new year

The Fourth of July lands on a Friday this year. 

For most, that means a three-day weekend filled with fireworks, a case of cold beer, and backyard barbeques. 

But for the people in the service industry? 

“What do you mean my time-off request is rejected?” Frankie tails the mother manager of Tommy’s Diner, Carla, as she weaves through the kitchen. A symphony of water spraying dirty dishes and chatter of the fellow kitchen staff fills the room. 

Carla lets out a light, dry laugh, a playful grin dancing on her lips as she studies the work schedule with keen eyes before she hangs that clipboard right up on the wall. “Well, sugar, the Fourth is our third busiest day of the year, right after that first Saturday of summer and just behind when the county fair’s demolition derby wraps up. All those hungry folks need a place to settle in, and bless their hearts, Golden Corral shuts down by eight.” 

She operates like a well-oiled machine, using the plush of her ass or hips to bop open the swing door between the kitchen and the dining area, grabbing the decaf and non-decaf pots from their station. “You’re the best cook we got and the only one trained enough to handle rushes. I’m counting on ya, baby.”

Frankie forces himself to slow his strides, because with Carla’s body shaped like a teacup, he could easily outpace her. So instead, he trails her with his tall body looming over hers, his hands anxiously running through his hair before he adjusts the red bandana back around his forehead. 

“Come on, I don’t ask for much,” Frankie smirks as he takes the coffee pots off her hands and tops off the next few tables. 

Carla mutters something snarky about the vacation time he just took off to go fishing.

“Please,” he opts for his softer tone, honey-amber eyes meeting hers. “I have a hot date this weekend.” 

Frankie’s gaze drifts to you, leaning against the wall by the landline, the phone nestled between your ear and shoulder. The to-go order stretches on as you scribble on your notepad. Your nose twitches like a bunny, fingers twirling the phone’s cord. Frankie feels like his chest might burst from the inside.  

He turns to Carla and lowers his voice. “I’m takin’ her camping. Romantic, right?”

At that, Carla laughs hard enough to hold her stomach and tilt her head back. “Child, what about that girl makes you think she likes camping?” 

Frankie presses his lips together, thinking it over. A weekend in the wilderness, twinkling stars above, hard ground below, probably isn’t your idea of a getaway. He’d have to think of something else, and fast. 

Carla rolls her eyes and promises to cross him off the schedule for the fourth time, adding with a snide little sigh that she can’t wait to see what he comes up with. 

On the morning of the Fourth, you’re greeted by a not-so-welcome sight. 

There’s an I’M BROKEN :( sign on the jukebox. 

Your fingers trace the Sharpie on white printer paper and push down extra hard on the tape at the corners, holding it in place. 

Why does it bug you so much? The ache plagues you even after you put your purse in Frankie’s locker and clock in by the back entrance. 

Sure, it had been stuck on four songs for a few months and the keys were sticky, but it marked the start of the morning routine. A few quarters in the slot, a song to match the mood, then a wipe-down of the counters and pie case.

Now, it was broken, and so was your goddamn mood. 

It’s a last resort to end up in the owner’s small back office. Everything was dingy from cigarette smoke, and the curtains were stained by the sun. There were unmentionable colored stains on the carpet, and the tiny room was cramped with disorganization. 

Sat behind the desk with his tiny reading glasses was the owner’s son, Rudy. 

Rudy’s been out of town a lot. Strange, but honestly a relief. He’s an asshole. The sleazy moves he used to pull are gone, but only because Frankie’s presence has grown more physical. A firm hand at the waist, thick fingers threading through your hair, a kiss pressed to your lips in the back lot before leaving at the end of a shift.

Those things send a pretty obvious message. Not just to Rudy, but to everyone you work with. 

You and Frankie are together. A romantic pair. 

Carla’s started glancing at Frankie whenever she asks about the weekend. Do-it-all Paul brings the shift meal ticket straight to him, knowing he makes it exactly how you like it. Even Lou, the sixteen-year-old busboy who mopes while he mops, put together a playlist for the two of you.

