7. Chapter 7
Sam stood on his mother’s front steps, inhaling the warm Boston morning air, deliberating whether he should knock or ring the doorbell.
He sighed, fingers reaching for Papi’s necklace beneath his shirt, needing his grandpa’s courage now more than ever.
And it certainly didn’t help that he was exhausted.
He felt like he had just worked a double in the ED.
Even his bones somehow fucking ached. All because of Frankie.
After Frankie ran out of the bar, he had been tempted to chase him down.
But he was covered in cum, his left eye bloodied, and so thoroughly shell-shocked that he sat there a long time before finally collecting himself.
Frankie had left his pink flamingo shirt, and he had told himself to leave it, but instead, Sam had slipped it into his backpack, not sure why.
Once inside his hotel room, he had taken a scalding hot shower, unable to feel anything other than the firm, warm press of Frankie engulfing him, smothering him with his body, gripping his cock for those brief, wonderful seconds, and then shuddering as he came all over him.
Sam had been so turned on by picturing it that his dick hardened, and he relieved the tension in his balls, climaxing messily once more.
The surrealness of it still lingered. The shock of seeing Frankie like that, so exposed, so raw and real, touching bliss, left him wanting more.
So much fucking more. After barely drying off, he had collapsed into his empty king-sized bed where haunted dark eyes had watched him.
A growling moan of release was followed by the word… “baby”.
The breathy, accidental pet name was startling, and so fucking hot. Sam’s heart had practically fallen out of his chest when Frankie said it, and then it died upon impact as Frankie fled from the room.
Before he had finally fallen asleep last night, Sam had one clear and distinct thought: I regret nothing.
Because he didn’t.
For the first time, he had been himself in front of Frankie, and it had been liberating.
He had seen Frankie clearly last night, too, and he knew with absolute certainty that he had liked the show Sam had put on for him.
He liked his praise and his dirty talk. And fuck, knowing that Frankie got turned on by that tormented him all damned morning.
Remembering how Frankie’s entire expression had changed, as though becoming pure sensation, pure feeling as Sam just…
talked. He hadn’t even touched him, despite desperately wanting to.
It had taken every ounce of strength he had to resist, and he had been rewarded for his efforts.
Frankie had climaxed messily all over him, shooting the biggest load Sam had ever seen in his fucking life and…
His cock spasmed into a jerk between his legs, and he sighed.
He wouldn’t be able to get through the fucking day at this rate.
He was a walking hard-on.
Sam, glancing down the empty block and damn near stepping into the bushes at the steps of his mom’s house, slipped a quick hand under his jeans and tilted his dick upward, securing it beneath the strap of his boxer briefs, hoping that would help.
Fuck. I’m so ridiculous right now.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket. Distracted and knowing he was stalling, Sam pulled it out. His heart jolted in his chest when he read who it was from.
We should talk.
Fingers trembling, he managed to type out his response.
Yeah, agreed.
I’ll be home the rest of the day. Come by if you’re still around?
I’m still here. Visiting mom. I’ll come over after.
Frankie typed and then stopped. He waited, heart pounding.
Do you need me?
Something welled inside of him. Frankie knew it was hard for him to visit his mother alone. Usually, Papi or he would come with him, and a part of him wanted to accept his offer, but after last night…
I’m okay. I’ll see you later.
He tucked his phone into his back pocket and scrubbed two hands over his face, a sudden nervous anticipation gripping his guts like a tourniquet.
Even though they weren’t friends, it was hard to stop acting like it.
Frankie cared, and so did he, except Sam cared too much.
Too deeply. In ways that could never be matched or received…
Or so he thought.
Last night, something had shifted. Something opened. And he wasn’t confident anymore about whether he should race to it or run from it. Was this the talk Frankie wanted to have to tell him it was a mistake? That he regretted crossing the line?
Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to have that conversation, if that was the case.
Impatiently, he knocked hard on the front door to his mom’s house.
He just wanted to get this over with—with Frankie.
Because deep down, he knew what it would be: rejection.
Again. And Sam, left with nothing but his bleeding, stupid heart, would shove it away into his suitcase, fly back to LA and hope to God—to the universe—to the Elysium—to the alien space friends—that he would one day get over Frankie.
No one answered.
He grunted out an exasperated sigh and rang the doorbell. Finally, he heard footsteps and chains rattling as she unlocked the door.
The door swung open as though the person opening it was already offended by his presence.
Her wild, bright green eyes were frantic.
Her gray hair had only faint hints of her once chestnut-brown coloring.
Its oily, thinning locks hung around her face like fraying curtains.
Her face was bare and heavily wrinkled from years of her paranoia and anxiety.
He slipped his sunglasses off. “Hello, Mom.”
Her eyes twitched and she huffed, leaving the doorway empty as she shuffle-stomped back into her den. Sam stared at the threshold for a moment, wondering if he was better off just going to Frankie’s. Or maybe a bar.
“Don’t leave the door open like that, Sammy! Jesus Christ.” She croaked in her smoker's dry tone. “Flies and fuckin’ insects comin’ in. Can’t stand it. Don’t want my nosy damned neighbors to see inside, either. Always lookin’ where they shouldn’t.”
He released the breath in his chest and entered, closing it shut behind him, and was immediately pitched into darkness except for the blue light of the TV that never turned off.
