Page 9 of Spread Your Wings
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 notrouble. 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 thisstory 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!”
