Frankie X Mac Novels & Stories

— questions a boy walking with a gathering of his peers, all wearing lacrosse crew sweaters and carrying their nets. "The mentor gave it to me little by little," the boy replies, glancing at him with a preemptive demeanor. Melido goes to us in an instant, his charged eyes lying entirely on Mac. "Are we getting ready?" "Why doesn't anyone let me know ?" he asks annoyed, raising his arms in the air with decorations, typical of him. "For what reason would the horsemen grab Franco's people?" Mac gives up, returning to the chain of discussion that is usually significant until further notice.

Frank tried to cheer up Alex today and he asked Mac to get him home by evening. ****** Mac and Alex entered the home and everyone was drinking coffee. "I thought he won't come" Frank gasped as he didn't prepare anything for his son. Alex wanted to smash Mac's head for real. "Then why the hell you were doing all these?" Alex asked, frustrated as he threw all the notes which he had gotten. Frank collected those notes and looked at both. "I didn't do this. I don't know who did this?" Frank asked, gaping at his son's accusations. Mac and Alex were shocked to hear this. Who could have pulled this prank then?

I asked. Frankie shrugged. “I mean, we didn’t have a good childhood with my mother and her boyfriends, but I don’t remember anything specific.” I bit my lower lip, trying to figure out what happened to him since mums the word apparently. Did this have anything to do with why he hated me? I couldn’t imagine why. I didn’t meet Maverick until he moved our ninth grade year. “Hey, Frankie,” I said, resting my elbows on the table. “Where did Maverick go to school before Zachary?”

Frankie murmurs next to me, shaking his head and watching the pair of them go, “all the shooting, all the rescuing, all the bandaging, all the driving – and she thanks you.” “Well, in her defense,” I murmur, watching him watch her walk away, “you did tie her bandage on with an iPhone chord.” Frankie’s face bursts into a grin as he turns to me. “That was creative, Bambs,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulder and leading us back to the car. “I did what I could with the materials at hand! I should get a boyscout badge for that.” “Yes, top marks in mafia field medicine,” I mutter beneath my breath, sarcastic as he laughs and gives me a little shove between the shoulder blades towards the