Page 32 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

When he leaves, he doesn’t bother shutting the door behind him. Jessica watches him go, but it isn’t until he’s out of sight that his words really sink in.

The night is mine.

After she tucks her feet back into her heels and slips on her robe, she becomes aware of a boldness that washes over her as she exits the room. She shuts the door behind her, her hand lingering on the knob as she remembers the handsome man who first opened it not even a half an hour ago, changing her life in ways he will never know.

A small smile plays at her lips, and she lowers her chin, hiding the expression from no one as she starts down the hall. She feels wired. The thought of going home doesn’t seem realistic. There’s too much excitement still lingering in her veins, and she needs to get it out.

Upon reaching the ready room, she finds her way back to the vanity station she occupied before. Sitting on the cushioned stool, she flips on the lamp and then stares at her reflection contemplatively. Earlier, she had been looking at herself, trying to pretend she was someone else; trying to pretend she wasBryn van Doren. Now, as she spots the fire still simmering in her brown eyes, she realizes she hasn’t felt more like herself in ages. The woman she was in that room—the woman who danced for Godrik—that wasn’t Bryn. It was Jessica. It was a version of herself she hasn’t slipped into for so long, she almost forgot what it felt like.

Cognizant of exactly how she wants to spend the rest of her night, she reaches for her purse. She sets the bag in her lap and digs through it for her phone. When she finds the device, she searches her contact list and finds Kierra’s name. She constructs a text and sends it without thinking twice about it. Immediately after, she wonders if her old friend will even give her the time of day. As she stares down at her screen, waiting for a response, she goes so far as to question if she’s still allowed to call Kierra a friend at all.

She shrugs her shoulders, as if to shrug away her negative thoughts, worrying her lip as she continues to wait. If nothing else, the life coursing through her after the show she just put on is a reminder that what once made the two of them close still has the power to reunite them. One minute goes by, then another, until Jessica convinces herself a watched pot never boils. Setting aside her phone, she slips out of her robe and shimmies into the dusty-rose romper she wore to Clandestine’s. As soon as she’s finished tying the drawstring at her waist, her phone alerts her to an incoming text. She’s quick to grab the device and unlock the screen.

New phone. Who dis?

Just kidding! OMG, Jess! Where you be, girl?

We’re on our way to Sound Effects. You in?

Relieved to have gotten such a favorable response, and with an invitation to a club she hasn’t been to for months, Jessica sends a rapid reply. Promising to give her a call upon arrival, she gathers the rest of her things and starts for the rear stairwell.

She’s halfway across the room when she hears someone say, “Leaving so soon?”

Jessica stops in search of the woman’s voice. When she looks to her right, she watches as a blonde woman stands slowly from her seat and turns to face her. The sheer robe she wears drapes all the way to the floor, but she parts it open as she takes hold of her hips, exposing her bright red lingerie and her well-maintained physique. At first glance, Jessica can tell she’s at least a couple years younger than the stranger; but it’s not the woman herself who beckons the hair on the back of Jessica’s neck to stand on end. It’s the tone in which she speaks, as if she knows something Jessica does not.

Her pale green eyes rake up and down the length of Jessica, her piercing gaze making her feel as uncomfortable as if she were still only half dressed. With the most arrogant sneer she’s seen in a long time, the blonde mutters, “He must not have liked you.”

At a loss for what to say, Jessica merely stares at the woman, slightly dumbfounded. As if her lack of response seems to prove some sort of point, the stranger lifts her chin and looks down her nose at Jessica. Feeling uncomfortable under such a judgmental perusal, she decides to continue on her way. The woman says nothing to stop her, but her words follow Jessica as she climbs the stairs leading to the back exit.

She ascends slowly, wondering why the pale-eyed woman would say anything to her at all. Had she simply wished her a goodnight, she’s sure she would have found the blonde beautiful. Now she knows only that whoever she was cannot be trusted. Sneaking through the doorway at the top of the stairs, then stepping into the vacant hallway, Jessica stops to consider the meaning behind what the woman said. She stares at the door from whence she came and wonders if there’s any validity to what the woman implied. While Godrik seemed to appreciate the looks of her, he didn’t seem interested in exploring her body in any way.

