Page 12 of Spread Your Wings

CHAPTER SIX

At the Vienna airport, Sammy excused himself to the restroom as they exited the plane.

He didn’t want to intrude on Mustafa’s farewell with Vasily, his former lover.

Watching the two of them together felt awkward at best, voyeuristic at worst. Sammy didn’t need more drama.

He already felt queasy from the flight and lack of food.

He took as much time as he could relieving himself and washing up. When he returned to the main terminal, he found Mustafa standing alone by the departures board.

Mustafa looked him up and down but said nothing.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“I would be uncomfortable around your ex-lovers, too,” Mustafa said. “Will the ‘Dear Sammy’ guy join you in London?”

“Hell no,” Sammy said. “You think I’d pay for his flight after what he did to me?” Sammy shook his head. “It was supposed to be his birthday present.”

“I’m sorry,” Mustafa said. “I shouldn’t have mentioned him.”

“He’s the reason I have a spare ticket to the concert,” Sammy said. “If you’d like to join me.”

Mustafa’s fake smile melted into a real one. The hard lines between his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth softened. He looked even more devastatingly handsome. “I would love to join you. Did you know George Michael will be there? And Guns ‘n Roses? Extreme?”

Sammy laughed. He’d given Mustafa the rundown of the celebrity song list at the bar last Tuesday night. “Sounds like a fun time.”

“As long as I’m not imposing,” Mustafa said. “I can pay for my ticket.”

“Not at all. Like I said, I have an extra one.” Sammy stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. “If you don’t have anywhere to be, you could stay with me in London.”

Mustafa nodded. “I’d like that.”

Something in Sammy’s chest loosened, like a breath he didn’t know he was holding, or a wish he didn’t know needed fulfilled. Mustafa would stay with him in London and join him at the concert. Hopefully, Mustafa would stay in Atlanta, too, and they could see each other again.

Sammy found a bookstore and bought the latest Michael Crichton novel.

Once they boarded the plane, Sammy didn’t want to read on the flight to London.

He and Mustafa adjusted their seat-backs to the tune of, “You are now free to move around the cabin.” He leaned over and grabbed a notebook and pen from his backpack.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions about the war?”

“Isn’t it a little late for that?” Mustafa asked. “Now that I’m free?”

“What does that mean to you, freedom?”

“Free to survive without the daily threat of death for being who I am,” he said without hesitation.

“For being Muslim?”

“Muslim, gay, you name it.” Mustafa’s voice was so low, it was almost drowned out by the engine noise. “Neither are respected by the Serbs.”

“Are you out to your family?”

“Yes.”

“Tima said her family took it better?”

“They were always worried for me. I don’t want them to worry.”

“Do you want to be out in the States?”

Mustafa shrugged. “Are you?”

Sammy laughed. “I was at school. I am at work. I’m not out to my mom.”

“And the rest of your family?”

“My mom is my family,” Sammy said. “She’s the only one who matters, anyway. My grandparents abandoned her when she had me. They wanted her to have an abortion.”

“I thought you were Catholic.”

“Not all Catholics are pro-life, at least, not where their daughters are concerned.”

Mustafa nodded. “Do you practice your religion?”

“Who’s interviewing whom?” Sammy laughed. He wanted to share, something he’d never felt with any of his college boyfriends. “No,” he said. “I stopped going to church every Sunday when I went to college. The nearest church is a seven-minute walk from Yale, which seemed too far.”

Mustafa cocked his head. Sammy realized how poor the excuse was. They’d walked over a mile to the steakhouse in the snow.

“I haven’t been to confession in six years,” Sammy continued. “I still go to church when my mom asks. Christmas and Easter, that sort of thing.”

“Do you believe in Allah, in God?” Mustafa whispered, his lips only inches from Sammy’s ear.

Sammy nodded.

“So do I. I don’t believe in the devil, though. People are bad enough on their own, and then they want a, you know, something to blame it on.”

“A scapegoat,” Sammy said. “The devil made them do it.”

“Yes, scapegoat.” Mustafa leaned closer, his breath hot in Sammy’s ear.

“No devil made me want you.” Mustafa excused himself to the 747’s restroom.

Sammy’s cheeks still felt hot when he returned.

Fortunately, their conversation turned to more banal pastimes, like video games, books, and movies.

Mustafa’s favorites were Tetris, Crime and Punishment , and The Terminator .

“Not Wall Street ?” Sammy teased.