The best part? It fills your stomach with butterflies. Excitement. Happy nerves. It was a weird type of new attention you were receiving. The other thought that has surfaced is that everyone was acting extremely normal about it. 

Did they see it coming? Did your personalities make sense together? Has this been brewing in plain sight since the day you were both hired? That was the bamboozle of it all. 

How it made sense to everyone else before it made sense to you. 

“Shit,” Rudy said breathlessly, his fist clutching his short sleeve button up shirt at the heart.  Your wide eyes greet him as you finally knock on the doorframe to his office. “You know I hate loitering.” He huffs, shuffling some papers into a manilla folder and out of your sight. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you start, staying firmly at the entrance of his office and not coming in any further than one has to. “I saw that the jukebox was down. When is the repair guy coming?”

Rudy sighs and meanders around his office, closing the empty safe that sits on the floor in an old closet while he paces. “Well, the old girl isn’t actually broken.” His admission makes something in your blood boil. 

“Don’t tell me you’re selling it.” Your voice is warning, wavering with heat. 

Rudy doesn’t look at you, only shakes his head and slides his jacket on. He grabs an old baseball cap and pops it on, merely shrugging. It makes you feel inferior. 

Rudy’s always been known for shady dealings. Selling the food was never enough. If he thought he could make a quick buck, he’d pull out the ceiling tiles and scrap metal from the diner’s core without a second thought.

“Listen, sweetheart, I know you’re fond of the thing. It gives the place character, sure. But it’s too much to keep her running. I-, I mean, we need the money. A collector’s swinging by this weekend to take it off our hands. Carla’s got the instructions. It’s already handled, alright? We’re lucky he’s taking it as it is, it’s really a piece of junk.”

His hastiness alerts you. 

Crossing your arms, you frown as your lips settle in a snarl. “So, where are you going during this lucrative sale?” 

He mutters as he locks the office door, barely glancing at you while nudging you aside. “You’d be a lot easier to deal with if you smiled more and kept your mouth shut. Hold down the fort. Don’t screw it up.”

The busy morning does little to keep your mind at bay, something uncomfortable still itching below the surface. Your gut has always been strong, but this time around, you really have no idea what it’s trying to tell you. 

Is the jukebox some weird omen describing your relationship with Frankie? If something is broken, don’t even bother trying to salvage it, get rid of it? Or was Rudy just continuing his usual sketchiness? 

The stress of the jukebox makes your stomach uneasy. Knowing you only had another twenty-four hours with the classic beauty made your fuse short. 

Frankie could tell. And as much as he tried to help, the crowding around you only made things worse. 

“You’re cranky.” He obviously states on the drive home. 

You scoff, jaw twitching with annoyance. “Thanks, really appreciate that.” Your apron’s sticky with syrup, and you reek of the grease trap. You lean against the window, letting the breeze slip through the cab of his truck. You don’t look at him. You don’t need to. 

Your body says enough.

The really annoying part is that you hadn’t seen him all week. He went out of town to go fishing with Santi and Benny, so that knocked out Friday night through Monday evening. That meant taking opposite shifts to earn back the cash he lost during vacation. And you’re pissed at yourself that this is the mood you’re in by the time you finally get to be together. 

Irritated. Prickly like a cactus. 

So you sulk for the entire ride home. And him making jokes trying to lighten up the mood only twisted the knife. 

“I need a shower,” you sigh, dropping your purse on the kitchen counter upon entering his apartment and pulling at the black elastic in your hair. 

“Can I come?” Frankie asks slyly to which you snidely smile. 

“I think not.”

Frankie shrugs casually and leans against the bathroom’s door frame. “Fine by me, but then you’ll be sittin’ next to an awfully smelly fry cook on top of the ferris wheel.”

Ferris wheel?

