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.