Page 13 of Spread Your Wings
Sammy fled the bathroom. He grabbed his suitcase and dragged it into the bedroom with lavish red curtains above the headboard. The red and white bedspread seemed to laugh at him. The room, including the red and white floral carpet, looked like a war between Lewis Carrol’s Red and White Queens.
He paced nervously between his suitcase and the room’s closet.
He took more time than needed to unpack the few clothes he’d need for the next day.
He left his pajamas folded on his pillow.
He was already wearing his nicest jeans, so he took them off, shook them out, and draped them over the foot of the bed.
He stood in his boxers, staring at his dress shirt.
He wondered how he would get the wrinkles out in time for dinner.
As soon as Mustafa opened the door to the steamed-up bathroom, he darted inside.
He held the offensive shirt in hand, balanced on a padded hanger, compliments of their suite.
He felt Mustafa’s eyes on him as he measured the distance to the top of the curtain rod.
He spun around and handed his shirt to Mustafa. “I need a chair.”
“Or you could use the hook on the back of the door,” Mustafa said, steadying him with a hand as he placed the hanger on the hook.
Sammy leaned into his touch with a sigh.
“Are you okay?” Mustafa asked as he faced Sammy, giving him his full attention. Sammy noticed he was only wearing a towel. It was a full-sized luxury bath towel, though. Five feet long, three feet wide, and fluffier than any towel Sammy had used in his life.
“I’m fine,” Sammy said, looking down at Mustafa’s feet so he wouldn’t stare at any of the gorgeous, glistening flesh above.
Mustafa lifted Sammy’s chin with a thumb. “You’re nervous.”
Sammy nodded. “Big day tomorrow.”
“No. About me. About spending the night together?”
Sammy shook his head in the negative.
Mustafa frowned. “Liar. You are scared of me.”
“No. Scared, yes. Not of you.”
“Of what, then?”
“I’ve never been to London before. What if we get lost? What if we get mugged on the train? What if we’re late to the concert? What if something happens again, and I don’t get to see the final Queen concert ever in my lifetime?”
“Trust me, Sammy, we won’t get lost on our way to Wembley.” Mustafa occupied Sammy’s space and pulled him into his arms. He smelled like almond soap, aftershave, and a clean male scent that made Sammy’s balls ache.
“Promise?” He knew he sounded like a whiny brat, but he couldn’t help it.
He was twenty-three and on his own. He’d just survived his first assignment in a war-torn country.
For fuck’s sake, he was already in London with a functioning passport.
Still, his inner child quaked at the thought that it could all be taken away like the Magic tour in ‘86.
“Promise.” Mustafa wrapped his arms around Sammy and hugged him. “Now get in the water before it gets cold.”
Sammy gazed at the full tub and then back at Mustafa.
“I ran fresh water for you. Get in.”
It looked clean, with no soapy residue across the top.
Sammy stripped out of his clothes and padded into the tub.
The warm water on his skin felt like any other bath.
The almond soap felt like butter against his skin.
The wash cloth, like the towel afterward, was the softest, fluffiest fabric he’d ever used.
One glance at the prices on the menu, and they fled the hotel restaurant.
Sammy offered his apologies to the waitstaff on the way out.
An approving nod from Mustafa said he would not need to tip them to gain his approval, at least not tonight.
They took their chances on the street. Sammy headed toward the Tube station, and then they walked around Hyde Park.
On the opposite side of the park, they found a cafe nestled between two shops.
Wary, Sammy checked the menu before ordering a coffee.
When he saw coffee, tea, and soda refills were complimentary with the meal, and the most expensive meal was less than ten pounds, he flagged the waitress.
She had a kindly face and graying hair pulled back in a bun.
“Welcome to Cozy’s, and happy Easter, if you celebrate. What can I get you to drink?”
“Coffee, black. Please,” he added when Mustafa frowned.
“Tea for me, please,” Mustafa said. “Earl Grey.”
“Milk? Sugar?”
