Page 8 of Spread Your Wings
“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?
