4. Chapter 4 #2
“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.
I cannot deal with this.
“Let’s talk later, okay?” He said with a pinched smile as he plucked her fingers from his shirt and strode inside.
Frankie wasn’t officially working tonight, even though he'd already made a show of it multiple times to ‘take care’ of things. He strode by the extra staff he had hired for the evening, grabbed a bottle of Jameson off the shelf, and poured himself a double.
“Make that two,” Sammy said, and he glanced up to see Mikey and Sammy taking seats at the bar.
Fists clenching and unclenching, Frankie snaked two shot glasses from the shelf and lined them up in front of them.
“Good to see ya, Frankie,” Mikey said a little too enthusiastically, unable to look away from Sammy for more than a second and blushing like a schoolgirl.
He hitched his head to the side, nodded, and slammed his shot before pouring theirs.
Everyone knew that Frankie and Sammy were best friends—everyone.
Especially Mikey, who, over the years, had attempted to insert himself between them to hit on Sammy.
It never bothered him much before. But for some reason, it bothered him tonight.
Maybe because Sammy was intentionally eye-fucking him all night, along with the jaw-dropping flirts that left him immobilized.
Did all gay men flirt like that? Or was it just Sammy?
Just Sammy, he thought, filling the shooters with amber whiskey.
Sammy had a bit of his mother’s craziness in him, whether he wanted to admit it or not. He said off-the-cuff shit all the damned time, and it was why he had liked him in the first place. So, to hear that Sammy had actually been biting his tongue for years of their friendship was startling.
Maybe Sammy was right—maybe Frankie didn’t know him at all.
And that really pissed him off.
They had shared everything—did almost everything together. He was family. Family didn’t fuckin’ lie. And he wasn’t sure what bothered him more: Sammy not telling him his feelings for all these years, or having the feelings in the first place.
A song crooned to life that he recognized instantly, and he snapped his eyes to Sammy’s, who stiffened on the barstool and glanced at Mikey, instead. For the first time all evening, Sammy refused to look at him.
Shadow of the Sun by Audioslave. They heard it live only once, and they both became die-hard fans of the rock band. It was their band. Their song.
“Not a fan of Audioslave anymore, hotshot?” Frankie asked bitingly, interrupting their conversation and not giving a fuck.
Sammy turned, his dark green eyes holding his. “I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, you didn’t have to,” he retorted.
Sammy’s eyes narrowed into hard slits.
“Is that an LA thing? Or a you thing now? ‘Cause the second you moved to LA—whoa—look out!” Frankie swept his hand over him in a grand gesture, taking a slight bow, mocking him. “New man walkin’! New looks. New clothes. New fuckin’ attitude.
Lots of new, Sammy. Oh, wait, shit, sorry, Sam. ” He drawled out his name like a taunt.
Sammy's steely expression told him everything. He’d just struck a nerve.
Good.
Frankie suddenly wished he was anywhere else but at this bar, listenin’ to one of his favorite songs with his former best friend glaring daggers at him.
“Frankie,” Mikey said. “Maybe you should take it easy, huh?” he motioned to the Jameson bottle in his hand.
He snorted a derisive laugh and slammed the bottle between them. “I ain’t drunk, Blue-Balls. Just mad. You can’t tell the difference?”
“Don’t call him that,” Sammy said coldly.
Feeling like an asshole, Frankie leaned over the bar and whispered the same words Sammy had flirted with him a few hours ago. “Make me.”
Sammy hitched his head to the side, “What are you so mad about, Frankie?”
You.
You dickhead.
Comin’ into my bar, spinning me like a fuckin’ top and actin’ like you didn’t do anything fucking wrong.
Anger seethed in his chest. Glancing between the two men and feeling reckless and mean for reasons he couldn’t rightly explain, he said, “This ain’t a gay bar, Sammy. Maybe you should take your date somewhere else, yeah?”
Sammy’s expression flickered with hurt, and the second he saw it, regret slammed into him like a knuckle punch to the teeth.
He sounded just like his queer-hating father, who had teased and bullied Sammy for years.
Frankie opened his mouth to apologize when Sammy suddenly launched himself off the barstool, grabbing him by his collared flamingo shirt and yanking him down with a furious jerk.
“Fuck you,” Sammy growled into his ear, his hot breath brushing against the side of his face, sending shockwaves down his spine.
Frankie held his ground, grabbing the hands on his shirt and squeezing Sammy’s fingers, voice low so only he could hear. “I thought that’s what you wanted?”
Sammy’s hands trembled against him.
He felt Sammy sway toward him. He was undeniably close.
Frankie could smell the beer on his breath, see the way the stubble on his cheeks reflected the dim light of the bar, and the brilliant mossy green hues of his eyes.
Everything stilled within him and he jerked back, alarmed, buttons ripping from his shirt.
Sammy’s eyes slanted in a dangerous glower and… something else flickered there, too.
Something he’d never seen before.
Raw, unfiltered lust.
Frankie sucked in a gasping breath at the powerful rush between his legs.
“Whoa! What the hell is going on?!” Tina yelled through the noisy bar, shooting a surprised look between them.
Frankie straightened, nostrils flaring, ignoring the demanding tingle at the base of his cock that gripped his balls. He grabbed the Jameson bottle, needing to create space between him and whatever the fuck was whirling around inside his body. Tina was looking at him as if he’d grown another head.
“You got beef with Sammy?” Tina asked, “Since when?”
“It’s none of your business,” he growled.
“He’s family.”
“He ain’t.”
“What’s with you?”
The last crooning notes of the Audioslave song came to a dramatic end, and everything inside him resisted the urge to look back.
The last time he heard this song, he had played it for his dog, his Nona.
Emotions gripped his throat as he was suddenly transported back to his last day with her.
Her big gray-and-white spotted head resting in his lap, wrapped in Sammy and his Audioslave sweater as he played this song for her.
The windows rolled down, sunlight filtering over her, wanting her to enjoy those last few moments of sunshine.
He thought of Papi’s service and how that had been the last day with Sammy, too, in a way. The last day of them being best friends.
Grief and anger washed over him, clogging his throat, and he pushed past Tina and walked back outside, the bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe he had been a fool to believe that he could single-handedly make their friendship work again. Sammy didn’t want it and had made that abundantly clear. But that didn’t mean Frankie couldn’t be torn up about it. He just lost his best friend.
And he wasn’t sure he could handle that fact anymore.