Mistress Avenue

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Sparkles and Snakes

"I'm sorry sir, Miss Delilah is not here right now, should I leave a message." The timid voice of his housemaid caused the grown man to cringe, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sigh heavily in disappointment as his plans to hear a slither of his fiancé's voice has gone down the toilet. The clock above his head was fast but not too fast where he couldn't say it was late, midnight late. "She went out to dinner." The maid added before he could mouth the question. "With friends. Say she would not be back until later, but I'll assure you Miss Delilah will call in the morning."

"Great, thank you Veronica. Tell Delilah she can call this number back."

"Sure will, have a good rest of your trip sir."

Wyatt gently placed the phone back on the hook before drowning his frustration with the rest of the scotch burning the bottom of his glass, which was washed down with melted ice. Although, it was late, he planned to distract himself with something delightful that didn't involve numbers and complicated excuses. The papers layering the coffee table gave him a headache with just one glance, the room spun, and fire cackling nearby seemed to have turned into the sun. "Damn, migraine." He groaned while pouring more liquor in his glass and shoveling it down his throat to ease the pain that jabbed his brain.

The room was silent, his migraine passed after a few more drops of hard liquor and a pinch of the bridge if his nose to keep his mind from spinning any further. It wasn't until the hard pounding on the door brought Wyatt back to reality, his eyes scanned the room; glossy wood panel walls, the marble fireplace, bed covered in silk and fur, white tile bathroom near the walk-in-closet, and the leather sofa he spent most of his nights on looking at taxes and accounts. It wasn't a hotel, more or less a room in his friend's house that was reserved for guest (particular for an uncle that like old-fashioned decor and hunting), which explained the fur and unused rifles hanging upon the walls.

"I know you're in there Wy, and I know you're not asleep." The teasing voice of his best friend since college has made the room lighter, but only cause Wyatt to groan in further frustration. He wanted to be distracted, but the level of distraction his friend will offer is not authentic stay-in-doors type.

"Go away." Wyatt grumbled like an old man, causing his friend laughed loudly in sarcasm. Giving up quite easy to the game, the grumbling man stormed to the door and opened it with one tug, just one look of his host made him chuckle and shake his head. "What the hell are you doing?"

Dressed fully in a suit, tie, and hat; Carlton V. Buñuel the third was ready to hit the streets of Montreal at such a dead hour of the night. Smiling brightly, head rises high, and nose sniffing the air like some hound capturing the scent of a fox; Carlton looked as if he was a man to take charge. "What I'm trying to do is spend time with my best pal. It's been a month and the only time I see you is for dinner and you barely show up there. Come on, let's hit the juke joint, they serve better drinks than old scotch."

"It's midnight, I'm tired."

"You're still trying to lie, huh? Come on, just for an hour. Drinks are on me."

Wyatt gave a skeptical look before giving in again. "Well, with that let me slap on a tie." Grabbing the plain black tie hanging off the neighboring chair, he hurried the common day routine, put on another layer of cloth upon his shoulders with his suit jacket, and smoothly placed a hat upon his head to make him look like a man just walking out of the office.

Carlton eyed his best friend, who he hasn't seen in over a year, taking note of the changes from when they were young men sharing a room together in Princeton as outcast to now where they're both important pieces in the American system. "You know, it's about time you've loosened up. It seems that fiancé of yours is a good bad influence. When can I meet her?"