6. Chapter 6
Frankie stared dully at the muted gray painted wall in his father’s apartment. A paper cup of coffee warmed his palm as he listened to the commotion of the other tenants in the retirement community making their way down for breakfast and morning activities.
He came every Saturday morning, rain or shine, tired or not, in the mood—or not. And he definitely wasn’t in the mood today. He felt like an irritable grump the moment he woke up this morning, which he blamed entirely on Sammy.
Fuckin’ Sammy.
It took him forever to fall asleep last night because every time he closed his eyes, he was right back at the bar, on his knees behind Sammy, feeling his strong body quiver beneath him, his fingers wrapped around his throbbing cock beneath his jeans. And fuck, it had been hard, like touching steel.
He rubbed his fingers together at the memory despite how brief the touch had been. His ears still rang with the vivid memory of Sammy’s moans. Those breathy, raspy groans of pure pleasure. Frankie had never heard anything like it. It had been startling, and so damned…
He swallowed, pushing his fingers into his eyes.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He leaned forward onto his elbows over his knees, coffee clutched in his hands, attempting to clear his mind.
Another flash of Sammy, but this time, he was stroking his cock.
He looked so fucking good cumming all over himself.
The way his back arched off the ground, how his legs tensed beneath him, his face scrunched and furrowed as he broke.
The stone facade Sammy had hidden behind all these years had vanished, and for the first time, he saw a rare glimpse of the man beneath.
And he was almost unrecognizable.
The true, real Sammy… was incredible. It felt like he had finally gotten to see Superman without his Clark Kent glasses.
He flushed, feeling ridiculous, fisting his hand around the paper coffee cup and trying to push those thoughts aside.
He shouldn’t be thinking like this. It was wrong and fucked up, because last night was wrong and fucked up.
And yet he couldn’t stop himself. He had seen the real Sammy last night, and he couldn’t forget how Sammy had commanded Frankie to show him his dick as though the world would end if he didn’t see it.
And the world did end. It ended on a whimper and an orgasm.
A brutal, annihilating orgasm that he coated Sammy with.
And he had wanted it. Sammy had wanted to paint his body with Frankie’s cum, those desperate pleas that became outright begging, something he never thought his Superman would do.
And it had been so fucking hot watching this confident, brazen man become pure simpering need for him. For his cum.
God damn.
No woman had ever talked to him like that. No woman begged for it or wanted to be ruined like that. And Sammy wanted to be ruined. He saw it in his gaze, the way he trembled and shook.
Frankie would break him… over and over… until he was a breathless pile of limp limbs, sweaty and sedated.
And once Sammy had touched heaven, he would spear his cum back inside that tight ass with his dick and fuck him with it, listening to them both moan at the overly sensitive sensation of being fucked again.
Almost like it would be too much. But that’s how Sammy would be.
He knew it in his bones, especially after last night.
He was fuckin’ crazy—just like Frankie was in the bedroom, although he had never gotten to fully unleash it…
had never gotten to untether that side of himself.
He’d bruise here and there with his female lovers, but it was always directional, being told where and how to put it.
Sammy would let him do whatever the fuck he wanted. Bruise him, spit on him, cum on him, destroy him. The sudden realization left his throat dry, and his balls tightened like a fist against his body.
Stop!
Stop imagining things!
Just fuckin’ stop!
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” his dad commented, interrupting his thoughts.
“It was the Fourth of July last night,” Frankie replied, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We hosted. So yeah, long night.”
His dad nodded, looking pleased. “Good turnout?”
“You know it.” Frankie reigned in his churning emotions, attempting to be his charming, usual self with his dad.
Another nod, smirking. “She could always turn out on a holiday.”
The sexualized innuendo wasn’t lost on him, and he attempted a bland smile but failed. “Yeah.”
“So why do you look like someone pissed in your fuckin’ Cheerios, boy?” his dad snipped.
Frankie bit back a groan. “I’m not.”
His dad was always itching for a fight. “You are.”
Here we go.
“You’ve been comin’ here, poutin’ for an entire year. And I fuckin’ know why.” The deep wrinkles lining his dad’s face twisted into disgust as he glared at him from across the table. “I never understood it… you and him.”
Him.
Sammy.
A shiver slid up his spine, and he carefully kept his face neutral. Before, he would’ve ignored this shit from his dad. But after everything that had happened last night, he wasn’t in the mood to hear his dad trash-talk his…
Best friend?
Friends didn’t watch each other jerk off. And they certainly didn’t demand the other to coat them in hot fuckin’ cum.
