4. Chapter 4
He shaved.
It was the first thing he noticed when Sammy walked into his bar.
Sammy had shaved off his terrible mustache and was instead sporting dark gray and brown stubble that lined his chiseled jawline and Superman chin dimple. He looked like Sammy again, preferring the whiskers over the stache.
Frankie’s stomach did some ridiculous flutter thing again and his gaze moved, without his fucking consent, to Sammy—again.
He just couldn’t stop looking, even though he had determinedly avoided Sammy nearly the entire party.
And whenever they did get grouped together with mutual friends, Frankie made up an excuse to check on the bar.
It didn’t help that every time he did catch Sammy’s eyes, they were so fuckin’ heated that his breath caught in his chest.
Something clearly had changed in Sammy. And Frankie, too blinded by his determination to go back to the way things were, hadn’t believed it—didn’t want to.
But now, it was flashing in front of him like a neon fucking beer sign, and there was no avoiding it.
Sammy wanted him.
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.
“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.