James Fleet snapped his fingers at the barmaid and indicated another round of whiskey cokes for him and his friends. She smiled while muttering “arsehole” under her her breath, but he was tipping big so she got the drinks on the bar quicker than usual.
Fleet and his two friends had been drinking and snorting coke heavily since they had concluded a lucrative day of trading at their city firm Pierce and Pierce. Thirty pound cocktails at Fluties had kicked off the evening, they’d skipped dinner and hit a few trendy bars where they’d mixed with colleagues and rivals bragging and backslapping while necking imported lager, and now they were at McGregors; notorious meat market and pick up joint looking to finish the night either by bagging some pussy or in drunken oblivion.
Fleet took a big slurp of his drink and loosened his silk LaCroix tie as he scanned the busy dance floor. He was the alpha male of the trio; richer, posher and more highly rated in the form, so he generally got the first shot at any girls that caught their fancy.