The sound of a door slamming in the distance rattles Jessica, causing her to abandon that train of thought. Certain she should leave before she’s spotted by the wrong person and forced to explain her presence, she hurries for the exit. The moment she walks outside, the heat of the day still clinging to the air in darkness, she reminds herself it doesn’t matter that Godrik didn’t touch her. He paid his fee.

He didn’t demand a refund, like that other John I heard Beatrice mention during my interview. Godrik paid, and I made eight grand in one dance. One. Freaking. Dance.

Her smile of realization returns, but this time she doesn’t hide it. This time, as she heads for the Canal Street subway station, she allows herself to feel it.

Khalohn glides throughthe water towards the opposite side of his pool, slapping his hand against the wall before he turns to swim another twenty-five meters. After two hundred meters of the breaststroke, he pulls himself up onto the edge and sits with his feet in the water as he works to catch his breath. Staring into the pool—the muscles in his arms and legs complaining of fatigue, and his lungs demanding an explanation for his need for speed—Khalohn asks himself if he requires another couple of laps. He drags a hand over his mouth, wiping away droplets of water from his beard, then smooths a hand through his hair, remembering the day before.

Monday morning, he woke thinking of Bryn. As if she had infiltrated his dreams, he woke with a desire that was soon followed by an erection caused by the memory of her body as she danced for him. He tried to set aside his desire and ignore his body’s demand for a sexual release by increasing the intensity of his usual Monday weight session in his private gym. While it had gotten his blood moving in a different direction, it did little to quench the thirst she had created in him.

All morning, he contemplated calling Clandestine’s to reschedule his next visit for that very evening. Never had he woken up two days after a session longing for a woman the way he longed for Bryn. He chalked it up to the fact that he hadn’t yet touched her. It was that reminder which forced him into a cold shower. He intended to take his time with her, which meant he needed to be in control. Even with his mind made up to practice patience, it wasn’t until he was able to immerse himself in work that he was able to operate with a clear mind.

Now, as his breathing grows steady, he can’t ignore the excitement of knowing tonight he will touch the woman who has managed to consume his idle thoughts. There’s an almost palpable satisfaction in his intention to bring her pleasure the likes of which she will experience in no other room at Clandestine’s. With every other woman he’s had, his reputation has proceeded him; however, his reputation means nothing to a woman who has not had to endure the selfish demands of the other clientele. He is certain he’s not wrong to believe the average buyer to roam those underground halls is more concerned with what can be taken rather than given. But he remembers her eyes—Bryn’s curious and timid brown eyes—not tarnished by the hardness he’s seen more times than he can count.

It’s not the timidity you remember. It’s not the curiosity or the innocence, either, he tells himself.

Dropping his chin to his chest, he shakes his head and then submerges himself in the cool water. As he flips onto his back, he presses his feet against the wall and then propels himself backwards, his arms stretched out over his head. When he’s gone as far as his momentum will take him, he begins to wind his arms, racing toward the opposite side of the pool. Somehow, he knows it’ll be a hundred and fifty meters before he can chase away the impatience which has resurfaced with the memory of thefirehe saw in her brown-eyed gaze. From across the room, he had seen it—her passion. Unbridled. Unafraid.

That’s what he wants. That’s what he craves.

That’s what I’ll take before I’m finished with her.

In spite of the extra time spent in the pool that morning, Khalohn arrives to work before the rest of his staff begins to trickle in. When the sun is high, casting shadows throughout the streets of the Financial District, the office is buzzing with activity. Khalohn spends the first half of his day in meetings with analysts, listening to presentations, going over projected growth charts and dissecting public information reports. It’s early afternoon when he finally returns to his office to check emails and messages. Maribelle brings him his lunch, reminding him he’s hungry. She offers him a knowing smile, speaking not a word as he thanks her on her way out. He’s almost finished with his meal when she pages him on his desk phone.

“Lorelai is requesting a moment in regard to Pier House Resorts.”

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