“I like action movies,” Mustafa said. “ Wall Street taught me how to speak English. Conan and Terminator taught me I don’t have to speak.”

Sammy’s breath caught in his throat, from the intensity in Mustafa’s eyes.

“Actions speak louder than words, yes?”

Sammy nodded, but his tongue would not work to form words.

“Maybe I will show you tonight. Are you staying with friends, or at a hotel?”

“Hotel,” Sammy said with a cough.

“Good. A hotel room with you will be fun.”

They took the train from Heathrow to Hyde Park corner.

The Lanesborough Hotel still resembled a hospital on the outside.

Inside, a porter took their bags immediately and escorted them to the counter to check in.

All Sammy had to do was say his name, and they took care of the rest. He looked around the posh lobby, the paneled walls and inlaid ceilings, tiled floors, and crystal chandeliers.

He wondered how in the hell Bex had gotten him such a great deal.

He and Bex had shared their Queen obsession over three summers at CNN.

Then Bex had graduated from Harvard University and moved back to London for her first assignment.

She had been Sammy’s mentor, and one of the first to encourage him to be honest with his coworkers about his sexuality.

Sammy couldn’t wait to tell Bex about Nicole.

As soon as Queen announced the tribute concert, Bex had called him. It was the middle of the night, but he didn’t care. She offered to buy the tickets for him, if he didn’t mind hanging out with her and her local friends.

Bex was the friend who would camp out at the concert venue to get good seats while everyone else stayed in luxury.

Bex’s family had a title. Sammy couldn’t remember it, but it sounded ancient and important, if nowhere near the British crown.

With the title came land and money. Bex could afford the hotel, he knew.

She was also the frugal friend who sought the best deals for everything, which was one reason Sammy loved her.

“This is nothing like the Holiday Inn,” Mustafa whispered in Sammy’s ear as they followed the porter through halls filled with rare paintings and antique fainting couches.

Sammy shook his head, too awed to speak.

Their room was on the main floor. They passed a gorgeous sitting room with lavish green drapes.

The Victorian furniture was covered with embroidered pastoral scenes.

Sammy made a note to stop by after they paid the porter, but there was no need.

Their suite also had a sitting room with similar furniture.

The porter pointed to the two adjoining doors.

“Bathroom. Bedroom’s in there. Enjoy your stay.

” He bowed and almost left the room while Sammy struggled to find his voice.

“Thank you,” Mustafa said, pressing a bill into the man’s palm.

“Thank you, sir. Have a pleasant afternoon.”

With that, the porter bowed again and stepped backward out the door. He closed them inside with all the luxury.

“You didn’t have to pay,” Sammy said, digging in his pocket for the pound notes he’d exchanged for his remaining Marks.

“I did,” Mustafa said. “You may be a spoiled American, but I have worked in the hotel industry all of my adult life. Tips are essential.”

“I was going to tip him, I just…” Sammy faltered, gesturing around the room. “Look at this place!”

“In my experience, the more lavish the hotel, the more the establishment treats waitstaff like peasantry.” Mustafa crossed his arms over his chest and glowered. Sammy had never seen him so angry.

“Thank you for paying,” he said. “I’m sorry it looked like I wasn’t going to tip him. I promise, I would have. I’ve just never stayed anywhere this nice before.”

“It’s not the Holiday Inn,” Mustafa agreed. He tilted his chin and gave Sammy another once-over, making his face burn. “I’ll forgive you, this once.”

“This once?” Sammy squeaked.

“Well, if you forget to tip our server at dinner, I may forget to blow you afterward.”

Sammy blinked. “Dinner?”

“Yes. They have a fine dining room.” Mustafa slid a laminated card across the tabletop and took it with his long, nimble fingers. “It says dinner is served between five and seven. We have enough time to clean up.”

Sammy nodded, his mind numb, his body aching for Mustafa’s offer.

“I’ll run water in the bath.”

“Bath?” Sammy felt like an idiot, repeating everything Mustafa said.

He followed Mustafa through the bedroom to the bathroom.

The room was lined on one side with a sink and toilet, the other with a full-length bathtub.

A knee-to-ceiling window with gauzy white curtains bathed the room in afternoon light.

Unlike the tub in Sarajevo, this one had the fixtures in the middle, and no shower attachment.

Mustafa turned on the tap and adjusted the knobs to touch. “Care to join me?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“I … um …”

“I thought you were a journalist, full of words,” Mustafa said. “Where are your words now?”