Page 2 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

He knows he’s not alone, yet he doesn’t speak until his jacket is hung and his tie is loosened. As he begins to unfasten his shirt cuffs and roll up his sleeves, he finally looks across the room.

“You may call me Godrik,” he instructs, making his way toward the woman seated at the vanity.

She shivers and then peeks at him from over her shoulder as she replies, “I remember.”

Khalohn halts abruptly, his arms still lifted as he stops rolling his sleeves. He studies the blonde through the low lighting in the room and knows at once he’s had her before. Furrowing his brow, he studies her closer. He can’t be quite sure, but the expression in her eye is proof enough. If he hasn’t already had her twice, another round would be one he is certain to regret.

“You’ve been here before,” he states.

Slowly, she shifts her body so she’s facing him. Crossing one bare leg over the other, she props the heels of her palms on the edge of the stool and leans forward in an attempt to persuade him with her full breasts, barely contained in the red bra which holds them.

“Don’t be upset,” she murmurs, her voice low in a tone obviously meant to entice him. “One of the girls wasn’t feeling well. I told her I’d take her place. I was sure you wouldn’t mind.” She giggles seductively, running her teeth over her lower lip as she glances down at her lap. Peering at him from beneath her lashes, she goes on to admit, “You seemed to enjoy me both times we were together—and I know I—”

“You need to leave,” he interrupts.

“What? Godrik, I—”

Khalohn doesn’t allow her to finish as he returns to the door. He swiftly swings the barrier open, staring straight ahead as he mutters, “Out. Now. I won’t ask again.”

He listens as she finally stands from her seated position and casually makes her way across the room. When she’s made it in front of him, she pauses and says, “You’ll regret this.”

“No,” he states, glancing down into her pale green irises. “I won’t.”

She narrows her eyes at him but doesn’t speak another word as she takes her leave. As soon as she crosses the threshold, Khalohn slams the door shut. Frustration courses through him as the consequences of his demand settle in his mind. He scans the room, and his muscles grow tense as the memories weaved within his every sinew remind him of what he won’t be feeling for the next hour. The release he was hoping for is now no longer an option—a truth he pays far too much money to endure.

He runs his fingers through his hair and pulls in a deep breath. Closing his eyes, he shakes his head in undeniable disappointment. Khalohn inhales deeply once more, rolling his neck before he shifts his attention down to his arms as he adjusts his shirt cuffs. Once his buttons are clasped, he reaches for his jacket, shrugging it back over his shoulders. Taking up the key far too soon, he opens the door and steps into the corridor.

His anticipation having evaporated, he retraces his steps toward the parlor, the journey not the least bit pleasant. He tries to find satisfaction in the fact that he’ll now be traveling home—a place he hasn’t been in nearly a week—but his body won’t be fooled.

“Mr. Morgan?” Stefano calls in surprise. “What seems to be—?”

“Considering the exorbitant amount of money I pay to frequent that room, I expect my conditions to be met without compromise.”

Stefano’s mouth falls open in surprise, his flustered state making it difficult for him to find his words. “Mr. Morgan, my apologies. I thought—”

“It is not necessary for you to think. It’s simple. I will not accept a woman more than twice. Seeing as you’re the one who keeps the records, I expect you to have a far more accurate account than I. Don’t let it happen again.”

Khalohn turns on his heel, drawing his phone from his pocket as he makes his exit.

“Atzel—change of plans.”

Jessica doesn’t havetime to panic. She’s late.

Jogging the short distance between her and her destination, she reaches for the handle of the old, creaky door and hurries into the back hallway of Moby’s Dive. The dimly lit corridor has become quite familiar to Jessica over the course of the last six months. This is why, in spite of her flustered state, she’s aware of the walls covered in paint so ancient, she’s sure she doesn’t want to know what the original color was. They’re plastered in an assortment of vintage posters that weren’t considered so two decades ago. She’s all but memorized every single one. As she passes by the images of bands ranging from classics to one-hit-wonders, she tucks her hair behind her ears and digs into her purse for her phone. With the device in hand, she pauses and adjusts her shoulder strap, typing out a quick text to her best friend.

Huey. Emergency. Our place. Off at twilight.

After she hits send, she peers at the swinging door situated at the end of the hallway. Blowing out a sigh, she combs her fingers through her dark, maple-brown hair, gripping a fistful at the crown of her head as she wills her trepidatious thoughts to take a back seat. Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls”blares over the sound system, oozing through every crack and crevice between her and the main room—music battling with the roar of the rambunctious crowd awaiting her on the other side. Dropping her phone back into her purse, she shakes away the news threatening to distract her and tries to find her best playful smile.

Tonight, she can use all the tips she can get.

The door swings open as she approaches, and Griffin tosses a towel over his shoulder, his brow dipping in an angry scowl. If she didn’t know him to be so mean and self-righteous, Jessica would think the expression sexy.

She has always been confident, in an entirely different world, she’d find her thirty-seven-year-old boss a handsome kind of devil. Standing shy of six feet, his hair a mess of disheveled, brown curls, his eyes the prettiest of dark green, and his chin constantly covered in a thin layer of stubble, it’s impossible to deny his Irish good looks. His body speaks of the time he spends lifting crates of liquor every day; and if he never opened his mouth…

“Chapman!” he growls as Jessica breezes by him. “Rafael called out sick, and you’re twenty fucking minutes late. What’s your excuse this time, huh?”

“You want to chat about it, or you want me behind the bar?” she retorts. As she enters the dive, she doesn’t even glance over her shoulder in search of his response. It’s not that she’s willfully disrespectful or impetuously rude. She simply knows how the conversation will end should she entertain it—with her working her ass off behind the bar.

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