Across the country, in a similarly lavish club, in New York City, though one without nearly as much renown, Pete Witten, a bartender, was serving out the usual to the Friday night horde. He worked most nights of the week, as many as he could. Pete was very much of the opinion that you took the work when you could get it, you save up enough, and then you're a slave to no job. Plus it wasn't a bad place to work at all, no sir-ee; plenty of smoking hot chicks around every night with big tits in tight dresses, and the boss would sometimes offer him lines of blow in the back. Not too shabby in Pete's mind.

He was working the bar on the second floor, right around all the V.I.P. booths. The waitresses would take the orders from the rich fucks, come to him to get them filled and then go collect the tips, sometimes hundreds of dollars, just for looking good in a short skirt. Pete thought it was bullshit, he could bring the drinks to the table as well as any of those chicks, but would they tip him half as well? No sir-ee, I think not. Still though, the upper level bar was better than the ground floor. Tips were shit down there too but with twice the crowd to deal with. Up here at least when the rich fucks came to get their own drink, they'd throw him a hundred like it was nothing to impress some chick on their arm. But did Pete care what their reason was? Not in the slightest.

Take William Marshal for example. He was a regular around this club, and a regular trust fund shit head. His father was the CEO of some big investment firm, or some shit like that as far as Pete had heard it. Big Papa was worth billions if Pete's source was right, and wouldn't you know it, little Marshal seemed to prefer this club to all the others in the city. Pete would have been surprised if William had worked a day in his life; everything he had was sucked out of his father's teats. The guy was a grade-A douche bag to be sure, but Pete was always happy to see him in the joint. The man loved to flash his cash around to impress whatever hottie was standing near the bar that night, and Pete was usually the happy recipient.

Pete would never for a second have thought of himself as a friend of William Marshal; he was no fool and knew the way the world worked, and no ultra rich kid like Marshal was gonna be friends with a middle to low income bartender. Still though, he would have called their relationship friend-ly. Pete was happy to talk up the ladies at the bar on Marshal's behalf, help the guy scope out his targets for the night, insult the crap out of the ones that rejected him, and whatever sort of stuff Marshal wanted from him so that those big tips would keep coming. So when Marshal asked him to make sure any drinks the girls were getting were extra stiff, he said no problem. Hell, it was the bartenders code to make sure the hot chicks got good and plastered.

And when Marshal asked him to slip a little something extra into the glass when he'd buy a girl a drink, Pete, well Pete hadn't agreed right away. "Listen," he said. "Fact is, this is a bit of a grey area you're asking me to enter, and legally speaking if I got caught I could be facing some serious shit. So I'll do it for you, but I'd need the risk to be worth my while."  Next thing Pete knows, he's making an extra grand every night Marshal shows up, just for slipping a pill in some chick's drink. Pete doesn't ask for all the details on what the pills are or what goes on with these girls later in the evening. The way he sees it, most are rearing to ride Marshal hard the second they see him flashing the cash around. And he's not a bad looking guy, Pete is willing to admit. He's got a tall athletic build, good clean cut, all-American look to him. He's got a bit of a weasel face, Pete thinks, but he's still willing to bet most of these chicks would love the chance to go home with him, pill or no pill.

William Marshal was in his usual booth this Friday night, with his usual posse of meat-head trust-fund douche bags. All of them looked to be in their thirties, by Pete's estimate, most were probably married, some with kids for sure, and yet here they were (at least once a week, but often more) getting piss drunk, with young hotties in their laps. Part of Pete loathed them, and part envied the crap out of them. Marshal didn't have a girl in his lap yet though. Pete knew his routine, knew he liked the hunt, and these girls had been far too eager to jump into their booth.

Then they both caught sight of his target for the evening as she walked up the stairs and across the floor to his bar. Pete had seen Marshal eyeing her first, and knew by looking at her that she would be this night's focus. It was something in her walk, he suspected; the confident strut she had in those heels. Her short jet-black hair and the red dress she was wearing that pushed her tits up nice were surely a draw for Marshal as well. Marshal had told him he was fond of Asian girls with big tits and Pete tended to agree with his taste. She wasn't stumbling drunk yet either, and that was always a plus for Marshal. Hunting drunk chicks was like shooting fish in a barrel he'd told him one night, he wanted to get the upper hand while they still had sense left in them. This girl seemed to fill all such criteria. 