“No, thanks.” He gave the waitress a smile.
“I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
She returned with their steaming beverages. Sammy asked her what she recommended to eat. The place reminded him of an all-night diner, specializing in eggs and fruit pie. Sammy ordered a mushroom omelet and a piece of blueberry pie.
Mustafa ordered a slice of spinach quiche. “It’s eggs and pie,” he said.
Sammy offered Mustafa half of the blueberry pie.
He didn’t have room for the giant slice after the plate-sized omelet.
The waitress brought Mustafa another fork—she’d already taken his away—and topped Sammy’s coffee.
Then she left them alone. The look in her eye said it all.
She assumed they were a couple. It made her grin from ear to ear as she sauntered off, drawling, “You boys take your time,” over her shoulder.
Sammy watched her duck behind the counter and then glanced back at Mustafa. He held Sammy’s gaze far longer than was natural for two men to share. They ignored the delicious piece of pie dying their lips purple.
“What?” he asked.
“You,” Mustafa said. “You did not need to invite me. We could have gone our separate ways when we arrived in London.”
“Do you want to leave?” Sammy asked. “Did Vasily make arrangements for you?”
“He has family here. A distant cousin, or maybe someone who owes him a favor. Hard telling. It’s Vasily. I don’t know. I wanted to stay with you, but I thought it was a pipe dream. Is that how you say it? Pipe dream?”
“Yeah,” Sammy said.
“What does it mean?” Mustafa’s forehead wrinkled with confusion. “So many weird sayings you have.”
“It means fantasy,” Sammy said. “It’s from opium den days, the dreams people would have after smoking a pipe full of drugs.”
Mustafa shook his head. “I feel like I could spend the rest of my life learning your language, and still not understand all of it.”
“Don’t worry,” Sammy said. “You already have a better understanding than some people I knew at Yale.”
Mustafa grunted a laugh.
“Yeah. They were in the masters’ program.”
Sammy laughed with Mustafa this time, shaking his head as he shared common misused words like “irregardless” and “supposably.”
“They must have paid someone to write their entrance essays,” Sammy said.
“How did you get into Yale? Isn’t it hard?”
Sammy nodded. “I didn’t get into Harvard,” he said. “Yale was my first choice, but my mom wanted me to go to Harvard law. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I didn’t want to be a lawyer. Or a stockbroker,” he said, tapping Mustafa’s foot with his own under the table.
“Isn’t it expensive?”
He nodded. “My dad’s estate covered it.”
“Dad?”
Sammy nodded, his cheeks heating from embarrassment.
He always felt strange when he talked about the family he’d never known.
“He died when I was two. Car accident. He never married my mom, but his name is on my birth certificate.” His father, Collier Rollins, had been from one of the wealthiest families in Atlanta.
“His family tried to sweep us under the rug, but my mom’s feisty.
She had a paternity test done and everything.
She threatened to sue if they didn’t cover my college tuition.
I applied to all the Ivy League schools, to make them pay.
” He still wondered which had made her prouder: Yale’s prestige, or its price tag.
“My grandfather came to my graduation, but that’s the only time I’ve ever seen him.
He said he was proud of me. I had a feeling he came to look my mother in the eyes, to see if they had dollar signs in them, or if she was just a mom who wanted the best for her son. ”
“Well? What did he see?”
“She’s still alive, so that’s something.” Sammy shrugged. His mom’s eyes always looked like dollar signs to Sammy, but then, he knew her better than Mr. Rollins did. “Sorry. I’ve built them up like they’re a crime family. I don’t know them.”
Mustafa appeared incredulous. “You’re like a storyline from Dallas .”
Sammy laughed as he placed thirty pounds on the table, enough for their meal and a substantial tip. “If my life were a soap opera, my mom would have married her British lover in the eighties. Then, I would have seen Queen in concert.”
“Tomorrow,” Mustafa said. They rose from the table and waved to their waitress and wished her a happy Easter again before walking into the damp evening air.
“Tomorrow,” Sammy agreed.