Page 7 of Give Me What You Will

Frankie nodded, intrigued by Sammy’s new life. Before, he would’ve known every little detail of what, where, and who Sammy was with. Now, after eight months of silence, he had no fuckin’ clue what he’d been doing, and that bothered him.

Was he seeing someone?

Did he have a new best friend?

He frowned at his own stupid thoughts, sounding more like an ex-girlfriend, not a friend. He scrubbed the thin paper napkin over his lips, clearing his throat. “So, you like it here?”

“Hot Dog Palace, or LA?” Sammy asked, taking a casual sip of his beer. He leaned back to take down the last dregs of it, exposing his throat, which bobbed up and down as he drank. Frankie was momentarily mesmerized. Sammy’s stubbled whiskers traveled down his neck too, giving him an even more unkempt look about him, and that fuckin’ mustache was dark with hints of gray. Frankie knew the second he saw it that he hated it.

“You know what I mean,” Frankie shot back lightly. “Tell me the truth. This place better than home?”

Sammy hesitated, “Different. Not better or worse.”

Frankie nodded, gaze searching his face, straying over the mustache. “Mid-life crisis come early?”

Sammy licked the foam off the hairy, gray upper lip, smirking. “Oh, absolutely, it goes great with my secondary trauma and cancerous stress tumors.”

He snorted, waving his fingers over his upper lip, mocking the mustache. “This… Not better, but could be worse,” he mimicked Sammy’s words, pinching his right eye closed as though trying not to see it.

Laughter spilled easily out of Sammy’s chest as he settled deeper into the booth, tossing an arm over the top. “Well, if Frankie Casavani disapproves, it must be bad.”

Frankie mimicked his pose on the booth, sucking in his lower lip, biting back a smile. “I am more stylish than you.”

“Fuck off.”

“It’s true, ask Tina or Joey…”

“Your cousins don’t count.”

“Don’t knock Tina, she got in with Gucci. Just a temp, but that girl’s fuckin’ smart and goin’ places.”

Sammy took another long drink, fingers idly stroking the pint glass. “What about you, Frankie? You going places yet?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he retorted. “I hopped on a plane to come see your ass.”

Sammy hummed, his dark green eyes scrutinizing him, waiting.

Frankie knew what he was waiting for, and it bothered the fuck out of him that he didn’t have a better answer.

How many years had he spouted off grand plans of opening an MMA gym, selling his dad’s bar, and doing something bigger with his miserable little life? But he was stuck, and he had been for a while now. The only excitement he got was the occasional training session he’d jump in on at his buddy's gym, and now he was dabbling in coaching. His days of fighting were long over, and he had never felt more fuckin’ old.

“Same ole, same ole,” Frankie finally said casually, gulping down a long drag of his beer. “You know how it is.”

Sammy nodded, “Yeah, I do.”

Frankie waited for the judgment, and yet he should’ve known better.

Sammy never judged him for his situation. In fact, he seemed increasingly compassionate these days. And he wasn’t sure he liked that much, either. It rubbed too close together with pity, in his opinion.

“How’s your mom?” Sammy asked.

“Won a thousand bucks at bingo last Friday, couldn’t stop tellin’ everyone,” he rolled his eyes. “That shit is an addiction, I don’t care what anyone says. She wins big and then loses for months. Drives me crazy.”

"At least she’s not actually crazy,” Sammy drawled darkly, with a slight smirk.

Sammy’s mom was bat-shit bonkers. She reminded Frankie of a firework in the middle of a damned library, shooting off for no fucking reason other than to cause absolute chaos and pandemonium.

“I checked in on your mom last month,” Frankie admitted.