Your eyes lock onto his. The smug curl of his lips makes it hard to stay mad. It's annoying how easily he gets your attention. You were set on sulking, but now you're caught wondering what he's going to say next.

You cross your arms and lean against the opposite side of the door’s frame. You sigh, rolling your eyes as you slowly unzip your apron, the material falling to the floor and pooling around your ankles. “Fine. But no funny business. I had a bad day, and I’m not in the mood.”

Frankie grins like he’s already won something. You ignore it, stepping into the bathroom and flicking water toward him when he gets too smug.

The sky is navy blue, but the lights from the carnival are what captivate your attention. 

Frankie parks his truck in the grass and immediately takes your hand as you walk under a large, lit-up white and red-striped tent where he pays for admission. 

It’s beautiful chaos. Food vendors have their trucks lined up, electric signs blaring what they cater from corn dogs to deep fried turkey legs. You can hear children screaming as you pass each ride, a familiarity from childhood passing through you. 

“I love the carnival.” You admit slowly, still a bit hesitant from your day earlier. You’re here, but not in it yet. Frankie can sense the hesitancy in your body, but the curiosity in your eyes makes him hopeful he can turn your day around. 

“Here,” Frankie offers you a cotton candy cone, pink and blue fluff intertwined. “A sweet for my sweet.” 

You can’t help but roll your eyes, taking the stick nonetheless. “Who made you so cheesy?”

“You think I’m cheesy? You would’ve loved my abuelita. All she did was watch telenovelas. She’d sit me in her lap and watch my expressions. I’d get extra candy if they were big, exaggerated.” Frankie smirked as he plucked pink floss from the cone, letting it melt on his tongue. 

As the two of you continue to walk down the lane, a kid running after his friends trips and falls right in front of you. Before you even have time to react, Frankie knelt down beside the boy, offering him a hand. 

“Hey, y’okay?” Frankie brushes some dirt off the kids shirt and the boy lets out a tired huff. 

“M’okay, thanks,” he says shyly to Frankie, smiling sheepishly before he stands and returns to chase after his friends. 

Your boyfriend straightens up beside you and you hold his hand a little tighter, your walls finally down for the night. 

Frankie’s eyes light up, his amber ones staring down at yours. “There’s my pretty girl.” He murmurs, pushing the brim of his hat up just a smidge, so that when he leans down and kisses you, it doesn’t bump your forehead. 

He hums softly, the taste of your lips always something that brings him joy. “You wanna go on the ferris wheel?”

Side by side in the green painted cart, you’re slotted in at the hip so close that your knees bunch up next to Frankie’s. His arm easily slips around your shoulders and the back of the seat bench, always looking for a way to be closer to you. 

“It’s pretty,” you whisper, eyes attached to the skyline. There wasn’t much out here in the means of cities and skyscrapers, but it was the beautiful twinkling sky that was better than any city lights. 

“See? Carnival magic. You almost stopped scowling.” 

You shoot him a look, but all the scraped edges of it are gone. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

Once the ferris wheel is full, you start going. It’s impossible not to laugh like a little kid, especially with Frankie by your side. He makes you lighter. He’s comforting, able to calm your bad weather with a few validating words. 

He asks to kiss you at the top. It might be the most romantic moment you’ve shared.

As the cart lowers and there’s a lull, Frankie sighs and says, “Heard they’re hauling that old jukebox out this weekend. Honestly, I’m surprised it didn’t catch fire last summer.”

Pursing your lips, you can feel your mood shift. Your body stiffens and your gaze lands somewhere by the corn dog vender as you pass the first full spin of the wheel. 

“It still worked fine.” 

Frankie doesn’t pick up on your body language. So he keeps talking. 

“It’s ancient. Nobody uses it. I think you’re the only one I know who…” 

It clicks. It’s like you can hear it registering in his brain that the dusty, old piece of crap actually means something to you. 

But it’s too late, because all that annoyance comes bubbling fast back to the surface. 

