Page 5 of Spread Your Wings

“I’m getting to the heart of the story.”

“You’re putting your own spin on the story. There’s a difference.”

“He’s right,” Howard had droned from behind his camera. “Leave the poor woman alone.”

Nicole had huffed and walked away until the mic cord stopped her. Howard was an immovable force behind his camera.

When Sammy saw Nicole sitting on a barstool after work, umbrella drink in her hand, he sat on the opposite side of the bar.

Mustafa wiped down the bar in front of Nicole. He continued sweeping large arcs of beaded water across the glistening marble. He stopped in front of Sammy. “What’s your poison?”

“What imported beer do you have on tap?”

“You don’t want to drink the beer,” Mustafa said under his breath. “For sparkling wine, we have Champagne and Prosecco, and a dry American vintage. The vodka is Russian, and strong. The Bourbon is American. I pride myself on mixed drinks. Your friend there won’t know what hit her in a minute.”

“I don’t really like hard liquor. It’s the taste,” Sammy admitted.

“So, you drink barley piss. Disgusting.”

Sammy laughed. “What do you recommend?”

“Let me make you something special.”

Sammy nodded, then remembered. “Will it count toward my beer tab? I can’t afford mixed drinks this week.”

“It’s on the house.” Mustafa crossed his arms over his chest. “I jumped to conclusions, and I was angry with you for no reason. I owe you an apology.”

Sammy had to admit, Mustafa’s formal use of the English language was a turn-on. “I owe you an apology,” had a much better ring to it than, “I’m sorry I was an asshole.”

He gladly accepted the brown concoction on the rocks.

“What is it?”

“Taste it.”

He took a sip. The sharp bite of Coca-Cola mingled with something tangy and sweet. The sweetness burned the back of his throat and made his belly feel warm.

“You like?” Mustafa asked.

Sammy coughed and nodded.

“Jack and Coke. American drink for an American man.”

Sammy wanted to laugh. He now had his first credit card. He’d taken his first international flight. He had a grown-up job. He still didn’t feel like a man. Instead, he said, “Thanks,” and continued to sip his drink.

By the second, he couldn’t feel his throat.

By the third, he couldn’t feel his toes.

Mustafa offered to help him to the elevator. His body felt like an extension of his hard-on. Every contact zinged his cock. Mustafa touched the back of his arm, and he moaned. Every step toward the elevator rubbed his cock against the firm fabric of his jeans.

“Need me to walk you to your room?” Mustafa asked as they waited for the elevator.

Sammy’s brain kept telling him to be careful.

Oh. Right. HIV test. Gotta wait.

“Thanks, but I’d better call it a night, alone.”

“Suit yourself,” Mustafa said with a wink. “Dream of me.”

Shit. Did I tell him about my jack-off fantasy?

Mustafa rolled his eyes. “You are the worst kind of drunk.”

“What’s that?”

“The kind who speaks every thought.” Mustafa leaned in and whispered in Sammy’s ear, “The kind I want to fuck.” He placed his index finger over Sammy’s lips. “Gotta wait. I know.” Mustafa helped him into the elevator and pressed the fifth-floor call button. He waved as the doors shut between them.

Sammy collapsed against the wall and sighed. “I really told him all that?” He laughed at the sound of his voice. “Fuck, I have no filter.”

Sammy was tired, and drunk, but his penis refused to take no for an answer. He got tangled in his pants when he forgot to take off his Oxfords. He stripped out of the rest of his clothes with no trouble. He tumbled into bed naked, a hand around his already leaking cock.

The kind I want to fuck. Sammy wanted that, too.

He moaned as the cool sheets kissed the length of his cock.

He danced his fingers over the delicate skin.

He wondered what Mustafa’s hands would feel like.

Would they be rough from washing the bar?

Would they be calloused from carrying people’s luggage?

Or would they be smooth like Gavin’s, who’d never worked a day in his life?

Not tonight , Sammy thought, shutting the door on Gavin. I need this tonight .

He imagined Mustafa whispering in his ear.

Faster. Twist. Taste yourself. Do you like it?

His precome tasted like Jack Daniels, a flavor he now associated with Mustafa, even if the man didn’t drink it himself.

You like it , the voice teased. Harder. Faster. Do you want to come ?

“Mm-hmm,” he answered the voice. His lower body sparked and flared. The warmth spread through his legs and abdomen as he held his breath, trying to fight his orgasm. He held onto it, letting it back-build into a relentless torrent he could no longer control.

Come for me, the voice said.

Sammy came, not sure if he was riding the storm, or if the storm was riding him. His cock spurted with each twitch, leaving wet splotches on the Egyptian cotton sheets. Sammy rubbed his cock against the wet sheet, imagining Mustafa’s tongue cleaning him off.