Thick blackout curtains hung over her front room windows, with a TV in the corner and books and newspapers littering the space.
Her only chair in the living room was ancient with its cracked, beaten brown leather.
Her walls were bare, and yet he noticed that the hallway was clear of debris and no stacked books, boxes, or mess.
He frowned, expecting the entire house to be more like the living room.
But even the living room seemed more put together.
“What? No, ‘how are you? How’ve you been, Ma?’” she growled, her tone scratchy and rough as she plopped down on her leather armchair, already reaching for her pack of cigarettes.
He was so accustomed to the smell of tobacco that he barely registered it anymore.
“How are you? How’ve you been, Ma?” He mimicked dully.
She pinched her lighter with skilled ease and lit the tip of her cigarette. “I’m fuckin’ dyin’. Throat’s closin’ up. Can barely catch my breath these days.”
“Probably because you smoked a pack a day since I was a kid.”
“Yeah, whatever. I ain’t stoppin’ now. Might as well bury me with them.”
“Your grave, your choice.”
“Knock that shit off.”
“What? You started it.”
“Jesus, you haven’t changed. Poppin’ that mouth off thinkin’ ya won’t get popped for it. You’re too cocky now that you’ve become a doctor. Stupid, is what you are.”
Irritation crackled down his spine. “Thanks, I’ll take that under advisement.”
She snorted, then coughed before asking, “Where’s your better half?”
He frowned at her.
“Your partner.” The glowing red eye of her cigarette flamed to life, and she puffed on the tobacco.
“I don’t have a partner.”
She scoffed and coughed. It was dry, yet somehow also wet.
“Frankie…!” She finally spat out, taking a sip of her bottled water.
“I dunno.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? You two are attached at the fucking hip. You go where he goes. He goes where you go. He’s yours.”
Sam blinked. “He’s not mine. We’re not—”
Friends.
“Bullshit,” she muttered. “He’s family.”
“He’s not.”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “He’s too good for us.”
He jerked his gaze back to hers, surprised.
“He’s a good fuckin’ boy and an even better man.
He comes by once a week. Stocks my fridge, gets me fresh ciggies.
Patched a hole in the roof during the winter.
I…” Her voice tightened, and she rubbed her chest. Her hands were aged with spots that he remembered once tracing with his fingers as a kid.
He was the one who always reached for her.
Always wanted the mom that would reach back, kiss him, hug him, hold him.
Eventually, he stopped trying because she never did.
He briefly thought of Papi, who wasn’t overly affectionate, but just the right amount.
Whereas Frankie seemed to touch him every chance he could, making it so casual, so affectionate, that Sam became addicted to it.
Needing his best friend to throw an arm around him, playfully shove him after a teasing joke, even smack his ass at the gym after a good throw down.
He had been touch starved until Frankie came along and healed that wound.
Now I’m just cum starved and would gladly donate a kidney for Frankie to do that to me again.
“I wish I could do somethin’ to show him how much I appreciate it,” his mom said.
“Appreciate it?” Sam echoed her words, pulling his thoughts back to the conversation. Frankie hadn’t told him any of this.
She tilted her head to the side. “What’s the matter with you? I thought you were fuckin’ smart. But you’re lookin’ at me like I’ve grown another fuckin’ arm.”
He sat back on his heels. “Frankie didn’t tell me he was doin’ so much for you.”
“He is. And why would he after you leavin’ like that? Abandoning him. You deserve a fuckin’ ass-kicking in my opinion. Not his friendship. He’s the son I should’ve had.”
Sam stilled, ice filling his veins, knuckles tightening. “Maybe he’ll take my position then. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
She glared at him, white smoke billowing from her cracked lips. “You still got it—don’t cha?”
“Got what?”
“My anger.”
“Fuck—” he stopped short and released a hard breath, refusing to be baited that easily.
He had been in therapy for three months.
It was a delicate, slow process. He talked a lot about his mother and the hell she put him through as a kid.
He understood why he had a chip on his shoulder—why he had thought for the longest time that the world had it out for him, and he could never get a leg up.
Now, he recognized that was her belief. Her victim mindset.
Not his. And he wanted nothing to do with it.
Nothing to do with her. And yet, just like Frankie, he couldn’t stop himself from showing up and seeing her.
“You mentioned that you still had a few boxes of Papi’s,” he said, changing the subject.
“Yeah, I gave them to Frankie.”
He sighed. “Why?”
“Because he asked.”
Frankie loved Papi like his own grandfather and practically lived at his house when Sam had finally moved out of his mother’s house and into Papi’s.
He had welcomed Sam in without a word of protest or complaint, walking his only bag into the spare bedroom.
He lived with him through school, and it wasn’t until he got the job in LA that he finally knew it was time to move out.
And then… Papi did, too. He passed away in his sleep, never experiencing any pain.
The best way to go, in his opinion. He swallowed, refusing to dwell in his grief—at least not here.
Sam headed to the door, ready to leave this smoke-infested, toxic place.
“That’s it?” She asked irritably. “That’s all the visit I fuckin’ get?”
He slipped on his sunglasses and opened the front door. “Yeah. I wasn’t here for you.”
She growled, “And why would you be? I only birthed you.”
“That’s all you ever did, Millie.”
He heard her cursing his name as he slammed the door shut behind him.