8. Chapter 8
The radio hummed in the background, but he didn’t hear it, nor did he feel the heat licking up his back, making him sweat in his garage.
He couldn’t smell the motor oil, grease, or waxing polish he had just finished coating his baby with.
In fact, he couldn’t even appreciate how good his vintage muscle car looked right now because his mind was stuck on one fuckin’ thing.
Sammy was coming over.
Frankie did his best to rationalize what had happened last night. He told himself that he was drunk, which he wasn’t. He told himself he was confused, but he wasn’t. He told himself that he didn’t want Sammy like that, and that thought rolled around in his mind all damn day.
Up until last night, he thought with complete certainty that he was straight.
Jesus Christ.
He raked his fingers through his hair, pulling at the roots. He needed to know how Sammy felt about last night. He had already confessed to wanting Frankie for years.
Years.
Fuck, I’m such an asshole.
Of course, Sammy wasn’t going to say no to him if he wanted to...
What, Frankie? Fuck him?
He nearly stumbled at the thought.
No, no, no.
He didn’t want to make things worse between them.
It was already hard enough to get Sammy to stay in the same room with him, let alone talk to him.
He couldn’t risk his dick getting involved, too.
And if he had to choose what he wanted from Sammy, it was his friendship first, above all else.
If he agreed to stay friends, Frankie would somehow try to rewire his brain so he wouldn’t be infected with images of his best friend covered in their cum, looking like a porn star with those pouty lips, heated eyes and thick, beautiful cock.
He sighed, shifting on his feet and easing the tingle in his balls, needing to focus. He reached inside to wipe down the cream leather material once more, wondering if he would have the time today to take her for a ride.
“Hey.”
He glanced up and was greeted by a pair of aviator sunglasses and a soft smile above a dimpled chin. His heart fluttered at the mere sight of Sam, and he braced himself against the open driver-side door, gazing over the hood at him. He needed to act normal and stay fuckin’ cool.
“Hey,” he said, ignoring how rough his tone was.
Sammy looked fuckin’ good. He wore a plain white T-shirt, dark blue jeans, and boots, with a gold necklace glinting at the base of his throat, hidden beneath the shirt. His biceps strained against the material. His tanned skin glowed with that California sunshine, and his body was tense.
Because of last night.
Because of him.
He noticed the cut and slight swelling above his eyebrow as he slid off his sunglasses and placed them on the collar of his T-shirt.
Frankie instantly moved, unable to take his eyes off the damage he had done, regret clawing at his insides.
He was on Sammy before he could react, cradling the side of his cheek and forcing him to tilt his head down so Frankie could take a closer look.
Sammy was only a couple of inches taller than him, but from the angle and location of the cut, he needed to see it up close.
“Jesus,” he muttered, cursing under his breath. “I’m so sorry, Sammy. I did a fuckin’ number on ya.”
“Yeah,” Sammy replied. “We both did.”
Something dark and heavy passed between them, but he refused to back down. Refused to let the tension—the desire—whatever the fuck was happening between them stop him from making sure he was all right.
He brushed concerned fingers over the cut, assessing the bruising and swelling. “Should be gone in a week. I’ve seen worse cuts in the ring and so have you.”
Sammy released a tight breath, capturing the hand clutched over his face. “I’ll be fine, Frankie.”
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to let go and take a step back. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You went into survival mode. Yours just happens to be fight. No surprise there.”
“Well, you’re not exactly a big bear I gotta be runnin’ from, now are ya?”
“Not yet.”
He recognized the twinkle of amusement in those brilliant green eyes.
He slapped a playful hand on Sammy’s shoulder and squeezed the muscle under his shirt, not having to pretend to be impressed as he whistled. “Maybe by the end of the year. Be thicker than me in no time if you keep hittin’ those weights.”
Sammy's eyes slid down his body in the same appreciative way he did last night. “I doubt that very much.”
Something sizzled and crackled inside him like a livewire to the fuckin’ guts.
“And the only big bear here,” Sammy’s heated gaze lingered over his crotch, yet his tone was teasing. “Is between your fuckin’ legs.”
Frankie suddenly laughed, flushing with embarrassment, his body relaxing as Sammy smiled, then glanced over at the vintage muscle car behind him. “She’s incredible, Frankie.”
Beaming, he flourished a hand over the 1965 Ford Sterling Gray Metallic Mustang. “You like my baby?”
“Baby?” Sammy asked, lips still dancing upward.
Frankie scrubbed a hand over his blushing cheeks. Calling him "baby" last night had been so natural, so easy. He hadn’t even realized he’d said it until Sammy froze.
Baby was reserved for the women he fucked and the cars he loved.
