She sat by the counter, looking around. She didn't like to make it that late; usually, most nine-to-five sugar daddies had already left by one, with or without company, and it was half an hour past that already. She had left the club a lot earlier, but thought it was better to make herself more... Amusing to the view of others.

A black long dress, discrete silver earrings, a martini on her hand, and a sad, lonely look on her face. To add to her character, she'd now and then rub her left ring finger, and voilà - a middle aged woman, facing a marriage crisis, perhaps flirting with an affair. And in a room filled with middle aged men, wanting something different than what they've tasted on the last fifteen or so years, that worked like a charm.

Of course it meant she would need to exchange guilty looks until John or Jack would grag his single malt and sit next to her. They would be embarassed, of course, so the whole thing would be a little awkward. "Excuse me, have we met before?" ("I don't know, I think I've seen you around..."), "I think I know you from somewhere" ("Really? I've been wanting to tell you just that since I've seen you!"), "Hey, aren't you Sarah's sister?" ("I don't think I don't know any Sarah... But, hey, didn't you go to Berkeley?"), something like that, just for starters.

Two more whiskeys later, he'd tell her about his boring marriage, how his wife didn't care about his feelings or how she burdened him with excess expectations, how his career made him feel empty, all while she nodded, looking adequately compassionated. She'd then tell him about her absent husband, about how she felt empty after her kids went to school, how she let her career go to be a good mother and wife... Then, finally, after two hours that seemed like they'd never end, he'd ask if she didn't want to go with him to somewhere else; she'd hesitate, at first saying she didn't know it was appropriate... But then she'd say yes. They'd go to his car, he would drive in circles a few minutes, then he'd stop somewhere deserted, and put his hand on her leg, slowly lifting her dress. And ten minutes later, she'd walk away, leaving a dazed, lonely, sad man behind, trying to collect his thoughts, feeling dizzied and satisfied but not quite able to remember what happened. He had his little adventure and she was fed: everybody was happy.

It worked like a charm: tonight, Herman Johnson, an accountant for some bank, she didn't care to listen its name. He had a fight with his wife about their son (was he going bad at school? Or at sports? The clock was ticking, she was more worried about being "home" before dawn) and went out for a drink, or so he wanted her to believe.

Two drinks and half an hour later, they were entering his car, an unremarkable grey sedan. Dana found out Herman (or was it Harry?) was the daring type: he was grabbing her by her arms beofre even turning the keys! Well, the faster the better: soon enough she had her fangs deep on his throat, and he stopped frantically trying to rub her hands onto his crotch, paralyzed by the Kiss.

Dana indulges a bit on Harry's (was that his name?) vitae, but not enough to seriously harm him. He'd feel weak for a week or two, but he'd live. And unless she was forced to spend the blood on something more than waking up, she wouldn't need to hunt again before three nights or so. Three nights she could devote to other tasks.