9. Chapter 9
Frankie was ignoring him again.
Deja-fuckin’-vu.
Sam finished his beer and nearly slammed it on the bar top, a headache locked into his temple and brewing like a thunderstorm.
It didn’t help that the noise at the arena was loud, but his thoughts were louder.
Sam had been to this arena a few times to watch Frankie fight over the years.
Now he was here to watch someone else fight, and to watch Frankie ignore him.
Frankie seemed intent on talking to every single person in the room, joyously cheering and booing with each pre-fight.
And the asshole just had to look good doing it.
Dressed in a tight black T-shirt that curved to every line and muscle of his chest, with a thick gold chain around his neck.
The tattoos on his left arm were darkly lined and richly detailed in the arena's flickering lights.
His black hair was tossed back. His black slacks were pressed, with his freshly polished Italian leather shoes. His whole outfit screamed sex.
Hot, dirty, throat-pounding sex.
Frankie had always been a stylish man, and tonight, given the opportunity to dress up, he did. And Sam… ached.
He ached like a needy fucking schoolboy, desperate for his crush's attention, knowing deep down he wasn’t going to get it.
Not in the way he wanted. It didn’t matter what happened the last few days—the kisses, the heated looks, the dirty talk, the blow jobs—none of it mattered.
Frankie was determined to run the course of ‘friendship’ and ‘straight’, even though they both knew what they had done.
And Frankie had lost control with him today. Fucking his throat so deeply that Sam’s throat was a little sore, and he noticed it whenever he spoke or swallowed, feeling Frankie's cock and the fierce grip at the back of his head. He hated how much he liked feeling this used.
It was the sexiest cock suck of his life, and he had been the one getting to do it—the one hearing Frankie’s panting moans and breathy whispers of encouragement as he swallowed his fat, thick cock.
He nearly came in his pants when he finally touched his own dick, but what Frankie had done had him breaking endlessly—forever in his mouth, even though he barely sucked, teasing him. And Sam loved every second of it.
Fuck.
I’m so pathetic.
I just need to go home and stop torturing myself.
Sam feared that Frankie would never admit to being bisexual.
His dad shamed homosexuals and the queer community around him his entire life.
He was literally hardwired to think these things.
Except Frankie had accepted Sam from day one and had loved him as his best friend.
But he couldn’t be one—gay or bi. It was one thing to accept a friend, and something else entirely to accept oneself.
He pushed his fingers into his eyes.
Right, so how come Frankie kissed him like that? And the way he looked at him right before that fucking kiss. So unsure, almost scared, so unlike the cocky, arrogant man he knew.
Sam swallowed, emotions rising in his chest that he had no right to be feeling. He liked that side of Frankie too much. The raw vulnerability of him—the softness of him.
Stop.
Frankie was exploring. That’s it. Just having a little fun at the expense of Sam’s sanity. And he couldn’t stop Frankie if he fucking tried, because the truth was, he’d let him do whatever the hell he wanted to him and thank him for it afterward.
He scrubbed a hand over his temple, debating if he should just leave. Go back home and try to forget this weekend like he tried to forget the kiss at Papi’s funeral. Maybe it was safer this way.
Sighing, he glanced down at the busy bar where he sat and noted the bartender was preoccupied. He needed another drink, and then maybe he’d have the courage to leave.
“Hey,” a deep voice said over his shoulder.
He turned, not recognizing the face of the man in a slick designer suit with compelling bright brown eyes.
He looked around Ryan’s age, with a bruise under his eye, tousled dark blond hair, and no shirt under his black blazer, showing off his defined, muscular chest and smooth, bronze skin.
“Hey,” he replied, eyeing the younger man curiously.
“You’re Sammy, right?”
“I am.”
“Sorry, I’m Caz, uh—Ryan told me about you.” Caz extended his hand to him, looking somewhat nervous despite his rockstar-like attire. “Ryan told me a lot about you, actually.”
Sam paused, realizing in a sudden rush of clarity that Caz was like him. He saw it in the telling way his eyes dipped over his body, almost appreciative and excited.
Slightly impressed by Ryan’s attempt at a setup, he smiled and shook Caz’s well-calloused hand. “Nice to meet you. Caz?” he asked questioningly.
“Short for Cassidy.” He smirked in a boyishly handsome way. The lines around his eyes crinkled, reminding him of his best friend in LA, Dr. John Donnelly. “Ryan left out how handsome you are. Straight men tend to do that when describing other guys.”
