Page 6 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

The scent of the Columbian blend awaiting him is enough to keep him distracted for another moment. He pours himself a cup and takes a sip before indulging in a bite of his bagel. As he chews, he allows his eyes to drift out the window. Instead of the view, his mind is consumed with thoughts of the airlines he’s got in his possession. He’s not sure which one, but he intends to expand the enterprise in order to include travel by sea—more specifically, luxurious travel by sea. With any luck, his new shipyard will be building yachts in the near future, an idea he intends to propose within the next hour.

Khalohn swallows his first bite and quickly takes a second. He then wipes his hands on a napkin and shifts his attention onto his computer screen. He finishes his breakfast only seconds before Maribelle pages into the room, reminding him of his meeting. Not one for tardiness, he’s quick to rise to his feet and don his jacket. After pulling at his shirt cuffs, he runs his hand over his beard and rolls his shoulders upon his exit.

Much of his morning is spent in one conference room or another, sitting in on various meetings. It doesn’t go unnoticed the hurried way people leave his presence, anxious to get done the tasks he desires before day’s end. There’s an unmistakable buzz in the air, the heat of mid-July and the beckoning call of the weekend making his employees borderline restless. He glances down at his watch as he walks toward his office, wondering if it might be better to release them a couple hours early. It’s not something he does often, but he’s not oblivious to the importance of maintaining a reasonable level of morale around the firm.

“Good. You’re back,” says Maribelle, disrupting Khalohn’s thoughts. He shifts his attention toward her desk, and a hint of a smile tickles the muscles around his mouth at the apparent state of her annoyance. “Your one o’clock is here,” she announces.

“Maribelle—darling—you wound me,” gushes Porter. With one hand planted on Maribelle’s desk, propping him up as he leans toward her, Porter presses his other against his chest. “Hisone o’clock?I don’t even get a name?”

Unamused, she tells Khalohn, “Morgan, do please get your broker off my desk.”

Scoffing in mock offense, Porter straightens and tugs at the bottom of his gray suit jacket. Smoothing his hand down his yellow tie, he retorts, “Broker? Try best friend. As a matter of fact, tryonlyfriend.” He pauses, smirks at Khalohn, and then grins at the older woman before adding, “You know, deep down, you love me, Mari—if for no other reason than because I can manage to drag Khalohn out of the office for a long lunch every week.”

“Khalohn, my dear, you work entirely too much,” says Maribelle, ignoring Porter as she stands to her feet. “We need to get you out more. Remind me to add it to your calendar.” In spite of her straight face, Khalohn knows she’s teasing. Walking from behind her desk, she states, “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take my lunch now.”

“As you wish,” Khalohn replies with a dip of his chin. He starts to make his way around Porter, heading for his office, when he remembers his previous train of thought. He stops, slipping a hand into his pocket as he turns and calls out, “Maribelle?”

“Yes?”

“When you get back, send a memo to the office. Early dismissal. Four o’clock.”

“Oh, come now. You can do better thanthat,” Porter mocks, a playful grin still lingering across his lips.

Khalohn looks at his friend contemplatively, not at all annoyed by his antics. Over the years, he’s not only grown quite used to them, but he expects them—knowing Porter Hunt’s need for playful banter to be a trait woven into the very fiber of his character.

Drawing in a deep breath, Khalohn shifts his focus back toward Maribelle. He can see traces of the smile she tries to hide from Porter at the corners of her mouth, and he’s quick to surmise the woman’s thoughts. She’s always considered Khalohn a stickler with a rigidity unparalleled in a man his age. While she doesn’t question him often, she never hesitates to challenge him to loosen up on occasion. Even though she doesn’t hold a fondness for Porter, Khalohn sees she can’t argue with him this time.

“Fine. Three o’clock—not a moment sooner.”

Her smile breaks free and she nods before she replies, “Very well, dear.”

“That a boy,” says Porter with a chuckle, clapping a hand on Khalohn’s shoulder.

Khalohn shakes his head, paying his friend little mind as he continues toward his office.

Pointing his thumb over his shoulder, Porter insists, “Wrong way, boss man. Lunch is out the other door.”

“I’ve got an email to—”

“As your friend—as yourbroker, I cannot let your ass hit that chair,” Porter insists, grabbing hold of Khalohn’s shoulders. Despite his smaller frame, Porter manages to pull him back a couple steps. His lean muscle contributing to the undisputed strength in his grip, he shoves Khalohn back out of his office. “You sit down, and we’ll miss our reservation. We miss our reservation, and our meeting is completely spoiled.”

Khalohn doesn’t resist, regardless of his confidence that he could, knowing his efforts would be useless. Porter has always had a knack for interrupting him, if for no other reason than to force him to get a breath of fresh air. Over the years, he’s learned to acquiesce—not merely for the simple fact that Porter is far more tolerable when he gets what he wants, but also because Khalohn can’t deny the truth. The companionship which exists between them holds value. Different as the two men are, Porter is good for Khalohn. As a businessman and a friend, it’s proven to be an irrefutable reality.

“There you go,” Porter teases, setting Khalohn free.

They walk side by side, and Khalohn extracts his phone from his pocket, pulling up his email account. Intent on constructing the message still at the forefront of his mind, he opens a new thread and begins to type as he mutters, “Must you flirt with Maribelle every time?”

Speaking through a chuckle, Porter replies, “Yes. It’s entirely too much fun.”

Khalohn glances up when they reach the elevator bay, watching as Porter hits the call button. “She despises it.”

“Maybe, but sheadoresme. In the end, all women do.”

Shaking his head slightly, Khalohn resumes typing. “Why do I put up with you?”

“You mean, besides the fact that I’ve helped to ensure you remain averywealthy man? Or perhaps the fact that I truly am your only friend?”

“You’re not—”

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