Franky Doyle Novels & Stories

Kerry asked Frankie the same and his reply was "Hell yes." "Ok, we will let you but first you have to follow our instructions." They looked a little puzzled but both agreed without too much thought. With both Kerry and me lying open and exposed we began masturbating, and moaning. "Frankie, look at Carl's thick cock, isn't it beautiful?" I asked seeing if I could get a rise out of him.

Franky’s there, sipping on a whiskey, telling one of his famous bad jokes to Earl, one of the bartenders. “Franky,” I interrupt. “I need you to do something for me.” “Aye, Sterling,” he laughs. “Need a hot tip on the NFL? Well, I’ve got one for you just as long as you cut me in—” “This is serious, Franky,” I say, leveling my eyes at him. Franky may be a jokester with more than a couple drinks in him, but we’ve been through more than a few things together, and I know I can rely on him. “I need one of your specials. And I need it now.”

Frankie yelled from the car. I turned back toward him. “Why .: I have no idea whatever you mean Franklin…” I said in my best Scarlett O’Hara voice. “What the fuck…. Did y’all get high on the way here??” Oliver asked. I gasped. “Noo but we should have!” I exclaimed. “Don’t worry I brought some for after turkey..” Frankie mumbled to me out the side of his mouth as he walked by. I didn’t mention I had planned ahead and brought one of my own….

He gives me a smile and grabs my hand. (What’s your name mate?) he asks curiously. (I’m Mila Gibson and you?) I ask. (That’s a beautiful name. I’m Adam Thompson.) He replies. (What pack are you from Adam?) I ask innocently. (I’m the future beta of the Crescent Moon Pack.) He says proudly. I pull my hand away from him slowly, and he looks at me confused. (Is something wrong?) He asks confused. (I’m sorry, but I have plans and this is not part of them.) I whisper.

I could see the whole of New York from where I was standing and all its impressive night lights. “What are you talking about?” I asked as I slowly turned around. I was calm while he was angry. That had always been our dynamic. He wore his emotions on his face and mannerisms proudly, I didn’t. I preferred not to let people know what I was thinking or feeling. It made me a little unpredictable and it got people frustrated enough to reveal what they were feeling. “You what I’m talking about, fucker. You hired Hazel fucking Thompson.” He stated. “I did and this is my hotel so I don’t understand how that concerns you.”

Beside him stood Standfast, a bit shorter but no less imposing, with a sneer playing on his lips. Standfast, around nineteen, had a more rugged demeanor compared to Phillip. His face, while not conventionally handsome, bore the marks of someone who had seen their fair share of trouble. He had a solid build, indicating a readiness for action rather than words. His eyes held a steely intensity, hinting at a volatile temperament kept in check only by Phillip's presence.

Franklin Sterling POV "My fangs are going to rip your throat out if your mouth spreads one more fake rumor about my friend, Matron!" Fanny barks, stepping his heavy boots directly between my body and Yvette Actonward’s snarling face. Yvette glares at me like I am a piece of moldy forest trash, her scent turning completely sour with disbelief. "This rustic wildland boy cannot possibly hold a true bond with the master designers of the high citadel! Master Fanny, your tracker nose must be completely broken today! Your eyes are mistaking this country stray for another warrior named klinton, and Franklin is just playing along with your stupid blunder to steal your respect!"

I flutter my lashes at the fat human man, who has now opened the door wide and is drooling. His voice is rough as he calls out to someone named Fred inside, “Fred, this poor young girl is lost, we may need to give her some direction,” he licks his lips as he stares at my chest, yea, white t-shirt and no bra, so he is getting a nice peek.

“The man who, as you claim, killed himself in your presence—” “You said it as if it were something that happened only allegedly, so let me get one thing straight,” I interjected, frowning. “Since the cut was too deep and he was beyond saving, you won't be able to find my single fingerprint on his body. And before you suggest anything that might piss me off even further... no, I didn't enjoy watching him bleed out in fucking seconds.” West ground his teeth, his lips twitching into a brief smirk. “As I was saying, his name was Timothy Doyle. He was thirty-eight years old. Ex-convict. Divorced, three kids.”

Frankie called back. Finn smiled as he followed the music. Frankie loved the old crooners - Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Jr. Frankie was only in his late forties, but he was an old soul born in the wrong era. He thought of himself as something of a playboy and styled himself after the greats. Finn couldn’t argue with the results. Women flocked to him - and they got younger and younger each year. The man was a Peter Pan, forever young with no intention of ever ‘growing up’ and ‘settling down,’ and he bore a striking resemblance to Michael Douglas in his heyday.