In a warped part of your brain, becoming the old dusty jukebox is your fear. A metaphorical one. If something sentimental and familiar can be discarded, maybe the same could be said about you. 

FRANKIE’S POV

She’s gone quiet again. It’s impossible not to notice when her energy shifts. Some people might describe it like a hurricane, and maybe she is, but that’s not how Frankie sees it. 

Imagine driving through the rain. All grey clouds and windshield wipers squeaking as her tears fall from the sky. The droplets are so heavy, they beat down the road and the rooftop, it forces you to take notice. The rain is so loud, so strong and commanding. But then, passing under a bridge for the briefest of moments, everything is silent. 

She can be a hurricane all she wants, and Frankie will be the bridge. 

He lifts his tattered cap, runs a hand through his waves, and tucks the hat back on tight at his forehead as he catches up with your fast pace towards the exit of the carnival. 

“You gonna tell me what just happened?” 

You shrug. “Nothing happened. You just made your opinion very clear.”

“About what? The jukebox?”

You give a short laugh, your jaw twitching as your fingers flex with all the extra energy you’re building up. “Forget it.” 

The tension simmers between you both and he’s still lost in the interaction. And you certainly won’t spell it out for him, beautifully stubborn. 

You parade through the lanes of parked vehicles, the night sky casting a navy blue film across the trees that line the grassy lot. It’s the peak of the carnival and most folks are inside, the grassy area of parked cars quiet. They leave a waft of warm energy as he weaves through the aisles, hot on your trail. 

He speaks your name, but before he can say anything, you’re tugging at the passenger door harder than necessary. It flies open with your strength.

Before you get the chance to crawl into the truck and slam the door, he’s got his hand on the frame. 

“You close the door, you break my fingers.” He warns. 

“Then move.” 

You pull. Frankie stalls the door again. And you look at him like you might just kill him with fury. 

“What the hell is your problem?” You snap. 

Frankie inhales deeply, pausing in silence for a moment. He presses his tongue against his cheek, glancing from the carnival, then back to you. 

“I thought we were havin’ a nice time. I don’t know what happen, spell it out to me like I’m fuckin’ stupid.”

You frown at that, a flash of pain flickering behind your eyes. 

“You’re not stupid, Francisco." 

He tries again. “You’ve been pissed since this morning. And now you're throwing daggers at me because I said the jukebox was busted. I don’t get you sometimes.”

You finally snap, not shouting, but your voice is sharp as nails. “It wasn’t just busted. It was mine. And nobody even told me it was being sold. They just decided it didn’t matter anymore.”

He watches you, then says carefully, “This isn’t about the jukebox.” You look at him, walls flickering at the sincere brown eyes he lands on you. “Maybe not.”

A laughter from a couple down the lane breaks his focus, and he takes you by the hand and guides you to the cab of his truck, where it’s more closed off. The silence turns heavy but different. His eyes drop to her mouth, then back up.

“You always get mean when you’re scared,” he says, voice low.

“Don’t be an ass,” you shoot back, but the edge is gone. It sounds more like a sigh.

His eyes are on you now, steady and unreadable. You hate that. You’d rather he laugh it off or tease you. But he just watches you, eyes growing darker.

“I’m right here.”

Your breath catches just slightly, but you cover it with a scoff. “You say that like you’re some big emotional safety net.”

“I’m not. But I don’t leave when you get hard to deal with.”

You glance at him, lips parting like you might say something, but nothing comes out. 

Instead, you look down at your hands. Frankie takes the opportunity to slot his fingers between yours, his calloused skin catching against the soft give of your palm.

“I know what the jukebox meant to you,” Frankie says. “I should’ve said something different. I’m sorry.”

You nod once, still not looking at him. “Yeah, well. Doesn’t matter now.”

“It does,” he says. And his voice dips lower, almost a whisper. “Because it made you look at me like I wasn’t on your side. And I don’t like that. I’m always on your side.”

