I spot him right away, well you live with somebody for a couple years, you recognize them from a mile away, there's nothing magical about that. I don't, of course, give a fuck that he's in Woody's. For just a second I think about leaving which is stupid, so instead I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the rack, then stand still and observe him.

He's unhappy. His shoulders are slumped, he's staring into space or at the top of the bar or into his glass, I can't tell exactly, but his head is not moving. His hair's getting longer, tendrils of blond curls gather on the back of his neck, his head's slightly lowered. There's something so vulnerable about the back of a man's neck. Justin has a slim neck. He has a very slim body too, is he thinner now, I wonder? He's been wearing turtleneck sweaters a lot I've noticed, maybe because they're artsy, maybe because he looks good in black. Probably the sweaters make him look thinner.

He's unhappy. It not only doesn't matter to me, I could even be glad. If I wanted to. Somehow I'm not, I'm not glad.

The bar's dim, but stray reflected lights play on Justin's hair, turning it all shades of gold. I can almost remember what it smells like, the softness of it, the silky texture rubbed between my fingers. Still hesitating, I glance away, I'm going to walk away, but something holds me to the spot and I look at him again. Closing my eyes, inwardly shaking my head at my own stupidity, I move over to the bar and sit down beside him.

He turns toward me, not very surprised; he doesn't smile welcome but he doesn’t tell me to fuck off either. Lighting a cigarette I watch as he empties his glass in one swallow. "Buy you another?" I offer.

"No, thanks." His voice matches the quiet near-casualness of my own.

"Where's your fiancé?" I hear myself asking. Why the fuck do I care?

Still subdued, Justin murmurs, "He's playing somewhere."

Of course, he is. Either on his own or as a result of my encouragement, the fiddler's signed his own deal with the devil, a contract that negates the existence of his lover Justin Taylor. Should I rejoice, should I feel guilt? I don't do guilt, and I can't bring myself to rejoice. I feel nothing. Nothing much.

Reaching over to touch Justin's ring, I murmur, "At least you've got this."

My words gently stab him, but I don't stick around to watch him bleed. Pushing away from the bar, I murmur, "See you," and get myself the fuck out of Woody's.

Instead of going to Babylon, I decide to go home and work on the McNally project. A few minutes on the computer's enough of a pretense; I log off and pick up the phone. The kid's free for a house call but he haggles for a bonus. I refuse on principal but I'll probably give it to him, if he remembers what I want him to do. When I hear his knuckles rapping on the door, I can feel myself getting a hard-on. Pitiful, Kinney, pitiful. I pull back the door and nod at him appreciatively, he remembered - he's wearing a black turtleneck and he's combed his hair forward, over his eyes.

Nodding back at me, the kid holds out his hand for the three hundred, counts it and shoves the bills into his jeans, then turns and moves up the steps to the bedroom. "Wait," I tell him and he stops and looks over his shoulder. Coming up behind him, I circle him with my arms and just stand holding him like that, holding him tight against my chest, my face pressed into his hair. It smells sweet, like honeysuckle. It's not like - somebody else's shampoo, but it's pleasant. He relaxes back against me; he knows by now that I won't hurt him, he can relax and maybe even enjoy himself.

Oh, I'm not kidding myself - whores do it for money and probably seldom enjoy themselves, but some of them are used to being treated badly and that's one thing I'd never do - and the kid knows it by now. I don't want conversation, I don't want smiles, I don't need moans and groans of alleged pleasure - he always comes, but I know that doesn’t mean this isn't just another job for him - even my egotism doesn’t run that far.

After a few minutes, I lift the hem of his sweater and pull it off over his head. His torso is so slim, his skin pale and soft. Not as soft as. . . And he knows not to unbutton his jeans, I do that for him, pull them down his slim legs and wait as he steps out of them.

"Shower," I murmur, and he nods okay, leads the way into the bathroom while I pull off my own jeans and kick them aside. In the bathroom, I light a few candles. Justin always wanted me to do that, it seemed ridiculously romantic so I refused. Now I do it not for romance but for the subdued lighting, it's just bright enough to prevent walking into walls, not bright enough to reflect the wrong image in the big mirror over the sink.

In the warm spray of the shower I squint my eyes slightly while I wash the kid, he's got a nice dick but not as big as. . . Then I hand him the soap and close my eyes while he washes me. As we rinse off I start the first fuck. He's a couple inches taller, I don't have to crouch as far, it's easier on my back really, more comfortable. He comes against the glass wall of the shower without touching himself, just like. . . and I enjoy the way he shudders and presses his back against my chest. He's quiet, like I've asked him to be. I don't want to hear him shout.

We dry off separately, I don't want to touch him again for a little while. I wrap a towel around my hips and wander into the living room for a glass of JB and a cigarette. He goes into the kitchen and helps himself to a bottle of something from the fridge - he knows it's okay with me - and he sits on a stool at the counter until I'm ready for him again. Three hundred buys two fucks, he'd stay overnight for a couple hundred more but I don't want to wake up and see his face on - on the other pillow.

The first time he tried to talk to me in between but he's a quick learner, well I guess he has to be, to please so many men. So now he just sits and waits. He doesn't smoke, and he usually drinks a bottle of water or juice, not beer. I don't know his age but he's probably twenty-three, twenty-four, I don't think about it, I just know that he's older. Of course, I know his name, but I won't use it.

After ten or fifteen minutes, the kid gets up and heads for the bedroom. I know he's slipping in between the sheets and I feel my cock come back to life, getting ready for another round. I remind myself not to get carried away - last time I almost kissed him. I stopped myself just in time - he'd pressed his face close to mine and my eyes were closed, I opened them and saw the wrong lips coming toward me and I'd jerked away. "No," I'd choked - I remember that I choked on the word, and the kid obediently pulled away. Usually, I fuck him from the back, it's safer that way, but that time I'd wanted to feel his naked chest beneath my own, wanted to watch him jerking his cock as I fucked him. That was a mistake, I won't do that again.

Slipping into bed beside the kid I put a hand on his shoulder. "Roll over," I tell him, and immediately he does. He's a good whore, he might even be a nice kid, though I'll never find out, I don't want to find out, and I really should call somebody else next time. If there is a next time. As I rise up on my knees and straddle the kid's hips, just like the first time I can't resist reaching out to caress his blond hair. But only for a moment. Then I clear my throat, reach for a condom and tear off the wrapper. He's a good fuck. Probably I'll give him that tip after all.