Page 23 of Give Me What You Will

I cannot deal with this.

“Let’s talk later, okay?” He said with a pinched smile as he plucked her fingers from his shirt and strode inside.

Frankie wasn’t officially working tonight, even though he'd already made a show of it multiple times to ‘take care’ of things. He strode by the extra staff he had hired for the evening, grabbed a bottle of Jameson off the shelf, and poured himself a double.

“Make that two,” Sammy said, and he glanced up to see Mikey and Sammy taking seats at the bar.

Fists clenching and unclenching, Frankie snaked two shot glasses from the shelf and lined them up in front of them.

“Good to see ya, Frankie,” Mikey said a little too enthusiastically, unable to look away from Sammy for more than a second and blushing like a schoolgirl.

He hitched his head to the side, nodded, and slammed his shot before pouring theirs. Everyone knew that Frankie and Sammy were best friends—everyone. Especially Mikey, who, over the years, had attempted to insert himself between them to hit on Sammy. It never bothered him much before. But for some reason, it bothered him tonight. Maybe because Sammy was intentionally eye-fucking him all night, along with the jaw-dropping flirts that left him immobilized.

Did all gay men flirt like that? Or was it just Sammy?

Just Sammy, he thought, filling the shooters with amber whiskey.

Sammy had a bit of his mother’s craziness in him, whether he wanted to admit it or not. He said off-the-cuff shit all the damned time, and it was why he had liked him in the first place. So, to hear that Sammy had actually been biting his tongue for years of their friendship was startling.

Maybe Sammy was right—maybe Frankie didn’t know him at all.

And that really pissed him off.

They had shared everything—did almost everything together. He was family. Family didn’t fuckin’ lie. And he wasn’t sure what bothered him more: Sammy not telling him his feelings for all these years, or having the feelings in the first place.

A song crooned to life that he recognized instantly, and he snapped his eyes to Sammy’s, who stiffened on the barstool and glanced at Mikey, instead. For the first time all evening, Sammy refused to look at him.

Shadow of the Sun by Audioslave. They heard it live only once, and they both became die-hard fans of the rock band. It was their band. Their song.

“Not a fan of Audioslave anymore, hotshot?” Frankie asked bitingly, interrupting their conversation and not giving a fuck.

Sammy turned, his dark green eyes holding his. “I didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, you didn’t have to,” he retorted.

Sammy’s eyes narrowed into hard slits.

“Is that an LA thing? Or a you thing now? ‘Cause the second you moved to LA—whoa—look out!” Frankie swept his hand over him in a grand gesture, taking a slight bow, mocking him. “New man walkin’! New looks. New clothes. New fuckin’ attitude. Lots of new, Sammy. Oh, wait, shit, sorry, Sam.” He drawled out his name like a taunt.

Sammy's steely expression told him everything. He’d just struck a nerve.

Good.

Frankie suddenly wished he was anywhere else but at this bar, listenin’ to one of his favorite songs with his former best friend glaring daggers at him.

“Frankie,” Mikey said. “Maybe you should take it easy, huh?” he motioned to the Jameson bottle in his hand.

He snorted a derisive laugh and slammed the bottle between them. “I ain’t drunk, Blue-Balls. Just mad. You can’t tell the difference?”

“Don’t call him that,” Sammy said coldly.

Feeling like an asshole, Frankie leaned over the bar and whispered the same words Sammy had flirted with him a few hours ago. “Make me.”

Sammy hitched his head to the side, “What are you so mad about, Frankie?”

You.

You dickhead.