Page 7 of Spread Your Wings

“From finding opportunities. My luck is running out, though.” Mustafa shook his head. “I can see the writing on the wall, here. Literally. The bath house wall was graffitied last night. ‘Leave, you Bosnian fucks. We start with the fags, then we kill the rest.’”

“You went to the bathhouse last night? I thought you couldn’t be seen there.”

“I only go when Vasily is there. Any other time, it’s not safe.” Mustafa leaned forward, head resting on his hands. “It’s becoming dangerous, regardless. While we were inside, someone outside was painting hate on the walls. How much longer before someone is waiting with a gun?”

Sammy didn’t have an answer, so he stood and grabbed his coat from the desktop. “Take me to the bathhouse.”

“Why?”

“I need a photo. Some video feed. We’ll take Harold and his camera.”

“It’s already gone,” Mustafa said. “We scrubbed the wall before first light.”

“But the police?—”

“They don’t care about us. Better to keep quiet.” Mustafa sighed. “Is it easier in America?”

“To be gay?”

Mustafa nodded.

“Not really.” Sammy pointed to the door. “Walk with me?”

“Where are we going?”

“Out.”

“But the bed is here,” Mustafa said, cocking his chin at an angle, making him almost too sexy to resist.

“That’s why we need to go.”

When they left the hotel, Sammy regretted the decision.

The sunlight through the window didn’t tell the full story.

They’d had fresh snow overnight. Between the car tracks, a gray sludge slicked the streets.

Sammy tucked his hands into his pockets and kept a brisk pace to outrun the steam clouds issuing from his mouth.

“Where are we going?”

“To celebrate,” Sammy said. He’d found a steakhouse two blocks away when he was broke.

Now that he’d gotten paid, and had a new lease on life, he wanted to try it.

He pulled the long handle of the red door and held it open, ushering Mustafa inside.

A woman in all-black with short gray hair led them to an open table and handed them menus.

“I don’t eat steak,” Mustafa said. He leaned over the table for two along the back wall, the closest to the swinging doors of the kitchen. When they opened, the clatter of dishes competed with the delicious smells for which could be the biggest distraction.

“They have fish,” Sammy said. He was thankful for the English and French beneath other languages he couldn’t read. “And salad.”

Mustafa nodded as he scanned the menu. “This is the first time I have ever been in here.” He looked anxiously at the waitress, who scowled at him as she deposited two glasses of ice water at their table. “How may I help?”

Sammy ordered the steak but wasn’t sure on the sides. He was used to getting a salad and potato, but he settled for Greek salad and a side of winter squash and broccoli.

Mustafa ordered in another language. Bosnian or Serbian, Sammy couldn’t tell.

The waitress flashed a fake smile and said, “I’ll be right back.”

“Serb?” Sammy asked, trying to keep his voice low, even though they were the only ones within a three-table radius.

“Yes, but that’s not why she hates me. We went to rival schools.”

“How does she know you?”

“Debate.” Mustafa took a sip of water and changed the subject. “What did you do in school? Any sports?”

“Music. I play bass guitar, and my friends and I started a band senior year. Our biggest gig was the homecoming dance. By prom, we’d broken up.”

“Broken up? Like relationship issues?”

Sammy laughed. “You could say that. Our lead singer got a girlfriend and ditched us.”

Mustafa’s brown eyes lit up with amusement.

“Tell me about your debate.”

Mustafa shared his debate story while they waited for their meals. Sammy tried to pay attention. He was more drawn to the quirk of Mustafa’s lips, and the sparkle of his eyes. The debate between Communism and Capitalism had nothing on Mustafa’s eyes.

“Sabra did not know her facts,” Mustafa said. His cheeks colored as she returned to their table with their salads.

Sammy also enjoyed watching Mustafa eat. He started in on the salad with a grin until he came across a green pepper. He frowned and flicked it to the edge of the plate. Soon, he had a small pile of dark green chunks.

The main course arrived just as Sammy took the last edible bite of salad.

He tucked into his steak, glancing up now and then to see Mustafa savoring the salmon just as much.

They ate in comfortable silence, for which Sammy was grateful.

Gavin had liked to talk through meals, sometimes spraying his food across the table.

Mustafa chewed with his mouth shut. Sometimes, he closed his eyes with a slight grin.

“Good?” Sammy asked.

Mustafa nodded. “Excellent.”

The waitress tried and failed to talk them into dessert. They were both too full. While Sammy paid, he wished the night would never end.

“Come back to the hotel with me?” he asked.

Mustafa shook his head. “That will only end in heartache.”

Sammy frowned. “How so?”

“Tonight, you want to feel alive. Tomorrow, you will be busy with work, and by the next day, you will have forgotten about me.” Mustafa blushed, and stared at the wet pavement. “I like you. I won’t forget so easily.”

Sammy turned to Mustafa and reached for his cheek. Mustafa took a step back, and Sammy remembered where he was. A kiss would have to wait. “Sorry.”

“I have to go.”

Mustafa walked on and turned left, toward the hotel parking lot.

Sammy continued to the main doors. He hunkered into his jacket, hands buried in his pockets to protect them from the biting wind.

Even the weather seemed to chide him for being such an idiot.

He had three months in Sarajevo. Then, he’d return to Atlanta to decide if he wanted to be a field correspondent or write for the main news desk.

Mustafa would be nothing more than a rebound fuck, and that wasn’t fair to either of them.

Unfair, and yet, tempting.