Page 116 of Give Me What You Will

Stunned, Sam’s jaw fell open. “What?”

“He was iffy on the timeline. That’s why he didn’t say when he was gonna hand over the keys. But I think that job in LA came through—that’s why he sent the text with the official date a couple days ago.”

“Job?!”

“What, he didn’t tell ya? Yeah, he got that training gig with Caz on his LA team.”

His stomach swooped so far and so fast that he didn’t even notice the headlights of Joel’s car as it entered the parking lot.

“Now, after seeing you two all happy and shit, he’s got another reason to sell the bar,” Joel said with another hiccup. “He has you waitin’ for him in LA.”

“Joel…”

“Don’t tell him I said anything. He’ll fuckin’ murder me in my sleep. Okay—that’s my ride.” Joel bear-hugged him roughly and swatted him on the back. “I love you, man. Take care of each other. Frankie’s got a big fuckin’ heart. But so do you.”

He watched in speechless paralysis as Joel climbed into the backseat of the car and left.

Sam blindly walked back into the bar, pulled the Jameson off the shelf and poured a shot, his hands trembling. Frankie was moving to LA—for him. He sold the bar to Joel. He couldn’t believe it, and yet after the last few days…

Unexpected tears welled in his eyes, and he shot down the liquid amber, letting it burn the back of his throat as he scrubbed a hand over his lips, incredulous and blissfully fucking happy. He smiled into his hands, grinning like a fucking idiot.

Everything that happened between them was real, building into something solid and tangible. Something he could hold on to and see into the future with—something happy and warm and loving. And Frankie had been taking steps to ensure it this whole time.

His. Theirs. Together.

Forever.

The front door to the bar opened and the bell chimed, drawing his attention. Two large men walked through, looking like they owned the place.

“Hey guys, sorry, but we’re closed for the evening,” Sam informed them from behind the bar.

One of the men, with muddy brown eyes and a pinched smirk, gave Sam a thorough once-over. His balding combover looked pathetic despite his attempts to slick it over his large forehead, which shone with sweat.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man asked.

Sam hitched his head to the side, folding his arms across his chest. “As I said, gentlemen, the bar is closed.”

“Where’s Frankie?” the shorter of the two demanded, his voice oddly high and nose a little too big for his face, with pale blotchy skin.

Both men were dressed in black silk shirts and matching black pants with shiny leather boots. He noticed the faint lines of tattoos on their hands and necks and narrowed his eyes, wondering where he’d seen them before.

“He’s not here,” Sam said, his impatience rising. “Now, if you don’t mind?” He motioned to the door.

“Yeah, we fuckin’ mind,” the taller man said, looking fierce. “Frankie works every Friday night.”

“Well, tonight I’m workin’.”

“Yeah, we can see that, smartass. And who are you again?”

“Sam.”

“Sam?” the shorter one frowned, somehow making his nose longer in his contemptuous expression. “Sam—Papi’s grandkid?”

He stiffened. “Yeah.”

He giggled out a snort, and the taller one grinned maliciously. “Fuckin’ Papi.”

Cold daggers slid up his spine, and he narrowed his eyes at the pair. “You two knew him?”