Page 76 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

I let her get under my skin.

No one gets under my skin…

“Khalohn,” Maribelle calls from across the room.

When he jerks his gaze in her direction, he finds her studying him with a furrowed brow.

“Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” he mutters. “Why?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” she says, pointing toward his desk phone. “When I came in, I called your name twice.” Lifting a single eyebrow inquisitively, she stares while she waits for him to amend his answer.

He doesn’t. He simply returns her stare with his own. Then he looks back over his shoulder, eying the Brooklyn Bridge as he mutters, “I need you to clear my calendar for the next couple of hours.”

“I’ll do you one better,” she says suspiciously. “I’ll clear your afternoon, dear.”

“Thank you.”

He listens to the sound of her footfalls as she takes her leave, and then he reaches for his phone. He alerts Atzel of his impending departure and then returns to his computer to wrap up a couple tasks that can’t wait. It takes him no longer than ten minutes, and then he’s out the door. Atzel is ready for him when he exits the building, and he finds he can’t look his driver in the eye as he announces his intended destination. He doesn’t journey into Brooklyn often, and certainly not in the middle of his workday. Even still, Atzel doesn’t miss a beat.

It takes them nearly forty minutes to get to the address in Bay Ridge Adams has for Jessica. Atzel parks along the neighborhood street in front of the small apartment building, and Khalohn’s heart rate spikes as evidence of Jessica becomes tangible. He doesn’t offer Atzel any instruction as he exits the back of the Maybach, too focused on what he’ll say if the woman he’s after is home.

Tuesday night, she neither came nor went. What about last night?

He makes his way up the front steps the same time a tenant is exiting the building. The businessman inside of him can argue the case that he has every right to be possessive, to be irritated at the possibility of her sleeping anywhere other than the building he just entered or the loft for which he pays. But he’s more than that man. Much as he’d like to deny it, there’s a part of him that acknowledges he has no claim over her. Be that as it may, when he reaches her door, he doesn’t care whether or not he has any right to be there—he’s not going anywhere until he talks to her.

Stefano is inthe kitchen, making a sandwich he assumes Jessica won’t eat. He can’t remember the last time he saw her eat anything. It’s been two days since she called him, begging him to come to the hospital as her mother’s condition got worse. He came immediately. She didn’t need to beg. He’s dropped everything to be with her for at least a few days. Today, if he can get her to take even a single bite of this sandwich, he’ll count it as a win.

When a loud knock sounds at the door, Stefano’s hands go still. Even though he can’t see through walls, he leans to the right, peering through the kitchen opening and across the living room to the front door. He has no idea who could be knocking. Jessica isn’t exactly in the mood to entertain guests, and Stefano hasn’t called in any reinforcements. He knows better than that. She’s got more friends than just him, but she’s too fragile to see anyone else. Beth hasn’t even been gone for a full twenty-four hours yet.

Whoever stands in the hallway grows impatient and knocks again, louder this time. Muttering a curse under his breath, Stefano hurries across the small apartment. Last he checked, Jessica was still sleeping. Given all she’s been doing is sleeping and crying since he brought her home, he’d rather she be resting than roused by an intruder.

As soon as he reaches the door, Stefano peeks through the peephole. He jerks his head back after he catches sight of who’s knocking. His hand resting on the doorknob, he looks down at himself, wishing he could make the man go away without opening the barrier between them. Aside from the fact that he’s in no state to see a client from Clandestine’s—dressed down, in a pair of gray joggers and the fitted tank top he slept in, his hair loose and around his shoulders—he’s without a doubt the man wasn’t invited.

How the hell does he know where she lives?

Stefano seals his eyes closed tight, muttering another curse as he reluctantly unlocks the door. He blows out a sigh and opens his eyes as he swings the barrier open. When Mr. Morgan first looks at him, he can tell he doesn’t recognize Stefano right away. He opens his mouth to say something; but when he immediately closes his mouth instead, Stefano sees the recognition in his blue eyes.

“What are you doing here?” asks Mr. Morgan.

“You stole my line.”

It’s not normally how Stefano would speak to a client, but they aren’t underground—they’re above it. In the present moment, he’s not a gatekeeper, he’s a best friend. With this in mind, he holds Mr. Morgan’s gaze unflinchingly.

Khalohn struggles tofind his words. The juxtaposition between fantasy and reality is uncanny. It’s not lost on him how the first time he metBryn, it was the man in front of him who granted him access. Now, in a very different place, at a very different time, with very different intentions, it’s the same man through whom he must pass. The same man who stands between him andJessica.

“I need to speak to her,” he finally manages.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“As far as I understand, you don’t live here. I’m not leaving until I speak with her.”

“Look…” Stefano heaves a sigh, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. He tosses the long, silky looking strands down his back, holding a handful at the nape of his neck as he explains, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, I don’t know how you found her, but I don’t care. It’s not a good time. You need to go.”

Khalohn studies the man more carefully, the same feeling he had Monday morning returning with a vengeance. His irritation takes a backseat to his concern as he steps forward and declares, “Like I said, I’m not leaving until I speak with her.”

“Fuck, man,” Stefano hisses, losing his composure. “When I tell you it’s not a good time, I’m not bullshitting you. Her mom just died. Please, just—get lost.”

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