And now, apparently, Sammy.
He swallowed, trying to play it off. “I call all my cars baby, you know that.”
He nodded, “She’s a beauty.”
“Isn’t she? I feel like a proud daddy whenever I look at her. Resurrected her from Tommy’s graveyard.”
“No shit?”
“Yup, paid cash and worked to the bone to get her shinin’.”
“You should be proud. Good word, Frankie.”
“Thank you, Dr. Samuels.” He grinned roguishly. “I was thinkin’ about takin’ her for her first official Casavani christening, wanna come?”
Sammy hesitated.
“Aw, c’mon, Sammy. You’ve got nowhere else to be, you’re on vacation. Well, from the hospital at least. Let me take you for a spin, for old times' sake, huh?”
He hadn’t realized how excited he was for him to say yes.
“Shit, why not?” Sammy said, slipping his sunglasses back on.
Frankie sucked in a nervous breath, masking it with an enthusiastic fist pump before climbing into the vintage car. He revved the engine to life. “I love that fuckin’ sound. I’m gonna miss her.”
Sammy gazed at him from behind his tinted lens. “You already got a buyer?”
He hesitated and nodded quickly. “Yeah. He’s from Queens. Sold the last car to him.”
“Lucky you.”
He gritted his teeth, fingers gripping the steering wheel.
He drove them to the usual spots around town.
The windows were rolled down, the summer breeze filtering in through the restored Mustang, and his music played softly in the background.
This was all just a warm-up. Because his favorite part, whenever he finished a car, was finally getting to cut loose, ride hard, and let everything out.
And fuck, did this baby know how to squeal.
Sammy laughed, hanging on for dear life and feeling the air whip around them as Frankie did a donut in a vacant, abandoned parking lot.
“Fuck!” Sammy yelled, grinning, braced against the passenger seat.
He braked and spun the wheel, hand instinctively placed on Sammy’s chest, pushing him back as he forced the car into a hard spin.
He felt the thump of his heart and knew it matched his own.
Once the spin stopped, he withdrew quickly but not before smacking his shoulder excitedly, grinning like a goddamned fool.
“Yeah?” he asked, breathless and searching Sammy’s face.
“Yeah,” he laughed. “Shit, man. I forgot how fun it was to do this.”
“Makes you miss it, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Good.
“You remember when we found this place?” Frankie asked, motioning to the empty lot.
“Your mom was so pissed at us.”
“That she was,” he smirked. “Got my ass chewed out for a month for stealing her Caddy.”
“I’m pretty sure she loved that car more than you.”
“Shut up,” he flicked Sammy’s ear playfully, and then nodded. “Well, yeah, she did.”
“You remember the first time we did this?”
The streaming rays of sunbeams filtered over the console and Sammy.
Frankie blinked, caught in the picturesque image of his best friend, surrounded by restored cream leather seats and dark metal-and-wood interior.
His graying, curled brown hair was wind-tousled, and his cheeks were freshly shaved.
The lines around his mouth looked deeper with age, and the bags under his eyes were there but less pronounced.
He liked that taking Sammy for a ride seemed to make him happy.
Being here, with him, made him happy, too.
A sudden pang of grief hit him like a blow to the stomach.
I miss you. I miss this. I miss us.
“Of course,” Frankie said, clearing his throat. “You were scared shitless.”
“Fuck you, I was not.”
“You were, you fuckin’ were. You were beggin’ me to slow down. You even threatened to vomit if I didn’t pull over. Which I then threatened to beat your ass if you did.”
Sammy scrubbed a hand over his face, “I would definitely diagnose that as my first ever panic attack.”
“Panic attack?”
“You know—when your heart rate races, and it feels like you’re gonna die, but you don’t?”
“I fuckin’ know what a panic attack is, Sammy. You were just nervous that night—that wasn’t a panic attack.”
Sammy nodded, averting his gaze.
His stomach dropped. “Was it? Did you have a fuckin’ panic attack and not tell me?”
“I thought me begging to get out was me tellin’ you?” Sammy played off coolly, and Frankie stiffened.
Had Sammy said something, and he hadn’t believed him—or worse—ignored it? He stared hard at the man across the cab. What else had he not told him?
He had known from day one that Sammy was gay, but was he really that oblivious about how Sammy felt about him?
That blind? Or maybe Sammy was just good at hiding behind all that armor.
Maybe it was his fault. He didn’t want to see his friend looking at him a little too long.
The way his cheeks would flush whenever Frankie touched him. Maybe he didn’t want to see…
“Fuck, I’m sorry, Sammy,” he admitted gruffly. “I should’ve listened to you.”