My gaze stays on her while I refer to the bartender. I thought escorts were supposed to be accommodating. “You heard the lady.” I reach into my back pocket for my wallet and produce a credit card. I think twice about leaving a money trail, and set the card aside while I count out cash.

I take a swallow of my dirty martini. “You look familiar,” I say to the escort. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I doubt it.” She lets a curtain of blond hair fall between us.

I have the sudden and instinctual urge to sweep her hair back. I need to see her eyes. I clamp my hand around the base of the martini glass instead. “So, how much do you charge for a whole night?” I press.

“You’re fucking blunt,” the suit says. His smile says he’s no longer insulted, though. He’s stated the facts. He likes to own his toys, and he doesn’t share. Now I’m just amusement.

I can work with that. “I’m serious,” I say. “You have to have a friend—” I toss a glance over my shoulder toward the VIP section. “I’d like to know how broke I’ll be in the morning, and if it’s worth it.” I place my hand over my heart. “If she’s as beautiful as you, I’m sure it’d be entirely worth it, of course.”

As the drinks are set before them, the escort pushes away from the bar. “I’ll meet you back in the lounge, Ericson.”

I watch her saunter away with her drink.

“They don’t like being called out publicly like that,” the suit—Ericson—says. He finishes off his first martini before picking up the second. “Thanks for the drink, but I should follow after her.”

I hike an eyebrow. “Even when you pay for it, you pay for it. Women, right?”

He laughs. “Wise words.” His light-colored eyes assess me. “Why don’t you join us. We have more than enough hosts of the female persuasion to keep you company.”

I swig my martini with resolution. “I think I’d enjoy that. Thank you.”

He puts his hand out to me. “Ericson Daverns. Corporate bullshiter.”

I accept the handshake. “Hunter Lawson. Just plain bullshiter.” Luckily, I always have an alias at the ready.

This earns me another chuckle, and he guides me away from the bar. I’ve succeeded in boosting Ericson’s ego. Maybe he likes the idea of keeping me around to flaunt his wealth, or to entertain him, as if the six escorts can’t get the job done.

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 home 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.