Page 15 of Spread Your Wings
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sammy lay awake in the dark bedroom. The clock in the main room woke him, but he’d only counted four before it stopped chiming.
The sunlight streaming through the open door told a different story.
It was well past four in the morning. Sammy knew he should get up and check the time.
Mustafa’s arm held him fast, though. They’d made it to Easter Monday, April twentieth, the day of the Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert.
Sammy snuggled against Mustafa, pulling his arm tighter around him.
He absently stroked the coarse hair on Mustafa’s arm, enjoying the texture so different from his own.
He must have dozed. Another chime on the clock registered the half-hour. He wiggled his way out from under Mustafa’s arm, and the warm covers. The chill air in the room raised goosebumps on his bare chest as he padded into the main room.
Ten thirty, the grandfather clock face read.
He scurried to the bathroom to fill the large tub.
A half-hour later, he’d refilled the tub. Still no activity from the bedroom.
“Mustafa, it’s eleven,” he said, shaking the big lump still tucked into the bed. “We’re meeting Bex at two.”
“Who’s Bex?”
“Another CNN correspondent and my mentor, stationed here in London. She bought the tickets.”
“Bex is good people in my book, then,”
“Yes. Good people. Now get up.”
Two hours later, they were on the tube, on their way to Wembley stadium. It was really happening. Sammy was going to make it to Wembley for a Queen concert. Not the one he’d wanted to see, but the one he needed to see.
Sammy’d had too much caffeine that morning. He felt anxious and off. He hoped it dissipated by the time they got to Wembley.
They stopped at a small pharmacy for sunscreen. The brilliant sunlight had him concerned about sunburn. He’d almost forgotten about his sensitive skin during the dreary Sarajevo spring.
Mustafa grabbed them a couple of bottles of water, two Mars candy bars, a box of cookies, and a bag of potato crisps. Sammy struggled to make his single purchase and analyzed each SPF.
Once they arrived, it took roughly an hour to find Bex near the gated entrance to Wembley park.
She had camped out overnight in her sleeping bag, surrounded by her gay entourage.
Despite the night of “roughing it” on the street, she was gorgeous in a white tennis dress, her shoulder-length blond hair corralled into a high ponytail above the rim of her sun visor.
Once they’d hugged and gossiped about work for five minutes non-stop, Bex introduced Sammy to her friend Kenny.
Kenny’s smile brightened when Sammy introduced Mustafa.
“Oh, Kenny’s madly in love with Simon,” Bex said when Sammy asked her about it. “You remember Simon from our first-year interning, right? He’s always wanted you. He’ll be right back, and then I’ll get down to matchmaking.”
“Simon?” Sammy remembered. Simon had an overbite, a collection of He-Man action figures on his desk, and an entitled rich-boy attitude. Sammy had found the overbite and the action figures endearing. The attitude annoyed him.
Mustafa must have overheard Bex’s description, because he stood closer to Sammy when Simon returned from refilling his water bottle at the nearest fountain.
Simon attempted to talk to Sammy. “How was your first assignment?”
Before he could respond, Mustafa interrupted, “So, Kenny, what do you do for work?”
Sammy turned toward Kenny, relieved for the distraction.
“I’m an accountant for a marketing firm,” Kenny said.
“I want to get into accounting, too. Or finance. Anything with numbers, really.”
“Numbers?” Simon asked. “How boring.”
“I don’t know,” Sammy replied. “Accounting and finance are both steady, growing job markets.”
“Why should we care about that?” Simon asked. “We’re seeing the world and writing about it.”
“Your stories would be boring without money to cause their conflict,” Kenny said. Simon glared at him.
Bex clapped her hands. “Yes, money makes the world go ‘round, doesn’t it! This is what I’ve been telling you for years.” She wagged her finger at Simon. “You need to settle down with someone like Kenny.”
Kenny blushed, but the slight upward curve to his lips said he wasn’t too opposed to the idea.
Mustafa surprised Sammy by putting his arm over his shoulder and handing him a cookie. “Ginger Nut?”
“Not here,” Sammy said under his breath. Mustafa flashed the cookie box at him, so he could see they really were called Ginger Nuts.
“No pun intended, I swear,” Mustafa said, but his chuckle gave him away.
Ginger Nuts were tasty gingerbread cookies—though one of the Londoners corrected him to say, “biscuit,” not cookie. Gingerbread had never been one of Sammy’s favorites, but they were edible.
