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Summary
Many of the bar's patrons look on in shock as a short, red-faced young man in a lab coat that nearly drags on the ground stands next to an overturned bar stool, shaking with rage, and a Vegas headliner illusionist absently rubs the stinging handprint on his cheek.
“Another whiskey sour for the young gentleman,” Maxwell coolly addresses the bartender, as calm and collected as if nothing had transpired. “Charge it to room 1022, along with the rest of his drinks.” He leans in yet again to murmur in Wilson’s ear, “I'll be waiting.”
“You'll be waiting a long time,” Wilson hisses, desperate not to cause any more of a scene than he had already, “because I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on earth!”
~~ON HIATUS~~