Chapter 4 – Chapter 4

"Winds may blow over the icy sea . . . I'll take with me the warmth of thee, a taste of honey . . . a taste much sweeter than wine."

He had been there, at a table with four other three-piece suited men, in a back corner, when Matt had arrived in the bar for his first set. Matt hadn't intended to open with "A Taste of Honey," but his fingers, as they often did, just did their own thing—matching his mood, again, as they often did.

Enrique was deep in conversation, and if he turned his face toward Matt in acknowledgment, Matt didn't catch it for a while. But then he was looking over toward Matt and speaking to the man sitting to his right, another nearing middle-age, well-heeled-looking business executive, who also was giving Matt the eye while the two businessmen conversed.

The man Enrique had been talking to rose and moved toward the entrance to the bar, brushing past the piano in passing, and, Matt noticed, while he was playing "What I Did for Love," dropped a napkin wrapped in a bill into the hat on the piano. The man returned in a few minutes—probably from the men's room—and gave Matt a smile as he passed the piano. Matt automatically flashed back his "keep the patrons happy" smile. It was only as he was getting to the end of his set that Matt looked into the hat.

Another hundred-dollar-bill wrapped around a cocktail napkin. As, usual, the napkin had a room number written on it. But, to Matt's surprise, it wasn't room 1425, Enrique's room, but 1240. Matt's eyes went immediately to Enrique's table. Enrique was looking away but the man who had dropped the note in the hat was looking at Matt, smiling at him.

Matt felt his stomach lurch and an immediate depression set in. His fingers went to the keys.

"When Sunny gets blue, her eyes get gray and cloudy. Then the rain begins to fall."

It had hit him like a sledge hammer—both that he cared and that Enrique obviously didn't. There was no reason—no right—for him to have thought otherwise, of course. But it came as such a surprise—both that he cared and that Enrique obviously didn't. He was just another whore, good for a throw down and then a toss away.

Somehow Matt made it through the rest of the evening, the next three sets, punctuated with rest breaks standing in front of a sink in the men's room, soaking his face in cold water. Pretending that some of the moisture wasn't tears.

During the first two sets, he let his fingers play whatever they wanted. It would be a morose evening for the patrons of the bar. He knew that, but he didn't care. He wouldn't go. The man would have to tell Enrique the next day that his helpful bit of information on getting a good lay hadn't panned out. During the last set, though, he knew he'd go to room 1240. More than ever before, he needed a change. He needed to be done with Peter—to be done with all men who used him and threw him away. And for that he needed money. A hundred dollars was a hundred dollars.

Matt went out on the Strip and walked up and down for an hour after his last set. It only made him feel more isolated—everyone swirling around him was exuding happiness. Many of them probably weren't happy inside, but this was Vegas. Having gotten here, they were going to have fun if it killed them. Suddenly everything in life was such a fake; nothing mattered much at all anymore. Having any scruples or principles—or hopes or dreams—didn't matter either. He laughed a dry laugh. He certainly was in the right city for that.

He returned to the hotel, threaded his way through the casino, where people were throwing their money at the machines with grins on their faces and gin and tonics fisted in their hands. Determined to have a good time being fleeced by impersonal machines. He hesitated before knocking on the door to room 1420, still struggling with himself on whether he was enough of a whore just to carry on with this. But then he knocked . . .

. . . And his eyes went big when Enrique, only wearing a hotel robe, opened the door.

"You're . . . this is 1240 . . . this isn't . . ." Matt stammered.

"Plumbing problems in my other room. They switched me. It's late. I thought you might not come. I saw my world collapsing."

Matt tried not to tear up as Enrique pulled him into the room.

Hours later, after they had fucked in more positions than Matt had ever known existed, and lay, exhausted, watching the dawn creep in through the gauzy curtains on the window, Enrique whispered something in such a low voice that Matt had to ask him to repeat it.

"They have hotel piano bars in New York, you know."

"So I've heard."

"I'll take good care of you."

"So I hoped."