Page 3 of Give Me What You Will

“Can you get this cleaned up? And tell whoever did this that I wanna see them later,” Sam said in a clipped tone as he wheeled Frankie into the open room.

“When’d you grow a stash, man?” Frankie asked, reaching for him again to touch his mustache. “Jesus, when did you get old? You have more gray in that thing than Nona did.”

Sam couldn’t help but smirk. Frankie always liked to wind him up and spin him out. Nona was Frankie’s gray pittie that liked getting into as much trouble as Frankie did.

He pushed the gurney into the room, giving the nurse and student doctors instructions on the tests he wanted to run and then paused, glancing back at Frankie, suddenly distracted. “What do you mean Nona did?”

“Is the room supposed to be spinnin’?” Frankie asked, ignoring his question.

“Yeah,” Sam replied coolly, snapping on his gloves. “This is our carnival room. We also have a room where the walls talk. But it’s padded.”

Frankie snorted a laugh and cringed, “Fuck, Sammy, I missed you.”

Sam hesitated, stomach swooping as he maneuvered to the side of the bed. “Sit up.”

“Oh, doctor-serious now.”

Sam brushed his fingers through Frankie’s hair, finding the wound and checking it. “One of us has to be,” he murmured. “Doesn’t look too deep. Superficial at best. We should check for a concussion, though.”

Frankie sighed, “My favorite word.”

Concussion.

“You’re probably fine, Frank. Nothin’ to worry about.”

Frankie’s silence, however brief, told Sam everything he needed to know. He sighed, placing gauze over the wound. “How’s the pain?”

“I’m fine. Nothin’ I can’t handle.”

“I can get you some Tylenol.”

“Nah.”

“What about your…?” He glanced down at Frankie’s knee and asked without words. Frankie’s lips flattened, nostrils flaring, and he gave a firm shake of his head, indicating that his knee was fine.

His bum left knee had never fully recovered from being broken during one of his MMA fights, and on some days, he walked with a limp. Whenever Sam asked about it before, he dismissed him, telling him he was “fine”. Nothing’s changed. Sam bit back a curse, refusing to challenge him about it.

Sam pressed his hand to the back of Frankie’s head and cradled it, trying hard not to notice how Frankie relaxed into his touch. He hated how much he liked it—how sensitive he was to every little thing this man did, and how his heart raced despite knowing better.

Frankie leaned back to look at him, his dark brown eyes suspending him. “You look good, Sammy.”

“Thanks. You too.”

“I know,” Frankie said with a charming smirk.

“I never thought you’d leave Boston.”

“Me either,” Frankie retorted. “Funny thing is, I had to. ‘Cause apparently my best friend decided to go AWOL on me and stop replyin’ to my text messages. Hell, wouldn’t even bother to pick up his damned phone.”

“Yeah, sorry, man. Life’s been busy here.”

“Busy,” Frankie said flatly. “Busy? That’s all I get?”

Sam cleared his throat and stepped back, gauging the blood and seeing that it had already decreased enough to stop applying pressure.

“What do you want me to say…?” Sam heard himself say out loud and immediately sighed in frustration.

Frankie’s eyes flicked to his lips and back up. “I dunno. Maybe I’ve taken one too many blows to the fuckin’ head, but how ‘bout you start with, ‘I miss you too, you handsome son-of-a-bitch’.”