I point a finger at her. “And I want the fucking video from that first little chat of ours, Grace.”
She huffs. “Itoldyou, I wasnotstupid enough to tape that. It would incriminateme, too, and I’m no idiot. Besides, it would’ve been illegal in a way even I couldn’t have skated on. Privacy laws, illegal videotaping, extortion, quid pro quo—all of that.”
She takes another swallow of her drink. “Seriously, Jordan. I might be many things, but self-incriminating isn’t one of them. The ROI isn’t worth the stress of having it out there overmyhead, too. When I get dirt on people, I always make sure it doesn’t implicateme.” She points from her to me and back again. “We’repartners. I told you, you help me with this, I’ll reward your loyalty. We’re going to go far together.”
Unlucky for her, I believe her.
About the lack of a video, I mean. Because she’s absolutely an idiot. Me feeling secure that there really isn’t a video means I was correct to make tonight the night I move forward with my plan.
It takes about ten minutes for the dose I spiked her martini with to start hitting her. I hear it by how she starts giggling, laughing, spacing out.
Playing along, I follow her conversational squirrels and keep her talking, encouraging her to finish her first martini. By the time she does, I’ve already finished my “martini”—which was just water and olive juice and olives—and I mix us refills.
Her habit is to drink three of them, at least.
“Here.” I’m smiling as I hand over her second martini. “This’ll help you focus.”
She giggles. “Yeah, it will. You know me so well. This is another reason Ireallylike you.”
“Bottoms up.” We clink glasses and I throw mine back.
Never one to back down from a challenge, she guzzles hers, too, and laughs as she holds the empty glass out to me, shaking it back and forth. “Hit me again, barkeep!”
I smile and take it from her. “You’re not driving anywhere tonight, are you, lady?”
“No, Occifer. I promise I’m not drivinganywhere.”
“Hmm. Maybe I should make you convince me to mix you another drink.”
She sort of waggles a finger at me. “You’re awfully bossy, mister. Maybe Ilikethat.”
“Good. I’m used to being bossy.”
“Boss me into drinking one more, please?”
This is Grace with no filters, except she doesn’t even realize it. I started conservatively, because I wanted to make sure I had her good and docile and didn’t knock her out before I delivered the final dose. That would have complicated things. I’ve lightly dosed her a couple of times during past visits, to gauge her tolerance.
“If I make you one more, youhaveto promise to drink it. It’s a crime to let good alcohol go to waste, you know.”
With her fingers, she draws a lopsidedXover her abdomen. “I swear! If you’ll drink one more with me?”
“All right. One more. Then the bartender’s cutting you off, lady, because I’ll need to get going before I’m missed.”
She grins and makes kissy fish lips at me. “Thank you!” Somehow, I manage to suppress my revulsion as I return to the kitchen.
Not that she’d probably notice if I didn’t. She’s fairly wasted now.
Working quickly, I pull a zip-top baggie from my pocket. It holds another baggie full of powdered Fentanyl I purchased from one of the dealers at a club a couple of weeks ago, the same night Grace dropped the bomb on me. This shit’s dangerous, and I’m careful not to touch it with my bare fingers. I kept my stash hid in several coffee pods tucked inside a box of them that I stored in a suitcase under the bed in my room, where I keep a few other miscellaneous personal items stored, like some of my books, sex toys, and other items. A little risky, sure, but I didn’t want someone accidentally making themselves coffee and drinking it and…you know,dying.
I mix her a third martini, add the Fentanyl, and dump in a couple of spoonfuls of simple syrup for good measure. It won’t completely mask the taste, but the drugs I spiked her first two drinks with are already hitting her hard, in addition to the alcohol. She’s been drinking soda, too, so the extra sugar in her system won’t be noticed, I’m sure.
Mine is, once again, water, olive juice, and olives.
I carry our drinks to the living room and hand hers to her, gently clinking with her, because she’s really wasted.
“Down the hatch, lady. A deal’s a deal.” I chug mine.
Grace barks a laugh and chugs hers, too. I catch her hand and take the glass from her and safely set it on the table, because she nearly slams it into the table. I can’t have her doing something like that, breaking a glass and cutting herself.
