5. Chapter 5
The evening was getting late, and Sam was feeling pleasantly buzzed and cozy by the fire pit.
Mikey Shaw was sitting beside him in a camping lawn chair, his leg brushing against his.
Mikey’s voice was a sultry rasp now, an indicator that he wanted to take this party back to his house and finish the evening with Sam in his bed.
And what sweet irony would that be?
Finally giving in to the man that had wanted him for years, whom Sam had no interest in whatsoever, because he couldn’t be with the man he actually wanted. A man who would never want him—never desire him—never fuck him or touch him the way he yearned for.
It took everything in his being not to look at Frankie. After their brief tussle at the bar, Frankie had stayed clear of him, and Sam had done the same. In fact, he wasn’t sure why he had stayed. He could’ve left with Mikey hours ago. But he didn’t.
Apparently, I like torturing myself.
I’m a fucking masochist.
Mikey’s hand slid over his leg, squeezing his upper thigh. “Want another drink?”
He hesitated. Mikey was a good guy, attractive in a boring, average kind of way. A bit too tall for his taste. Granted, Sam had flirted and teased poor Mikey the entire night, knowing it pissed off Frankie because he had never liked him.
And the sad reality was, Sam was lonely and horny and really didn’t want to go back to his hotel room and jerk off pathetically in the shower, thinking, yet again, about Frankie.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed, unable to resist temptation as his gaze slid, one last time, at his former best friend, who was playing ping pong with Tony, Brendon, and Joel.
Tony scored a point for team Casavani, and Frankie grinned boyishly, grabbing Tony by the shoulder triumphantly and pumping his paddle tauntingly in the air at Joel and Brendon.
Sam nearly smiled. Frankie was always a competitive asshole, no matter what game they played.
Envy washed over him, and he wished he were the one on his team, like he normally would’ve been, getting all those affectionate pats and playful, powerful neck grabs. He loved how affectionate Frankie naturally was. He had lived off those touches for years.
Now he felt starved for his touch.
Ravenous, even.
Goddammit. I need to get away from him.
Sam saw the determined glint in Frankie's dark eyes. He licked his lips as though hungry for more, spinning the ping pong paddle in his hand. He sighed, averting his gaze and thinking about the last time he let a man touch him who hadn’t been Frankie.
It had been out of pure desperation when he had let some nameless guy last year during the holiday season fuck him.
Anything to take his mind off of Frankie, of Boston, of home, of his lonely fucking heart.
It helped ease some of the tension in his body, and the orgasm was sweet and good, but it didn’t last.
Maybe to get over Frankie, he needed to get under Mikey.
“How about something else?” Sam asked Mikey, eyes flickering over him, making it clear he didn’t want another drink.
Mikey flushed and leaned in close enough for Sam to recognize the desire written all over his face, which wasn’t hard, considering Mikey had looked at him this way for years.
Fuck it.
Sam clasped his chin and dragged Mikey Blue-Balls in for a deep, thorough kiss.
Mikey moaned, which nearly made him draw back at the over-enthusiastic sound, but he forced himself to stay, demanding himself to try. And he did, slanting his lips over his, tasting the beer and flavor of his mouth and waiting for the thrumming pulse in his veins to start.
Except nothing happened. No jolt of arousal or anticipation.
No spark.
Flat-line.
Jesus fuck, I’m dead inside.
A loud, exaggerated whistle and holler of approval echoed from across the parking lot, and he recognized Joel's voice. “Finally, Blue-Balls! Good for you, man!”
He broke from the kiss, glancing at the ping-pong table, and saw his friends had stopped their game to watch them kiss. Including Frankie.
Sam averted his gaze, recognizing the flash of disgust on Frankie’s face, and quickly stood, heart lodged in his throat.
It didn’t matter what Frankie thought because he didn’t fucking matter, he told himself firmly as he watched Mikey leap out of the lawn chair, fumbling for his car keys in his pocket.
He bit back the urge to sigh.
Sam was already regretting this. But he couldn’t care anymore.
He needed this tonight. He needed to forget how close Frankie’s lips had been to brushing his.
How tight his ass had looked in those stupid pink swim trunks that molded to those perfect, round cheeks.
How hard his dick had gotten when Frankie whispered the taunting flirt into his ear at the bar.
But what Sam really needed was to throw his broken heart into the Charles River and fly back to LA without it, because it was ruining his life.
“Leaving?” Brendon asked, eyes bouncing between Mikey and him like a ping-pong ball.
“Hell ya, they are,” Joel grinned, drunk and swaying on his feet.
“Yeah, it’s been a long day.” Sam nodded toward the bar at Mikey. “Let me get my stuff.”
