Trouble in Paradise. Come get what you were after.
The text arrived on Robin Goodfellow's phone from Felix's number, attached to a room number and the address of the Hotel Pullman, remarkably late on an otherwise unremarkable weeknight. Felix gave no further explanation, assuming, after a fair quantity of bourbon, that the invitation would stand on its own.
Most of the bottle he'd demanded from room service had disappeared by the time he heard the knock. Felix flicked his fingers at the door, disengaging the lock with the simplest touch of magic so that the door swung naturally open. He lounged on the terribly modern cream chaise near the sleek walnut desk, and poured a generous glass of his bourbon for his guest without looking up.
He had shed his jacket and his shoes -- the same clothes he'd left the apartment in, of course -- and stretched out lazily in trousers, waistcoat, shirt and tie. The tie was loosened somewhat, the shirt unbuttoned at his throat, and with his bottle in hand, Felix appeared to belong more appropriately to the scene of an opium den out of Wilde's most lustful imagination, surrounded by debauched and glaze-eyed libertines, than the clean straight lines and lush finishes of a modern luxury hotel.
Expectantly, he looked up at the opening of the door.