Page 1 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

Atzel stands onthe curb, his right hand casually holding his left wrist as he waits for his employer. The Honduran man is dressed sharply in a black suit, his matching tie snug around his neck. His closed collar rubs against his pale brown skin and is as stifling as it is satisfying, his uniform one in which he finds both pride and gratitude. He mutes the complaints in his mind as he relaxes in the patience which makes him good at his job. Moisture begins to wet the edges of the black, slicked-back locks he keeps trimmed short enough to allow him the professional appearance he deems worthy of his station. He rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the heat causing his pores to open in an attempt to cool his body.

The bustling city is warm, even under the dark night sky, summer doing its worst in the middle of July. He doesn’t need to look up to know he won’t see many stars. In the heart of the Financial District, the great beyond is a mystery lost to the grand architecture of the city he’s called home for more than half his life. The soundtrack of Thursday night’s traffic hums in the background. He listens absentmindedly, knowing he’ll be navigating his way through the busy streets in a matter of moments—his vocation of choice for nearly three decades.

Sweat begins to drip down his back as he nonchalantly glances at his wristwatch. It is now five minutes to the top of the hour. Well acquainted with his employer, Atzel knows the importance of being prompt. He’s been waiting almost ten minutes, sure when Mr. Morgan saidten o’clock, he meantten o’clock. With a few moments left to spare, he reaches for the handkerchief inside of his suit jacket and pats his forehead dry before returning the cloth and resuming his stance at attention.

He smiles inwardly when he spots Khalohn Morgan making his way out of the high-rise building precisely on time. As quiet and calculated as he knows the man to be, Atzel holds a fondness for his employer of five years. While he may not be particularly warm, he has always been kind and fair—even sometimes generous. Atzel, in all his years and wisdom, is certain the power and success which rests on Mr. Morgan’s shoulders is a weight he would never wish to bear.

He watches as Mr. Morgan runs his fingers through his thick, dark brown mane of straight hair; the product meant to keep it in place and out of his eyes now worn away after a long day. Without missing a step, he smooths his hand over his tie and looks in Atzel’s direction. Atzel, relieved for the opportunity to slip back into the driver’s seat of the air-conditioned vehicle, turns to reach for the handle of the back, passenger-side door.

Atzel knows the country in which he resides is greedy and populated with an overwhelming multitude of self-centered people. Somehow, Khalohn Morgan has managed to have all the money anyone could ask for, and yet he still maintains a level of professionalism which repels arrogance and drives his seemingly tireless work ethic. Atzel Zúñiga finds great pleasure and a rewarding sense of accomplishment working for a man he can respect, even if that man never asks him about his day.

Khalohn wastes notime closing the distance between himself and his sleek, black Mercedes Maybach S600. After a full, transcontinental day, the sight of the familiar vehicle and his faithful driver reminds him of the pleasures of home he missed while he was away on business. Though, he can’t dispute his trip to Tokyo was as productive and lucrative as he’d hoped. The shipyard he’s had his eyes on since it came to his attention is now another acquisition bearing his name.

The contract he’d been waiting for, since his plane landed earlier that morning, finally appeared in his inbox a half an hour ago. Ordinarily, he would dive into the numbers associated with his future plans for his new investment straight away; but tonight, he feels he’s earned the right to unwind. It’s been nearly two weeks since he’s had the opportunity to indulge his body’s sexual appetite, a truth he wishes to rectify as soon as possible.

“Atzel,” he greets politely with a dip of his chin.

“Good evening, Mr. Morgan,” his driver replies with a nod.

His slight Honduran accent wraps itself around the curve of every vowel he speaks. He’s never admitted it to himself, but it’s the finer attributes of the man who travels with him all over the city which Khalohn finds endearing. Being an observant creature who appreciates the details, he’s never taken for granted the heritage found in Atzel’s manner of speech; or the bags under his eyes, denoting his years of dedicated and tireless service; or the wrinkles that crinkle his skin at the end of his thick, graying eyebrows when a hint of a smile lights up his dark brown eyes.

Khalohn reaches for the button holding his navy-blue Armani suit jacket in place, and Atzel is quick to step behind him and help him out of the garment. Khalohn murmurs athank youas he folds himself into the backseat, and Atzel carefully hangs the jacket on the hook behind the front passenger seat.

Before he can shut the door, Khalohn—not bothering to look away from the phone he extracts from his pocket—announces his desired destination.

“Lower Manhattan, please.”

Atzel nods, a gesture not seen yet far from lost as he replies, “Yes, sir.”

