Page 15 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

“Fine. Thank you,” he replies as he continues toward his office.

Khalohn is just sitting down to log-on to his computer and take a look at the reports Maribelle mentioned when his phone begins to ring. Upon seeing Porter’s name lighting up his screen, a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“Morgan,” he answers.

“You’re going after it, aren’t you?”

“Chances are the current CEO is nothing more than a rich kid who didn’t know what he was getting into when he stepped into daddy’s shoes. Now all he sees is his family’s fortune draining from the hole they’ve got in their hull. At the right price, he won’t be able to help himself. It’s like taking candy from a baby.”

Porter chuckles as he mutters, “Savage.”

“Smart,” Khalohn retorts with a shake of his head.

“Tomato,tomato—either way, you owe me.”

“Ipayyou,” he replies with confused scowl.

“Tonight. I need a wingman, and you’re it. Besides, after Tokyo—after the Monte Carlo—I owe you a drink.”

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Khalohn mutters, “After the Monte Carlo, I don’t see why you need a wingman.” There’s no doubt in his mind his yacht was occupied by no less than half a dozen women over the long weekend. He knows to tip his crew generously after Porter has been out to sea. There’s no telling what the clean-up is like.

“The weekend is over, my friend. Today’s a new day. Now stop fighting me. We both know you’re overdue for a night out.”

“Fine,” Khalohn concedes. He rakes his fingers through his hair, more concerned with getting Porter off the phone than a night spent away from home. Before Porter can get a word in, he goes on to clarify, “I pick the place.”

“Done. Text me where. I’ll meet you at nine.”

It’s ten minutesafter the top of the hour when Atzel pulls up to the curb in front of The Critic—located on the banks of Hell’s Kitchen. The high-end club is one Khalohn has been able to tolerate in the past, all the while certain what he seeks for his own personal endeavors won’t be found within the establishment. It is a setting by which a compromise is often found on nights like this one. It’s no secret to either of them how much Porter enjoys playingthe game.

While Khalohn finds it almost as painful to watch the hunt as it is to participate himself, The Critic is worth his time for more than one reason. Not only is it a place Porter likes to frequent, but it’s also a space in which a number of notable, wealthy New Yorkers find themselves on occasion—their VIP status an actuality which must beseento be accepted. Much as he wishes he could deny it, rubbing shoulders with the right crowd never hurt his reputation as a businessman not to be forgotten. And when schmoozing with the elite gets to be too much, The Critic serves a scotch smooth enough to make the trip worth his while.

Atzel opens Khalohn’s door, and he’s quick to step out and onto the curb. Glancing at the line of people who wish to get into the nightclub causes him to remember how much he despises being surrounded by women the likes of which he’s encountered far too many times. He sees it, even now, as a couple women eye him from head to toe. Flattering as one might think their attentions are, all they see are his details. The cut of his tailored Gucci suit, the shine of his Tom Ford oxford shoes, and the face of his Montblanc timepiece. In their eyes, he isn’t a man so much as he’s a bank account—and this is not a notion which has ever brought him pride.

As he looks away from them, he pulls his phone from his pocket. After a couple of hours in the club, an indulgence of his own will be warranted. Ironic as it might seem, the extravagant amount of money he invests in his frequent rendezvous doesn’t cause him to see those women in the same light in which he views the ones in the crowd. When he walks into that room, he is not a bank account, but a man intent on doling out pleasure as he seeks his own. His reputation precedes him in more than one arena—underground, the generosity they speak of holds no monetary value.

Dismissing Atzel kindly, he begins to place a call to an all too familiar number. The line rings only once before Stefano’s voice greets him from the other end of the line.

“I’d like to make a reservation. Eleven thirty. Khalohn Morgan.”

“Of course, Mr. Morgan. And I assure you, the mishap which occurred on your previous visit will not happen again.”

“I would hope not.”

Without another word, he disconnects the call, slipping his phone back into his pocket as he makes his way toward The Critic’s entrance. Bypassing the line, he approaches the bouncer who stands at his post, beside the second set of front doors. Khalohn need not do more than slip the man his name, and he is granted entrance. He heads up the stairs to the VIP lounge and spots Porter right away. He’s standing at the crowded bar, grinning as he leans down to hear the words of whatever woman is speaking into his ear. Khalohn fights the urge to turn around, uncertain why Porter ever thinks he needs a wingman.

When his friend sees him, he raises his free hand and waves him over. It takes only a moment for Khalohn to close the distance between them. As he comes to a stop, Porter straightens, revealing the face of Naomi Gray. She is who most would categorize as gorgeous—Khalohn included. For him, it’s not her narrow, lithe, and delicate frame which he appreciates so much as the unique features of her face, not a bit of it crafted by human hands.

Her wide smile and large, round eyes are enticing; the dark freckles dusted across the light brown skin of her nose endearing; and her long, thick, wildly curly black hair simply exotic. Nevertheless, what she has to offer has never been enough to tempt Khalohn. Even if he were interested in the complications of a romantic entanglement—a sentiment which has not been true in years—her lifestyle is not one he’s ever been drawn to. She’s a Grammy award winning, two-time platinum record artist and a long-time friend turned client of Porter’s.

“Naomi, you remember Khalohn, don’t you?”

She rolls her eyes and nudges Porter’s shoulder with her bare one before she replies, “Don’t be cute. I remember all of your friends—especially the hot ones.” Naomi smirks at Khalohn teasingly, and he can’t help but return the expression. Their history is not extensive, but her attraction is always an offer she’s unafraid to lay on the table, regardless of the fact that he never takes it. “How are you, Khalohn? It’s been a while.”

“More than a year, I’d guess,” he responds, tucking his hands into his pant pockets.

“Yeah. It feels like I’ve been everywhere but home in a while. I had my nationwide tour, my international tour—then my managers had me in L.A. to be a judge for the pilot season of a show I’m not allowed to talk about yet. Anyway, when I saw I had a free week, I booked my flight back before anyone could add something to my schedule,” she admits on a sigh.

“But you’re here now,” Porter says, playfully bumping his shoulder against hers. He then turns his focus onto Khalohn before he says, “Of course, this means she’s totally fucked up my plans last minute. She’s always been the worst cock-block I’ve ever been up against. Wingman or no wingman, this mission has turned into a damn social hour. Either way, I hope you’ll stay—let me buy you that drink.”

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