.” Sammy’s hot breath fanned his lips. “I can’t keep being your friend.”
Fear clutched at his chest.
No. No. No.
All the bravado, all the tough guy shit drained from him, and he reached for Sammy’s hand on his jacket, gripping it.
“Why not?” he heard his voice crack, and he couldn’t help it. He missed his best friend. It had been incredibly hard without him these last few months, and then when Nona died, he damned near forgot how to breathe whenever he thought about him.
The grief of losing them both was unbearable.
And he’d do anything to make this right between them.
Anything.
“Sammy, I’m sorry,” Frankie breathed. “I fuckin’ can’t go back without fixin’ this, man. I love you…”
Sammy averted his gaze and abruptly released him, shoulders tense. He recognized the look. He was about to leave—again. And he couldn’t have that. He couldn’t let him.
Frankie pushed off the wall, reaching for him, grabbing him by the back of the neck, forcing him to stay.
Just stay.
Don’t leave me again.
Please.
“What do you want, huh?” Frankie asked, hearing the desperation in his tone. Sammy resisted, attempting to pull back, but he refused to let him. “What do I have to do to, Sammy?”
Sammy shuddered, his resistance draining away as his hands returned to Frankie’s jacket, clutching him… shaking. He wasn’t sure if Sammy wanted to pull him closer or push him away.
“Tell me,” Frankie whispered urgently. “Tell me how to fix this.”
“You can’t.”
“Let me try. I need you, Sammy.”
“You don’t,” he whispered, his eyes shut as though refusing to look at him.
“Look me in the eyes then and tell me our friendship is over.”
A sound, so weak, so needy, crawled out of Sammy’s throat. Something about that noise and the strain in his features, the way the moonlight reflected over the side of his face…
Heart racing, he drew Sammy closer, needing to soothe whatever pain he had. Because he could see it. He captured the side of his face, wanting to see his eyes, wanting to…
He should’ve been prepared for what happened next.
Sammy kissed him.
He moved so quickly that Frankie could only gasp as his lips crashed down hard onto his. It was just like last time. Urgent and so full of need. Sammy pinned him to the building with a strength Frankie didn’t know he possessed. His entire body engulfed him.
Too shocked to move, Sammy slanted his lips over his and deepened the kiss with such a breathless fury that Frankie could only stand there and take it.
And he did.
He didn’t know what else to do.
But his body did. It responded as if it were a woman doing this to him, not Sammy. His cock thickened between his legs, and his heart thudded against his chest, pulse skipping through his veins.
What the fuck was happening? This was wrong! This was Sammy!
He didn’t understand it.
Sammy reached between them and, with a boldness he would’ve never expected from him, felt the firm pressure of his palm over his crotch and the denim barrier between them.
Jesus…!