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Franky spasmed as he came, dropping his forehead to mine as he filled my hole to the point of overflowing.
The cold claws of reality crept in, and he spread me out on the floor so he could heave to his feet and zip himself back into his pants. He hadn’t even cleaned me first, which I’d come to need after we fucked because it reminded me that he cared. The reverent ritual had also become a sort of apology in my eyes, one I didn’t know I needed until now.
“Franky,” I said, and had to say it again to gain sound. He looked away in shame.
I knew better than to get mixed up with Franklin Kincaid, but I hadn’t cared about the risks because every fiber of my being wanted him. I should’ve cared, because I could feel every snap, every break of something vital happening inside of me as he stumbled along the wall toward the stairs, moving farther and farther away from me. “I’ll never be the same, Franky,” I promised, giving in to the pain and devastation contorting my body. “Please don’t fucking break me.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. And then he was gone.
I waited for him for nineteen whole days, with nothing to nourish me but fleeting hope. I waited, and he never came.
He never chose me.
Chapter 21
Leland
Two Months Later
Neil Sanders was the last guy I wanted to see again, but since we had history, my chances of getting him to buy another piece from me would be greater than if I’d gone to a gallery where I’d be an unknown. I needed cash, and he could smell it on me, and the disdainful curl to his top lip said he wouldn’t make this easy.
“Five hundred,” he said.
“One thousand,” I countered, holding on to the edge of the large canvas with a death grip. It was my last connection to Franky. I could’ve brought any other painting here, but I’d chosen this one for that specific reason, and now I thought I might be sick if I let go of it.
“Six hundred,” he said with finality, taking pleasure in having the upper hand.
I only needed money for gas, food, and a few other essentials until I could get work. The bartending school had taken pity on me, crediting me for the course I hadn’t completed, and waving the registration fee for December’s class. So I didn’t need funds for that.
There’d been an influx of cash into my account a few weeks after Franky walked out on me, way more money than the mural was worth. Knowing Franky, the extra was to compensate for his guilt. I’d had every dime returned to fucking sender immediately. Money couldn’t fix what he’d broken.
“Sold,” I said dejectedly, my tone matching my overall appearance.
“Great. I’ll get the paperwork drawn up,” Neil said, scurrying off and leaving me to mourn in peace.
I’d created this painting the day Franky and I fought after he’d told me Cole and Jasper were coming into town for a few days. It had been a form of release then, but I’d quickly decided I wanted it to be a gift. I’d worked tirelessly to perfect it, barring Franky from the guest room where I kept it hidden from him. He’d never get to see it now. Never get to see himself through my eyes.
Neil cleared this throat, startling me. “Change of heart?” he asked, and I released my tight grip on it, stepping several feet away.
“No,” I said, the word cutting into the rough edges of my heart.
I signed the contract and collected my check, rushing out into the misty afternoon air before the ink had fully dried. I wasn’t any closer to knowing how to live without Franky than I had been the night he left me naked and hurting on the hall floor pleading for him to take mercy on me. Pleading for him to not break me.
I’d left voicemail messages that went unreturned, sent text messages that went unanswered, and during my lowest point, I waited for him one morning outside of Nexcom’s headquarters, but he hadn’t shown up.
I’d spent weeks occupying the home we shared for the summer, weeks of fucking weeping in front of the fireplace, praying he’d come back to me, praying that he was okay. I’d become a desperate man, and when I looked in the mirror, it was my mother who stared back at me tauntingly.
Sometimes I would sleep on the ocean, curled into a fetal position in the boat’s cabin, remembering the nights he’d make love to me with a vengeance in the tiny space. The nights he’d explode inside of me, then place his mouth over my hole before hollowing his cheeks and extracting what he’d just poured into me. Franky was selfish in that way too. Always demanding I return what he gave to me.
I used booze to mask and numb the pain I’d suffered from the loss of his warmth, the loss of his belief in me, and the loss of his uncompromising force when wanting and needing me. It literally hurt to breathe during that time, but as the days passed by in a blur, it hurt a little less to hate him. The hate became the thing that would sustain me.
He’d changed his number around week four, and so I began writing him letters. Some were angry, requiring a whole note pad to complete. Some letters were short and sweet, containing a simpleI love you, Franky.
Then there were the tear-soaked letters that included some of our best memories, like when I’d hold him against my chest as he slept, snoring softly into my neck, dampening the skin there.
Or that time I’d thrown my legs over the arms of the chair on the patio, stuffing my cum into my hole after jerking off less than two feet away from him. He’d refused to fuck me, saying my body needed a break after the night he’d had with it, so I’d taken my time, getting myself off as the most wicked things spilled from my mouth in an effort to tempt him into taking me.
“Enough,”he’d said defeatedly, but I continued sawing my fingers in and out of my hole as he watched helplessly. Franky was no match for my games, especially not when cum was involved.