Mustafa had helped Sammy apply sunscreen to the back of his neck when they arrived. And again, two hours later, when Mustafa’s wristwatch beeped a reminder.
“You set a timer?” he asked.
“I don’t want your pretty skin to burn,” Mustafa said, patting the back of his neck, which already felt warm.
Sammy slathered his face with the stuff again, doing his best to keep it away from his eyes. He wanted to see the concert, and his eyes already burned.
At four, the guards opened the gates, letting them into the stadium.
Bex pushed through the line, bumping people out of her way with her sleeping bag.
Soon, they were within five rows of the center stage, the vast set looming over them.
A giant white phoenix spread its wings over the main stage.
Two smaller phoenixes sat atop the gigantic television screens to the left and right of the stage.
Sammy stared up at the dizzying heights of the set, the screens, and the many crew members still doing sound and light checks before the concert.
He gripped Mustafa’s arm to keep from falling.
“Are you okay?” Mustafa asked, leaning down to kiss his temple.
“I’m here, with you. I’m better than okay.”
Mustafa smiled, a genuine one that lit his entire face.
“I’m so glad I could join you. Not just for the concert, you know. I wanted to be here with you.”
Sammy nodded, not wanting to ruin the moment with maudlin words.
They tried to spread out Bex’s sleeping bag to sit on it. The crowd pressed around them until they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. It was still an hour-and-a-half before the concert.
To pass the time, Sammy suggested a game of “I Spy.” It started as a friendly game between him and Mustafa. It turned into a vicious one-up between Kenny and Simon.
“I spy something green!”
Sammy opened his mouth to say, “Reefer.” The smell of marijuana wafted from behind them on the breeze. He suspected the group of men to the left of them weren’t sharing a hand-rolled tobacco cigarette.
“Is it your face, you jealous bastard?” Kenny said.
“Jealous?” Simon asked, ignoring Sammy. “Why would I be jealous?”
“You thought you had a chance with Sammy, but this other bloke took your place.”
“Is bloke a good name or a bad name?” Mustafa asked Sammy. The other two men were too wrapped up in their argument to pay attention.
“It means a common guy, a regular guy.”
“Shut up and kiss him already,” Bex said to Simon.
“What if I don’t want to kiss him?” Simon glared at Kenny, who pointed to his cheek and puckered his lips.
“Then find someone else to kiss and stop moping. Fifty percent of the men at this concert are gay or bi. The other fifty percent are here with their wives or girlfriends.”
“I don’t want to be your common guy,” Mustafa whispered in Sammy’s ear. “I want to be your special guy.”
“You are my special guy,” Sammy said, meeting Mustafa’s soft brown eyes.
They crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
The trauma they’d shared in Sarajevo more than made up for all the trivia Sammy had yet to learn about Mustafa.
Special didn’t describe Sammy’s need to learn everything there was to know about Mustafa.
“Not yet,” Mustafa said. “I will be.”
Sammy didn’t ask what Mustafa meant. They were now in the stage’s shade where the wind was cooler. He zipped his leather jacket up to keep out the wind.
When Brian May walked out on stage at six, Sammy nearly lost his shit. They’d been playing a montage of Freddie, and “Bohemian Rhapsody,” on the big screen. Seeing Brian, real and in person, was almost too much.
“Good evening, Wembley and the world,” Brian May said. “We are here tonight to celebrate the life, and work, and dreams, of one Freddie Mercury. We’re gonna give him the biggest send-off in history!”
Roger Taylor told them to cry as much as they wanted, and to don the red ribbons that had come with their programs. They did.
John Deacon said some words. Even five rows from the stage, his opening statement was lost in the hum of audience chatter.
Then, the guitar riff from one of Sammy’s favorite metal songs, “Enter Sandman,” played, and the concert began.
The music was so loud it rattled his ribcage and made his ears hurt, but he didn’t care. This was a once-in-a-lifetime event.
Metallica’s Jason Newsted’s hair was a shade lighter than Sammy’s, but longer, and curly. He rubbed the back of his neck as the crowd pushed them from behind, wanting to be closer to the stage. Mustafa steadied him with a hand at his waist, and they swayed together to the beat.
They danced like that to “Nothing Else Matters.” The words touched Sammy as they never had before.
His eyes, which had been dry and gritty all day, even while seeing the remaining members of Queen, now blurred.
Mustafa handed him a travel pack of tissues from the pharmacy. The man had thought of everything.