You're a bartender, and you get hired to cater to one of those fancy parties that rich folks throw. Pretty easy money, all things considered, as long as you know what you're doing. It's going well, No complaints or anybody keeling over blackout drunk. Yet. There are a couple big names around, but not many, most of these people are someone you've never heard of, but they all got that same air of privilege. You look over at your tip jar, sixteen one-hundred dollar bills. You sigh, wondering if you're just doing a really good job, or if this is really just pocket change to them. You're envious, but you don't let it show. You're a professional, after all. And then in walks one of the richest men in the entire fucking country.

I seems you've underestimated just how powerful these people actually are.

He orders something, you serve him, he tips pretty good, and he's very polite. However now, internally, you're panicking, because you realize that if he's here, then these people are on a totally different level of rich and powerful, and if you fuck up someone's order too bad and they're petty enough, they can ruin your life. After a bit, he orders another drink, and noticing your unease, he gives you an encouraging smile. "Don't worry, dear. You're doing fine." He says, his voice smooth as velvet, and softer too. It does help, admittedly. And then, after a little bit, he orders another. Some more encouragement. and then another. and another. and another. and anoth- you get the point. Eventually, amazed by the fact that he doesn't seem to be even buzzed, you serve him another a bit cautiously in case he's just really good at hiding it. Instead of some cash as a tip, he gives you a small folded note. Once you get the chance, you unfold and read it, and your face goes red with blush. You glance over at him, and he smirks, a giving his rear a teasing shake.
"Meet me at my ride after the party.~"

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