There is no judgement in his tone any more than there is shame to be found in Khalohn’s demand. Neither is there a need for him to offer a more specific end point. There is only one place he ever frequents in Lower Manhattan at such a time of night.

Fifteen minutes after Atzel gets behind the wheel, he places the vehicle in park and hops out onto Broadway. Clandestine’s Closet is inconspicuously located between a yoga studio and a high-end home goods boutique. As he steps out of the backseat and up onto the sidewalk, Khalohn pays no attention to either establishment, long since closed for business at this hour. He slips his phone into his pant pocket and then allows Atzel to help him into his jacket. Craning his neck slightly, Khalohn pulls at his cuffs as he admires the light pouring from the windows of the two-story lingerie store he intends to enter.

“Stay close,” he instructs, running the back of his fingers along the side of his bearded cheek. “I won’t be all night. I’d like a few hours at home before I return to the office.”

“As you wish, Mr. Morgan.”

With an air of familiarity, and the confidence only money can buy in an establishment such as this, Khalohn climbs the steps leading to the black front door. He crosses the threshold, and the beat of “Jealous” by Nick Jonas reverberates over the sound system—the bass matching the calm rhythm of Khalohn’s heart as he maneuvers his way through the racks of woman’s underthings. He can feel the staff of both men and woman, dressed all in black attire, eyeing him as he passes without so much as a cursory glance. Not one of them bothers to offer him assistance, well aware he’s not interested in purchasing the merchandise available on the main floor.

The thick, black, velvet curtain which hangs across the tall archway at the rear of the store is drawn closed, as it usually is upon his arrival. He parts the heavy material with a small flick of his wrist, slipping through and stepping into the back hallway. As the drapes close behind him, the music that fills the store is dampened. He pauses for a moment, looking over his shoulder to ensure he’s alone. Satisfied when the curtains don’t part open after him, he shifts his focus.

In front of him are two doors—one on his far left, the other on his far right, each respectively markedhisandhers. With no need to relieve himself, he approaches the large antique mirror situated between the restrooms. The vintage glass is framed in a distressed gold, ornate, wooden frame. To the ignorant, it appears as nothing more than an old mirror in an otherwise modern and upscale themed décor. Khalohn approaches the wall piece and stares right through it.

“Joseph Bonaparte,” he speaks, certain the password will grant him the access he seeks.

He listens for the sound of the click, signaling his ability to enter. When he hears it, he gently presses on the left side of the mirror. The heavy, two-way glass eases open, and Khalohn steps over the bottom of the ornate frame and into the parlor of Clandestine’s—his intended destination. As soon as he’s inside, the mirror eases back in place, locking with anotherclick.

“Mr. Morgan,” greets the man behind the extravagant, gold reception desk. He doesn’t wait for Khalohn to respond before he turns to open a chest mounted on the wall. He extricates the same, long skeleton key Khalohn receives each visit and slides it across the counter.

The man moves with more grace than half the women Khalohn knows. His dark hair is grown long and styled in an up-do which can be ascribed as nothing short of feminine. Yet, with his face void of any makeup, and the tailored black suit he wears showcasing his tall, lean frame, Khalohn has never labeled Stefano as merely queer. On the contrary, it’s not difficult for Khalohn to imagine him in an entirely different era. He fits the part of doorman in such a way that makes it almost impossible for one to enter Clandestine’s without feeling as though they are traveling through time.

“I trust you will find everything to your satisfaction. Your fee this evening will be the same as usual, and payment will be extracted at the end of your session.”

Khalohn nods, knowing how the transaction is conducted. In the last two years, it hasn’t changed. Regardless, he doesn’t dispute the man. He reaches for the key, slipping it into his pocket as he begins his journey down the narrow stairwell and through the underground maze of the exclusive bordello.

The walls are painted a dark purple, the sconces which hang throughout the corridors so dimly lit, it’s as if he’s walking through the shadows of secrets only the walls know. Each door he passes is an entryway into a realm of intimate pleasures—pleasures in which only those who have the wealth to indulge may partake; pleasures of those who are not bound by the shame of their indiscretions; pleasures which are so often left to the imaginations of the less fortunate.

Khalohn knows his way through the halls well, the room at the end of the fourth passageway one he has ensured is all but his. When he arrives, he doesn’t hesitate to insert the key, twisting it until the lock slides free. He opens the door and steps inside, not bothering to look around as he shuts the barrier behind him. He sets the key on the antique, French side table just beyond the entry, and then begins to shrug his way out of his jacket.

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