Of course he’s on your side. He’s never given you a reason to doubt that.

A groan leaves you, an exhausted one that feels like a weight off your shoulders. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know if it’s a control thing with losing the jukebox or,” More gibberish flies out of your mouth in a way of trying to explain this reaction. 

Then it clicks as fast to you as it does to Frankie. 

His signature smirk graces his lips. He glances around the grassy parking lot, adjusts his hat, and stands with his hands on his hips. “When’s the last time you got off, cariño?”

YOUR POV

That pulls your gaze back. 

What did he- oh. The fishing trip. He’s been gone all week. You were in too much of a mood to notice the signs earlier. 

The coiling in your stomach, the electricity snapping across your skin, an ache that could only be solved by getting off.

Heat rushes to your face, warmth spreading across your body as you sit there, dazed and unsure what to do with yourself. 

Not a moment later, Frankie releases the tailgate and tips his head to the side, motioning for you. 

“Get in.” His tone is calm, but the authority in it settles over you like a hand at your back. 

Your stomach drops, a sudden rollercoaster plunge. You obey, your feet sinking into the dewy grass as you quietly follow his instruction and climb into the truck bed. 

Instead of your knees digging into the floor panel, they crawl across a dark blue furniture pad. 

Frankie shuts the bed with you inside, his hands catching the side panel as he pulls himself up. One cowboy boot finds the tire, then he lifts, swinging his other leg over in one practiced motion to join you. 

“What are we-”

“Shhhh.” His voice is low and steady as he settles back against the truck’s rear window, legs shifting to make space. He extends a hand toward you, an unspoken invitation to come closer. 

You slot your body between his legs, your back meeting the warmth of his chest. 

Like a lock and key, you piece together and he kisses you slowly. 

All the stress of today seems to melt and you’re at his mercy. 

Frankie’s tongue glides against yours, a hand of proud ownership holding your face by the underside of your jaw. Mine. 

A heavy breath fans out between you as Frankie’s other hand slips under your shirt, feeling the way your belly tightens as his featherlight touch tickles at your skin. 

His kisses pull your focus, easing the tension in your shoulders and loosening the tightness in your posture, and your legs spread just a little wider. 

A cocky scoff leaves his lips, shaking his head at you and your nose brushes his. 

“Needed this real bad, didn’t you, baby?” The palm of his hand cups one of your breasts, greedily squeezing at the bra-clad flesh. 

The grip he has between your jaw and your tit leaves you breathless already. It’s embarrassing to feel so fucking needy. 

“Please, Frankie,” you plead, large eyes with pupils the size of saucers staring up at him. 

“Please, what?”

An impatient groan fills the air and he clasps his hand over your mouth. He stares daggers down at you, so chilling that you freeze. 

A couple that you couldn’t hear before walks closer, their distant chatter growing louder as they walk near. 

Frankie bites down on his lip and your eyes gloss over at the sight. An insolent moan muffles against his hand. 

His eyes snap back down at you, the hold on your mouth tightening. He shakes his head at you, holding back a smirk. 

The couple’s words start to echo, something about the games being rigged but the fried oreos tasting good. 

Your lips part as Frankie’s teeth sink into your earlobe, a pitchy little whine muffling against his hand as the sensation makes your nipples tingle. 

His hand slowly releases from your mouth, moving back to the underside of your jaw as he makes you look up at him. “You can be as much of a slut as you wanna be, but you need to be a quiet little slut. Can you do that, angel?” 

Somehow he works angel and slut in one sentence and all you can do is desperately nod against his chest. 

“Good girl,” Frankie praises as his soft lips attach to yours once more, but now with a bit more hunger and bite. 

His scruff grinds against your face and all you can think about is how badly you miss that feeling between your legs. 

His large palm pulls down your bra, your breasts spilling over as he moves from one to the other, always giving his favorite girls equal attention. 

