Either way, I’ve bullshitted my way to the next level, where it’s imperative that I gather as much data as I can as quickly as possible. This is my selection pool. I need to determine if what I’m looking for is here and then move on. Ideally, without leaving behind any lasting impression of myself.

As we reach the velvet rope, the bouncer gives me a hard once-over. Ultimately, he unhooks the rope, decidedly admitting me entry. I am worthy…for now.

Ericson does a brief introduction to his colleagues. The escorts get no introduction. Braxton Falcone—chief financial advisor at Ericson’s firm—offers me the seat next to his along the L-shaped lounge seats.

“So what’s your story, Lawson?” Braxton asks me, as his gaze tracks a brunette in a sequin miniskirt dancing provocatively in front of us.

I smooth my palms over my jean-clad thighs and blow out a breath. “No story, really. Just here to enjoy myself.”

“Good man.” He grabs the brunette by the ass and parks her on his lap. She giggles and proceeds to grind atop him in an impromptu lap dance. “That’s exactly my plan.”

As the music thumps and lights pulse, I take a quick inventory of the men around the table. All but one wear wedding bands. All look as if they’ve just come from the office; they probably rarely don anything other than power suits.

There’s banter about tonight’s fight—an underground MMA fight, from what I gather—and shop talk about politics. But otherwise nothing to hone in on. The club music abruptly switches tempo to a slower, more seductive beat, and I let my gaze roam to the blonde from the bar. She’s seated near Ericson, but she’s not gyrating like the rest of her flock.

She’s reclined back against the seat, her long legs crossed, her slinky black dress slit up the side to show off a slip of skin. The room moves around her, yet she remains still, a vibrating current humming with her own frequency.

To the average man, the average observer, she’s a sexy escort, a seductress. However, if you look closely, you realize she’s set apart from the rest. She doesn’t fit in with her surroundings.

And, even though she’s trying to be inconspicuous, I notice how her attention is acutely focused on Ericson’s drink. Every time he turns to remark to one of his pals, her gaze darts to his martini.

Her predatory gaze captures me. Caught. I don’t look away, though. I hold her eyes, a stare-off that neither one of us wants to lose.

“Want a dance, baby?”

One of the ladies in a skin-tight dress moves above me. I look up at her and smile. I can’t deny her offer—that would appear strange, suspicious, as this is precisely the reason Ericson invited me to the VIP lounge.

“Absolutely,” I say, and try to make myself comfortable as she begins to roll her hips.

She lowers herself above me, propping her hands on my shoulders, effectively blocking my view of the blonde. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Sophie,” she tosses out. No last name. First name most likely fake. I already know her profession. What do you talk to escorts about while they’re grinding against your dick?

Next to me, Braxton doesn’t have the same dilemma. He’s comfortable in his stoic nature as he reclines farther to allow the girl to take charge. I try to mimic his posture and cool demeanor, taking advantage of the silence to observe.

Everyone here is preoccupied with drinks and dancing escorts. It’s not an ideal environment to discern traits. I need an inciting incident to draw out a reaction—something I can scale and measure.

“Oh—” The girl on my lap startles. “Are you turned on, baby? What’s this…?” Her hand goes to my pocket, and I realize she’s referring to my watch.

“It’s nothing.” I catch her wrist. She smiles seductively, then starts to writhe her hips again. I slide the watch deeper into my pocket, noticing the blonde studying my every move.

As if the gods hear my plea, Ericson turns his attention to his date. He’s ready to play. I watch as he drapes an arm around the blonde’s shoulders, lays his hand on her thigh. Then progresses to inch higher…

The woman places her hand over his to stop his advance. Interesting. However, Ericson isn’t as amused by her peculiar behavior. He pushes her knees apart and slides his hand up her inner thigh.

My shoulders tense. Before anyone else notices their altercation, the woman grabs hold of his tie and pulls him close. There’s a whispered exchange where Ericson smiles, chuckles, then returns to his drink and the conversation to his right.

I take a chance. “Who’s your friend over there?” I nod to the blonde.

The woman on top of me grins. “Oh, you like blondes.” She happens to be a brunette. “I don’t know, baby. Goes by Lilah, but she’s not with our company. That guy ordered her himself. Guess he wanted something particular.”

Don’t we all.

The song ends, giving way to a faster tempo, and I nod my thanks to the escort. The blonde—Lilah—narrows her gaze on me from across the table, then politely excuses herself. She grabs a silver clutch from the seat next to her and wanders out of the lounge.

She’s not part of the pack; a lone wolf. All the other escorts are from the same company, but apparently, Ericson rented his date from another—why? Did he desire a more assertive, dominating escort? No, I highly doubt that. Everything about his personality states he demands to be the one in control.

Based on what I do know, I can make a general hypothesis:

Lilah does exhibit a few of the desired characteristics, but our brief time together this evening won’t allow for a full evaluation of the Dirty Dozen scale—a psych eval of the twelve most prominent traits to determine if a person fits the dark triad.

Machiavellianism.

Narcissism.

Psychopathy.

I would imagine that all escorts demonstrate a tendency toward Machiavellianism. They need a certain level of manipulative tactics to control their clientele. It’s just plain survival instinct.

But when we account for the other two traits on the triad, how does she score?

Psych has never been my strength. Math is my comfort zone, and I tally her up pretty quickly. Machiavellianism = 8; Psychopathy = unknown; Narcissism = 7.

It’s not an accurate score, but my estimations are high enough to urge me out of my seat in pursuit of her. “Excuse me,” I say to the girl, and she saunters off to another member of the crew while I head in the direction that Lilah went.

I take out my phone. It’s darker in this part of the club, making my display a beacon as I tap the app and hurriedly run the scanner. Now, it’s much more difficult to scan for SIM information as phones are digital and signals are encrypted. However, there is a flaw in the system, and if one knows how to exploit that flaw, it’s still very possible. In highly public places—such as a night club—analog stations are used as backup to help with overflow.

With the right software, one can target a cell phone and collect its identifying information.

The VIP lounge accommodates its exclusive patrons with private restrooms. I spot Lilah coming out of the women’s bathroom and head in that direction. The narrow hallway is set back from the main area, offering the illusion of privacy.

“Lilah—” I call out. When she doesn’t respond, I put myself right in her path. “I didn’t think that was your name.”

“You’re a clever one.” She tucks her clutch under her arm and squares her shoulders. “None of the girls go by their names.”

None of the girls. As if she’s just simply one of them. “What is your name, then?” I demand.

“Whatever you want it to be, baby,” she fires back.

My mouth slants disapprovingly. That line doesn’t work for her. My presence here is bothering her. I’m an interference for some reason.

I step closer and slip my phone into my front pocket. “I noticed you don’t seem too bothered to entertain your clients.”