Casual? Business? A date? You don’t know. What is the nature of this evening at your grandiose co-workers home? Trager’s made some passes at you before at work, but you can’t be certain that has anything to do with why he suggested you come over and have some drinks. Perhaps you’re thinking too much of it, but then again, you really just have no idea why he’d want you to come over. You aren’t friends, you’re co-workers.

The clock on your dashboard reads 10:07 PM as you pull up to some gaudy home. Of course he lives in a showy place like this. Matches his ego. He’s Murkoff’s best little bitch. Hedges, massive driveway, a large home.

Trager insisted you come later in the evening. “That’s when the liquor tastes better,” he claimed with a pompous laugh, but you know that was just some crafty way to get you to agree to his offer. You aren’t sure why you said yes to this, or why you chose a nice outfit to wear tonight. You simply do not know.

As you walk up the steps of his home, nearing his sizeable front door, you remind yourself of all the times you’ve thought he was something akin to a shmuck, but something Richard Trager is not, is a pig-ignorant bastard. He’s smart, and that’s always been a little domineering to you.

“Buddy, you showed.”

Trager grins, standing in the doorway, his arms spread, expecting a greeting hug. You can smell the liquor on his breath, his martini in his hand as he leans into you, giving you a kiss on the cheek. Trager then pulls away, gesturing you inside. The ice in his dirty martini clinks as he closes the door behind the both of you. What a lovely place he has.

“Let me get you something to drink. Something to raise the spirits, hm?”

Trager hums, lips to the rim of his drink, gulping it all back until there’s nothing but ice and three olives on a stick. He invites you to make yourself comfortable on his lavish leather furniture while he saunters over to his alcohol cabinet, making you a drink of his choosing. Surely he didn’t just drop some powder inside, did he?