He smiled, agreeing with that statement. “Thanks.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Sam resisted the urge to search for Frankie and instead nodded, “Sure.”
The moment Caz reached the bar, the bartender spotted him and immediately approached him. The privileges of being a known fighter, Sam assumed. The average Joe didn’t dress like that and sport a black eye without being a fighter. Hazards of the job.
“What can I get ya?” the bartender asked.
“I’ll have just a soda water,” the young fighter said, and glanced at Sam.
“Another beer.”
The bartender nodded and left.
“Not a big drinker?” he asked curiously.
Caz shook his head, “Nah. Not when I’m training. I’ll be in Vegas next month. No alcohol until then.”
“Vegas?” Sam whistled.
Caz slipped a hand through his thick blond hair and paid for their drinks in cash. “Yeah, for the last five years. Comin’ up fast. Thanks to good coaches. Ryan and I go way back, though. He told me to come out and train with him for a bit before his big fight.”
“That’s cool of you,” Sam replied, taking a sip of cold beer. “Who’s your coach?”
Sam spent so much time at the gym with Frankie over the years that he knew almost everyone in the boxing and mixed martial arts community, too. Though he was a bit rusty these days with the fresher faces.
“I gotta couple of really good trainers. But honestly, I’ve been learnin’ more from Ryan’s trainer recently. Frankie Casavani.”
Of course.
He bit back a sigh and swallowed a long gulp of his beer, feeling the burn at the back of his throat again. A reminder of Frankie’s huge fucking dick. He was like an infection Sam couldn’t shake. It just kept coming back, no matter what he did.
It also didn’t help that I sucked his cock.
I practically begged for it.
He resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands.
“What about you?” Caz asked. “What do you do?”
“Ryan didn’t tell you?”
Caz bit his lower lip in a rather distracting way. “All right, yeah, he did. But I was tryin’ to keep it light.”
“Light?”
Caz’s gaze was an odd combination of playfulness and something else, almost wild. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to just jump straight to the ‘what are you doin’ after the fight?’ question, or maybe even the ‘wanna come back to my place?’ question.”
“Bold,” he said, smirking, liking this kid.
“Well, I figured I had a 50/50 chance. He said you lived in LA, so you wouldn’t be stayin’ long. And, well, it’s not like there’s a ton of out gay men in my sport, so my options are limited. Very fuckin’ limited. And I have a thing for…” he cleared his throat. “Older guys.”
Sam almost laughed and instead snorted. “Fuck, I’m old, aren’t I?”
“Are you?” Caz asked, smirking as he eyed the gray hair. “Cause you're fuckin’ fit and hot.”
“Thanks, and I’m turning 40 this year.” Sam, deciding to be bold too, added. “You’re also fuckin’ fit and hot.”
Caz, looking enormously pleased, saddled up closer. His hips somehow slid in a hypnotic sway. “So…?”
He swallowed, feeling the heat from this young man like a fiery tornado.
He could relate and knew how intense the feeling, the need to release, could sometimes be.
And they checked the boxes for one another.
Granted, Sam didn’t exactly gravitate toward younger guys, but there was something appealing about Caz that he liked.
Maybe because he said what he wanted and he wanted him, which, considering he’d just spent the last several hours of this evening being coldly rejected by Frankie, it felt fucking nice.
“So…” Sam drawled.
“We can watch the fight together…” Caz flicked his eyes over his lips. “And you can let me sit next to you, look at you…”
Sam sucked in a breath.
Fuck, this kid was good.
“Does everyone here know you're out?” Sam asked quietly.
Caz nodded, smiling as he reached across the bar top and helped himself to a pick from the cocktail fruit tray. “Yeah.”
UFC was one of the most masculine sports in recent history, so to hear that this man was publicly out and unashamed about his sexuality further strengthened his favorable opinion of Caz. He watched him chew provocatively on the end of the thin brown stick, white teeth flashing almost wolfishly.
“So—if you're okay with it, maybe we should see if we have chemistry first before we take things further, yeah?” Sam said, a slight edge to his voice, challenging him and wondering if he would publicly do what he was asking.
What he wanted from Frankie. What he fucking needed from Frankie and would never get.
“You want me to kiss you?” the young man asked, eyebrows arching at the gauntlet thrown at his feet.
“I only fuck out and proud,” Sam said and stilled.
He’d never said that before in his life, and until this moment, he hadn’t realized how true he needed that to be.
Because whatever was happening with Frankie was dangerous.
The sad, harsh reality was that Sam was the only one who was going to get hurt.