by Trisha Wolfe
I recline back in my chair and lace my fingers together, my mind diving deep into the plot. I like to watch it play out mentally, like on a TV screen, so I can visualize the outcome. It helps me uncover any obstacles and required contingencies.
The art of revenge is all about knowing your target. Know what will hurt them. The design of the retaliation has to be appropriately measured in direct and equal comparison to the slight against their victim…my client.
You can’t just spread a rumor about someone on social media. Or slap some graffiti on a billboard. That’s artless, and frankly, lazy.
No, as a bully, Ericson Daverns needs his face pushed into an ant bed.
Identify
Alex
The sound of the ticking secondhand is the soundtrack to my life.
I flip out the pewter pocket watch from my jean pocket. Click the spring cover open. It’s too dark to see the exact time, too loud in the night club to actually hear the tick, but checking the timepiece is a compulsion. It reminds me of why I’m here—that time is limited.
The tension in my shoulders eased, I tuck the watch into my pocket. Then I sip the club soda on the tiny industrial table before me. The club erupts with a pulse of flashing lights and a foghorn, sending a splintering shard through my skull. The clustered bodies on the dance floor gyrate even closer, hands lifted in the air, as if praising the god of debauchery.
The scene is ironic. In ancient Egypt, dance was used to tell the story of the gods—how the mother of creation established order through her song and dance. The ancients often danced in near-nude attire. They didn’t view nudity the way we do now; lust wasn’t a mortal sin.
As I look around at all the bare mid-drifts and revealing skin meant to lure in, a caustic thought comes to mind, how two thousand years of religious pruning has influenced civilization. Where once the body was worshiped and not viewed as a lecherous sexual device, being told no, do not look, touch, want has made the human anatomy the most sinful desire in the modern world.
Everybody wants a taste of the forbidden.
Unless you have a higher purpose—one that makes you immune to temptation.
As such, this isn’t my typical type of hangout. I don’t “hang out.” Maybe I should’ve brought someone with me, looked less suspicious, less like a creep. But again, time.
I don’t have enough of it to waste.
At thirty-seven, I’ve been alive for 13,608 days. I’m in good health, so if I die of natural causes, that leaves me approximately 15,592 days left…if my mind holds out to age eighty.
My father died of a heart attack at age sixty-four. The men on my mother’s side have battled testicular cancer. I get regular check-ups, and my blood pressure is decent. Foregoing any unanticipated diseases or accidents, I could gain an extra few years out of my life expectancy.
A minimum of thirty-five years left to develop a cure.
To the average person, thirty-some-odd years may seem like plenty—but when speaking scientific breakthrough, a lifetime is hardly enough.
As I mentally break down the math, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look at the woman in a black slinky dress to my right.
“You look deep in thought,” she says. Her eyes are heavily rimmed in black kohl, her smiling lips red and plump. The dress is tight and leaves nothing to the imagination.
Buying time, I take another swallow of soda. Then: “I’m not interested.” I turn my attention to the front door of the night club. I waited in line for two hours to get inside. I’m not missing a single person that passes through.
I can just make out her offended scoff over the blaring music, but the “asshole” is perfectly audible as she storms away.
I’m sure she’s on her way to her friends to complain about the asshole who blew her off, and that’s fair. She and her friends are not what I’m searching for. The first step in the scientific method is to identify.
I’ll know it when I see it.
After another few minutes, the bouncer unhooks the velvet rope and admits a group of suits. Four men in black tailored business attire. Expensive. Important. This piques my interest, and I watch as they lead six women to the VIP lounge on the second level.
I watch them as they order drinks. I watch them as they grope the women. This really isn’t their kind of scene either…but they’re not here to pick up women, like every other single man that ventures to a night club. And the women aren’t here to be picked up. They’ve already been paid for the night. They’re escorts.
To the keen observer, these men are celebrating. I grab my drink and weave a path through the undulating bodies toward the other end of the club. A rope separates the VIP section, and another bouncer-type guards that post.