He wanted that so much. He wanted a future where he could explore a relationship with Mustafa. Hell, he wanted a future.

The next nine days were the longest of Sammy’s life.

It didn’t help that Nicole kept botching her reading.

She inserted her own words and went off-script, ignoring Sammy’s Teleprompter wording.

Sammy, being the newbie, didn’t know what to say or do.

Finally, after a fourteen-hour Saturday, Howard had enough.

Howard picked up the phone in the room and dialed the front desk. “Room 532.”

“No,” Nicole said.

Howard held up his hand. “Tol? I know it’s late. Look, we need you down here. You have to see this shit.”

“No,” Nicole pleaded. “I’ll get it right. I’m sorry, okay?”

“You should have gotten it right the first time,” Howard said, dropping the phone onto its cradle. “You seem fine wasting my time and wasting Sam’s time. Now you’re going to waste Tol’s time, and Tol’s already had it with your bullshit.”

That was news to Sammy. As the newbie, he knew his colleagues had history with each other, but this was the first he’d learned of any discord. Most of the staff treated Nicole like a princess. Sammy had pissed her off by telling her to doctor her own coffee.

When Tol arrived, Howard played a tape for him, showing Nicole going off-script. Things got more interesting, though, when Sammy left the room for a bathroom break, and the camera kept rolling.

“That fucking ginger faggot isn’t telling the right story,” Nicole whined to Howard. “He’s too green. He wants to tell this story about a division between the government and its people. It’s really about the clash of cultures now that Yugoslavia can no longer hold them together.”

“He’s telling the story we’re hearing on the streets,” Howard said.

“That’s not the story the Serbs are telling. We need to get their story, too.”

“They don’t want to go on camera, Nic. If you get someone to talk to us, we’ll share that story. We want that story.”

“That’s your fucking job, not mine. Greenie the Leprechaun scares them off with his ginger hair and his limp wrists.”

“Of all the fucking things, Nicole,” Tol said, his face redder than Sammy’s hair. “Discrimination is discrimination. You’ve called him out for his nationality, his age, and his sexual orientation. Anything you’d like to add?”

“Ginger is the color of his hair, not a nationality!”

“I was talking about the Leprechaun comment. His last name is Connelly. Where the fuck did you think he was from, Turkey?” Tol’s face was almost purple. “Greenie. Faggot. Leprechaun. Ginger. I should fire you on the spot.”

“Sam’s been patient as fuck with you,” Howard added. “Never raised his voice. Never swore at you for needing five takes to say one sentence. Never lost his patience, and I haven’t seen him eat a goddamn thing all day.”

“Don’t make this about, ‘Poor Sammy,’” Nicole said. She scrunched her face and the cake make-up cracked along both sides of her nose. “You’re all a bunch of faggots. You probably get together after work for a circle-jerk, don’t you? I’m left out because I’m a girl. Well, fuck you.”

She stormed out of the room in a swirl of papers. “You can’t fire me. I quit!”

Tol rolled his eyes. “Third time in three years. I hope it sticks, this time. If not, I’m sending her to South Africa for the rest of her career.”

“Sorry you had to hear that,” Howard said, coming over to pat Sammy’s shoulder.

“She’s been saying shit about me since we got here?”

Tol laughed. “She’s been saying shit about everyone she finds threatening, for her entire life. It’s not you. Don’t take it personally.”

Sammy blinked, still trying to process all the horrible words she’d used to destroy his truth.

“I mean it, kid,” Tol said, grabbing him in an awkward side hug. “It’s not about you. Not your fault. You’re writing concise copy, and you’re telling the truth about Sarajevo to our folks at home. That’s all we ask, and you’re doing it right.”

“And she’s still doing it wrong,” Howard said.

Tol handed Howard a twenty-dollar bill. “You were right. Third strike. I thought she would have learned her lesson last time. Time to call in Christiane.”

“Christiane Amanpour? She’s coming here?” Sammy had seen Christiane from across the room once during his internship, but he’d never met her.

“She may stay in London, for now,” Tol said. “We’ll wait and see what happens with the referendum.”

Sammy met Christiane over teleconference the next day. She posed a question similar to Nicole’s. “Why are the Serbs not talking on camera? We need to know what they want.”

Sammy and Howard hit the streets again. Sammy traded his Braves cap for a stocking hat. Even folded in half, it fell into his eyes every two minutes.

He borrowed a camouflage jacket from one of the UN troops who brought mail from the airport. The jacket completely covered his hands. The added warmth made it easier to hold the microphone in the frigid temperatures.