“I’ll pull the car around,” Mikey replied eagerly. Too eagerly.
Sam headed into the bar, catching Joel snorting a drunk wink at Mikey as he passed. “Go get ’em, tiger.”
Once he entered the bar, he saw that it was surprisingly empty. He hadn’t noticed people clearing out, or how late it had gotten. He’d been so lost in his head about the near fight that he had with Frankie that he didn’t realize the bar had closed.
“Here,” Frankie’s voice was gruff behind him, and he jumped slightly, turning.
Frankie motioned to the backroom lounge. “I moved your bag into here when it got busy.”
“Thanks.”
Frankie pulled the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the lounge door.
When Frankie’s father went into the retirement home, there was no more use for the lounge.
Lou, Frankie’s father, would host card nights here with his friends, and they’d drink, smoke, and gamble throughout the night.
Now, it looked like it served mostly as storage for the bar.
Boxes were stuffed into corners, and the old poker table had a dusty sheet draped over it.
“Shit,” Sam marveled, looking at the old, framed photos on the wall. Some of the men he recognized. Lou was a notorious gambler and loved his poker nights. “I haven’t been back here in years.”
Frankie dropped his backpack onto a dusty leather booth. “What are you doing?”
Sam frowned. “What—?”
“Leaving with fuckin’ Blue-Balls?”
He stilled. Frankie had never once judged him for who he went out with or tried to date. Not once. Granted, Sam rarely ever dated when he lived here. But whenever he had, Frankie was the first one to ask how it went.
“Yeah, I am—what’s it to you?” Sam replied.
“The fuck you are.”
“You my mom now?”
“Who you fuckin’ kiddin’?” Frankie scoffed. “Your mom doesn’t care about who you fuck.”
He felt the dagger of his words edge up his back. “Low blow, Frank.”
Frankie exhaled irritably through his nostrils. “I thought you said there was nothin’ between you two?”
“There isn’t.”
“That kiss said differently, Sammy.”
“Is there anything between you and Brit?”
Yet again, Sam had tortured himself by watching Brit, the pretty bombshell, press herself against Frankie all night long, occasionally making out, with blatant tongue sucking and ass grabbing.
Brit was Frankie’s usual stand-in hookup whenever he was horny.
Tina, mercifully, had peeled Brit off him, and the two women had left together.
Except Frankie hadn’t left with Brit. He stayed, drank, and played ping pong instead.
“That’s different,” Frankie said with an indifferent shrug.
“Not different. A hookup’s a hookup.”
“Is that what you’re doing with Mikey?”
“Again, don’t need your permission. Have a good night, Frank.”
Sam grabbed his backpack and turned to leave. He was done with this ridiculous conversation. He didn’t have to justify who he fucked. And he certainly didn’t need Frankie messing up his life anymore.
Frankie was suddenly on him, a hard, calloused hand on his arm, spinning him around and slamming his back against the wall, pictures rattling beside him.
A shocked rush of air left Sam’s lungs. Frankie’s hands fisted onto his shirt, eyebrows furrowed into a predatory glower.
“Are you seriously leavin’ with a guy we used to make fun of? ”
“You made fun of,” Sam corrected. “And yeah, I am. I’m gettin’ real tired of watching you stick your tongue down—” he cut himself off and pushed back, but Frankie widened his stance, returning the shove, refusing to budge.
“You wanna stick your tongue down Blue-Balls’ throat? Really?” Frankie taunted incredulously.
“Fuck you.”
Frankie’s lips quirked in a dangerous smirk. “You said that already, Sammy. I thought you wanted me to fuck you?”
The way he said it unloosened something inside Sam’s chest, and he shoved him hard, untangling his vicelike grip on him.
Frankie’s laugh was humorless and edged with anger as he stumbled backward. “All right, here we go. You wanna go, Sammy?”
He recognized Frankie’s stance and realized that he was baiting him into a fight.
A fight that Sam knew, with absolute certainty, he would lose.
Frankie had fought for a living until his knee was blown out. He knew how to throw a punch better than most men in Boston and New York City combined. Sam didn’t stand a chance. And in that crazy moment, he didn’t care.
“Might wanna text your fuck buddy, you’re gonna be late,” Frankie jeered.
Sam moved, and once he got close enough, he swung his fist. Frankie dodged it effortlessly, chuckling.
“C’mon, Dr. Samuels, is that all you got?”
He threw another punch, which Frankie evaded and then sidestepped and punched him firmly in the side, right into the kidney.
Oxygen escaped his lungs for a mere second, pain sparking behind his eyes, and instead of stopping the fight like a sane, rational person, it only ignited the fuel in his veins.