“Papi and him,” his dad sneered, bringing him back to their conversation. “If Papi didn’t fuckin’ earn his stripes with me, I would’ve had nothin’ to do with him and his faggot grandson.”
Something sliced up his back, hearing the word. That word. Like a curse, but far fucking worse. Frankie rolled his jaw, grinding down on his back molars. If people didn’t live up to his ideals or his way of living, he made his opinion of them known.
“Don’t know why you bothered with him,” his dad continued. “He was a lost cause from the get go. Crazy fuckin’ mother, whiney goddamned grandpa. The whole family is just—”
Frankie slammed his hand on the table, voice low and icy. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
His dad blinked, nostrils twitching. “What’cha say to me, boy?”
“You heard me,” he retorted. “You’re so goddamned hateful. What’s it like living with all that hate, Dad?”
His dad’s lip curled.
“Papi saved your life in the war,” Frankie said, letting his irritation take over.
“He even gave you a loan to start your bar. Or do you conveniently forget these things? And Sammy,” he sucked in a breath, heart racing, “worked for you for pennies during med school. Those men deserve your respect. They were the legs you stood on for years. Hell, I fuckin’ deserve better than listenin’ to your bullshit.
” He stood, hand clutching his coffee. “What happened to all your friends, Dad? They ain’t here.
And you and I know damn well that if Papi were still alive, he’d be here. ”
His dad, cold and unforgiving, smiled cruelly. “Sammy left you. Where is he now, huh?”
Frankie stiffened.
“Tina stopped by this morning—told me he was back in town. That you two had some sort of beef. Fightin’ at the bar and everything. Makin’ a fuckin’ scene. That true? He finally done with you?”
Fear shot through him like a bullet to the chest, and he stood there, hollow and empty. He blinked, emotion welling up at the idea of Sammy leaving him again. That he had fucked up their already fucked up relationship some more. That he shouldn’t have touched him, shouldn’t have done those things…
I shouldn’t have run away.
I should’ve stayed.
I should’ve…
“No.” He said the word with a certainty that he didn’t feel. Maybe last night was too much for Sammy. Maybe he caught the first flight back to LA because he was done with him.
His dad read something on his face and shook his head. “My son and his gay best friend. I always wondered… You look like a helpless little puppy without him. Christ, Frankie. You suck his cock, too?”
“What’d you say to me?” Frankie breathed.
“You heard me. You a faggot like him now?”
Frozen anger burned through his fists. If his father was fifteen years younger, they wouldn’t be standing here talking anymore. He’d be on the ground. Broken. Bloodied. No one insulted his best friend to his face and got away with it.
Except for this man. This wrinkled, tarnished, wasted old man who had nothing left in life but the black hole inside him.
Frankie was done wasting his time trying to prove himself to his father, who existed on hate and judgment.
Always picking away at people and what made them happy.
Never satisfied with his own life, and certainly not with Frankie.
He set his paper-thin coffee down and tilted his head, studying him. “Ever since I took over your bar, I’ve noticed something. Not as many of your type comes in anymore. The old fucks who think they still got a seat at the bar. Because it’s my bar now, Dad. Mine.”
His dad, for the first time all morning, stiffened, lips pursed into an unsettled frown.
“And the only thing you left me with was debt and barflies. It’s been two years. Two years of me…”
Paying off your fuckin’ gambling debt.
His jaw clenched, thinking about how he had had to sell two cars that he had rebuilt from the ground up at half the price to these jackals, which only covered a portion of his father’s gambling debt.
And these men were dangerous. The kind that packed heat on their belts and kept brass knuckles in their jacket pockets in case they had to make a man understand that there were only two ways out of debt like this: pay it or be found floating down the Charles River.
He had one more car to go, plus a couple more profitable months at the bar, and the debt would be gone. Frankie would finally be free.
“You think you’re better than me now?” His dad retorted, an ugly sneer on his face.
“I think so. At least I fuckin’ try to be.” He gave him a short nod and headed to the door. He had better things to do than waste his time here. “Happy Fourth, Dad.”
He had spent his whole life being so afraid of disappointing his father.
He supposed every son felt that to some extent, but finally, after all these years, Frankie had realized that his father was the disappointment.
He deserved a better parent. He instantly thought of Papi, and grief, which so easily came to him these days, tugged at his heartstrings.
He swallowed hard, pushing down the weight of it.
I miss you, you son of a bitch.
I could really use your help with Sammy right now.
Striding down the hallway, he pulled out his phone and texted the only man in his life who always made him feel like he was worth a damn.
Ignoring the way his hand trembled as he held his phone, he texted Sammy.