She came and stood by Pete's bar, and he went over to take her order, already mentally doubling the alcohol in it. But all she asked for was water. Pete did his due diligence and figured he'd wait to see if Marshal made a move before slipping her any pills. She had a very pretty face but there was something oddly serious there too. Pete didn't know what to make of it and that unnerved him.

Plus Pete wondered if Marshal had clocked this chick's Adam's apple, which was more noticeable now that she was close up. It wouldn't be the first time Marshal'd gone for someone with such a feature (whether intentionally or not), and Pete wasn't gonna say a thing for fear of losing his bonus pay for the night. What Marshal did behind closed doors, and to who, were his business, and that's the way Pete liked it.  

It didn't take long for Marshal to swoop over, leaning on the bar nice and close to this girl.

"I hope that's vodka and not just water you've got there," he said to her, talking loudly to be heard over the blaring music. She glanced at him, giving him a quick once over. A smile flicked the corner of her mouth and then she returned to her glass of water and ice. "My name's William Marshal," he continued, undeterred by her cold shoulder, if anything, spurred on by it.

"Annabelle," she said, only offering another brief glance in his direction.

"Annabelle? Well lovely to meet you Annabelle, how bout I buy you a real drink?" He reached over and took her cup of water, moving it out of reach. She turned to face him directly now, and Pete saw the not-so-subtle glance Marshal took down at her tits. No doubt she saw it too. And that deadly little smile remained on her face, but she didn't say anymore. Pete was starting to expect a slap to hit his smug face. "Come on," he pressed. "Tell me what your drink is."

She leaned in closer so he could hear more clearly, "You order your drink, and make it two." Pete thought he could see the man's erection through his dress pants. She had his full interest now.

Marshal turned to Pete, his moment to shine. "Two glasses of the best whiskey you've got here, whatever the cost. Neat. Put it on my tab. Oh and be sure to make them both a double." Marshal tapped twice on the counter (a little code they'd worked out for when Marshal wanted him to put a little something extra in the glass).

"Right away sir," Pete said with a proper smile. He went over to the top shelf behind the bar and grabbed the best whisky they had. Certainly not cheap to most, but to Marshal, not an issue. Pete carefully set some nice glasses down in front of him, his back still turned to Marshal and Annabelle. He quickly removed the little plastic container in his pocket and opened it enough to let the contents slide out into the glass on his right. The pill was already crushed up, so that it was now just powder, much faster to dissolve. It was on Marshal to keep her focus occupied at this point. But the task was done and now he set about pouring the glasses. They looked pretty good by the time he was done, however he was concerned a bit of powder might still be hiding at the bottom of the glass. But there was an easy solution to that.

Pete served them with a smile. "I would give them a minute or two to breathe." And then he faded a few steps away to let Marshal do his work, but tried to stay within earshot. He was able to piece together most of the conversation that followed. Marshal was in the process of asking her what she did for a living, and she was taking about being in the hospitality business, seeing to people's needs, or some bullshit like that. Marshal was good and knew to heed Pete's recommendation, not touching the glasses for a couple minutes. He continued to chat her up smoothly in that time, minus a brief few second interval where some drunk woman bumped into a waitress and sent a number of glasses crashing to the floor. Idiot, Pete thought as the woman backed away, apologizing profusely and then ran away. By the time Pete focused his attention back to Marshal and this Annabelle girl, they had finally raised their glasses in a toast. Marshal pounded his back fast and Annabelle did too. This seemed to have fired him up more and he was starting to move his hands along that sexy red dress, and she didn't seem to mind it one bit.

Then she leaned in close to him so those big breasts were pressed up against him, and her hand was doing something down below that Pete couldn't quite see over the bar. She breathed into his ear, "You want to cut the games and head back to your place?" Marshal's wolf-like grin was enough of an answer. He looked at Pete and tossed a couple hundreds down on the bar, a wonderfully generous tip for the night, but the extra grand would come another time, more subtly. At least Pete assumed it would, it always had. He certainly wouldn't have expected that to be the last time he saw William Marshal, but then there was a lot he'd missed that night.

The two women had played things wellthough, and really how could Pete have suspected anything. He had been fully distracted, just likeMarshal had been when Bethany, feigning a drunken stupor, bumped into thatwaitress and caused all that commotion. And they had obviously both missed Andie taking advantage of thisdistraction and swapping around her own drink with Marshal's. William Marshal would realize the oversightshe'd made, and pretty soon, but Pete would remain ignorant.