I smile at the burly man. His facial muscles are carved in steel. I’m not getting past him. Noted. Instead, I take up the empty seat on the leather bench directly below the elevated VIP section. The only thing blocking the VIPs off is a black metal rail; it’s not soundproof.
I catch fragments of their conversation, but it’s not enough to form a conclusion. They had bet on a fight of sorts and their contender won. They plan to blow a lot of money tonight. Frustrated, I push back against the cushioned seat and wait.
Here’s the thing: I’m searching for particular traits. It would be easier and much wiser for me to search out these exacting qualities and behaviors in a less conspicuous location. Like a homeless shelter. Or back alley. Few notice when a vagrant goes missing.
But that pool is lacking in the characteristics I covet the most.
Lack of empathy.
Superficial charm.
Grandiose sense of self-worth.
Shallow affect.
These individuals are more prone to climb the corporate ladder than fester in an alley. Their disregard to human compassion sets them apart, gives them the tools necessary to achieve greater heights, like a surgeon, or CEO of a fortune 500.
Like my friends in the VIP lounge.
Then when the scope is narrowed even more, there’s the crucial criminal element. As this particular person already believes they’re above the law, that the rules don’t apply to them, they have no qualms in breaking the rules to justify their end.
My tumbler of club soda slides across the tabletop to draw my focus. The condensation has pooled around the glass to create a suction effect. Distracted, I absentmindedly push the glass from side to side, and almost miss my chance.
One of the suits passes me on his way to the bar. Accompanying him is one of the escorts. I abandon my seat and club soda and make my way to them.
As he flags a bartender, I push in beside the couple at the bar top. I hear him order a martini, so I do the same. “Dirty,” I add. The woman with blond hair sends me a guarded, curious look.
I’m taken off-guard for a moment. Saying she’s beautiful would be a lame attempt to describe her. The way the LED lights cast her features in an iridescent hue…she’s some unearthly creature. Some goddess from a myth.
I’m not one to favor superficial beauty. I’d like to think I’m not that shallow—but I admit, I’m stunned. Because there’s a gravity to her sea-green eyes that startles me.
An ache builds in my chest, and I release the breath I’ve held for too long.
“I noticed your party up there,” I say to her, pitching my voice over the music, but also trying to gain the attention of the guy next to her. “What are you celebrating?”
She outright ignores me, turning her gaze ahead. To the man beside her, she delicately touches his arm and whispers in his ear. He laughs, and I’m supposed to take the hint.
As the bartender sets the martini glasses in front of us, I peer down into my drink with a tight smile. Beautiful or not, this woman is an escort, and a barricade I have to get through to obtain my objective.
“How much for the night?” I ask pointblank.
The suit lowers his martini as his eyes dart my way. “She’s spoken for,” he says directly.
I hold up my hands apologetically
. “Didn’t mean to offend. But I mean…look at her.” I cock my head, trying to get the woman to react. “Can you blame me?”
He actually chuckles. Then he strokes her bare shoulder with purposeful intent, a display of ownership. She is his property, at least for the night. I happen to notice the silver wedding band on his finger.
“I certainly can’t.” He adjusts his suit cuff to reveal a Rolex. 40mm. Oystersteel. I know my clocks. “However, not to be rude, but you probably couldn’t afford it, my friend.”
It. Not her.
I nod sagely, sip my martini, and watch the woman. Any escort with half a brain for business would capitalize on this development. I watched them walk in with an escort to man ratio that would benefit her. More paying men in their party, more money to be shelled out her way.
Come on. Do the math.
“Let me buy you a drink,” I say, and raise my hand to get the bartender’s attention.
He shakes his head. “That’s not necessary—”
“I insist. I rarely get the opportunity to mingle with such fine company.” I lift my chin at the bartender to signal him. “Another two martinis,” I say, then look at my new friend. “Dirty?”
“Sure, why not?” he says.
His response irks me. I noted that both their martinis are straight-up with a lemon twist. The traits I’m seeking would not be so passive. I start to order the drinks, when the escort speaks up.
“Dry. Lemon twist.” She says this directly to the bartender.
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 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. How
ever, 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.