Your hand clutches at his shirt, his mouth concealing your desperate whine as he tugs and twists at your taut nipples. 

It gets all too real as his hand slips between your legs, blindly undoing the button to your jean shorts as he moves his kisses down to the supple flesh of your neck. 

You tilt your head, giving him better access, and the zip of your shorts cuts through the quiet darkness. 

The sensation hits you, eyes going bleary once his thick fingers start feeling over your wet panties. He circles his domain before pulling the material aside. He can’t help but break his kisses and take a look at your glittering pussy. 

You whisper, “Seems like you missed me too.” 

He groans out something needy. “Fuck, yeah I did.” 

Another group of people are heard weaving through the lines of vehicles and Frankie’s got his hand on your mouth again. 

He slides two of his thick fingers between your slit, the slip between your aching hole and your pulsing clit has you breathless. 

You curse against his hand, and his forefingers tap your cheek a few sharp times, a firm reminder to stay quiet. The sharp pain only excites you more.

“You want me to stop?” he growls, and you shake your head fast. “That’s what I thought.” 

The motions start slow, gentle ministrations to ease the nerves jittering through your body. He works you up slowly, creating a pace that has you wiggling in his lap and gasping against his hand. 

There could be people staring at the two of you and you’d have no idea, your eyes are rolled into the back of your head as he plugs you with two of his thick fingers. 

The stretch is glorious as he slowly works himself deeper and his thumb takes over massaging your clit. He’s knuckle deep and you start to see stars in your vision. 

“Fuckkk,” you moan against his hand, biting your words as he slowly starts to spread his fingers inside of you. 

A distant high-pitched whistle grabs your attention, Frankie’s too, but his movements don’t stop. 

“Look up at the sky, baby, look up,” he encourages as he fills you to the brim again, enough to make your jaw drop. 

You want to release your screams, your moans, it’s not something you can hold back much longer.

Frankie’s hold on your mouth turns lax as a bright red and blue firework blasts into the dark sky, the colors blurry as you curse into the open air. 

“Fuck, I’ve never felt you so wet,” Frankie mutters into your ear, nipping at your helix as the pace of his fingers work you to an approaching crest. 

Your orgasm bubbles inside of you, desperate for release. The squelching noises of your juices are hidden by another firework soaring into the air. Then another. And another. All different shapes and colors as they fill the sky’s starry canvas. 

Frankie guides the underside of your jaw upward and all you can see is the hazy heavens filled with rainbow colors and the smoke of the pyrotechnics. 

Your walls clench around his fingers and the ache in your stomach only grows. His thumb adds more pressure to your clit. Faster than you realize, you’re grinding your hips against his hand and getting his fingers into that perfect spot only he knows. 

“Fr-Frankie, I’m coming, please, please,” you start to beg, as if he’d stop. 

“That feels so fuckin’ good, doesn’t it, princess? Cum right on my fingers, missed you all week, all I wanna do is taste you.”

The fireworks rumble, the big finale approaches. 

The sky erupts all at once, a storm of color clawing up the sky and fighting for space. Bursts overlap, crackling and booming, like the night is shaking apart. 

They bloom in layers, first blue, then green, then purple, and red, each explosion chasing the next until the sky is nothing but bright lights. The drumline makes your heart pound, your jaw going slack as your orgasm strikes deep in your cunt. 

Sparks rain down like falling stars, until everything fades into drifting smoke and silence. 

Your body goes limp and exhausted in Frankie’s strong arms, still framing you and keeping you upright as applause erupts in the distance. 

Your boyfriend praises you as you come down from your high, gently stroking your sensitive clit every now and then just to see you jump like his little play-thing. 

Finally, he slowly removes his digits and brings them to his lips. His tongue glides effortlessly before his mouth consumes. There’s nothing left to see but the way his eyes roll into the back of his head. 

Frankie’s dark eyes open and he looks at you fondly. 

“God, you looked so fucking beautiful with fireworks in your eyes.” 

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