Page 7 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

“That kid brother of yours doesn’t count. You hardly see each other, most likely because he iswaymore debonair than you.”

One of the elevator doors chimes open and Khalohn shoots Porter a blank stare as they enter.

“No offense,” he snickers, lifting his hands in surrender. He then presses the button for the first floor and says, “I’ll admit, he outdoes me, too. Three-time Olympic medalist with swagger? That’s hard to beat. Though, I might have had him there for a while, when he was trying to pull off blond hair.” He tucks his hands into his pant pockets, his eyes losing focus as he remembers. A shiver of distaste races down his spine and then he shrugs away his memories.

Khalohn’s gaze flickers up to Porter’s head, his long, dark hair pulled back into a neat bun above the nape of his neck. He’s never really understood his friend’s desire to grow out his locks. Thinking back to the days of his brother’s blond mane, Khalohn can’t decide which is worse. Given Blair was barely in his twenties when he dyed his hair and Porter was turning thirty when he started abandoning haircuts, he’s not sure the two can be compared. It only takes a moment for Khalohn to come to the conclusion that he doesn’t actually care either way, and he shifts his focus back onto his half-constructed email.

“Speaking of your brother, you should reconsider acquiring a few resorts of thewintervariety.”

“I have one,” Khalohn replies distractedly. “In Vancouver, remember?”

“Do you hear yourself? One, inCanada. How many beachside resorts has Khalohn Morgan bought out throughout the course of your career? You’ve got to be nearing a dozen by now.”

Still busy with his message, he mutters, “Last I checked, my broker’s advice was to diversify. I’ve got enough hotels and resorts to worry about.”

“Speaking of, how was Asia, anyway?” Porter asks, the shift in his tone indicating his genuine curiosity. “Where is it you went this week? Shanghai? Tokyo? I can’t seem to keep up with you lately.”

“Tokyo,” Khalohn answers simply. Upon completing his message, he presses send and blacks out the screen of his phone. “It went well. Closed the deal last night. We’ll see what the next six months yield.”

“Well then. Sounds like congratulations are in order.”

Khalohn’s shoulders lift in a minute shrug as he shakes his head. The two men step off the elevator, making their way toward the building’s main entry as he replies, “Business as usual, Porter, nothing more.”

“Nonsense. The weekend is upon us, the weather is forecasted to be incredible, and you’re letting your office head home early—that leaves you with plenty of time to prepare for a couple days at sea.”

As they emerge into the sweltering heat of midday, Khalohn looks for Atzel and the Maybach he knows awaits them. When he spots the man standing on the curb, he nods in his direction, signaling Porter where to go, all the while reading through his friend’s thinly veiled suggestion.

“I’ve been away for nearly a week. I’ve got things to see to this weekend.”

“Things? Come on, Khalohn. You don’t do your own laundry; you don’t clean your condo or handle your own grocery shopping—what could you possibly need to see to this weekend that can’t wait until Monday?”

“If you want the Monte Carlo for the weekend, why don’t you just ask?”

Atzel nods in greeting before swiftly opening the back, passenger door. Khalohn returns the gesture, unbuttoning his jacket as he folds into his seat with ease. When he reaches for his own door, Atzel correctly interprets the act as his permission to hurry around the rear of the Mercedes to open Porter’s door.

“I’m not so selfish that I would ever ask to borrow your exquisite MCY96 without first thinking of you,” he says, occupying the seat beside Khalohn. A soft thump fills the car as they’re closed inside the vehicle. “It is your yacht, after all. A treasure you so rarely use yourself. It’s a travesty, really.”

“When I return to the office, I’ll notify the crew. I’m sure they can have her ready to set sail within a couple of hours. She’s yours for as long as you have the time.”

“Thank you. I mean that, and you know it. I hope you also know I’m getting you out on that damn boat at least once before summer’s end. It won’t kill you to take a long weekend every now and again.”

“Excuse me. Where to, Mr. Morgan?” Atzel kindly interrupts.

Khalohn looks to Porter, who rattles off the name of some restaurant before his phone begins to ring.

“Take it,” says Khalohn as Atzel pulls into traffic. “I insist.”

While Porter speaks, Khalohn tunes out the sound of his voice and stares out the window. For a moment, he doesn’t think about business or the work he intends to do over the weekend. He finds himself contemplating Porter’s lifestyle—the lifestyle one might presume Khalohn, himself, should be living.

In truth, he is wholly aware of his status. Over the last few years, he’s purposefully acquired the possessions which seem necessary for a man of his caliber to accumulate. If nothing else, he has a reputation to maintain in the business sphere in which he thrives. Except, Khalohn’s never really found lasting pleasure in the things money can buy. While he appreciates the cut of his tailored, designer suits, and he finds value in the luxurious home he’s purchased, while he regularly indulges in the rendezvous he buys at Clandestine’s, his list of possessions is not what fulfills him. He has it all, but it’s not what drives his efforts.

If anything, the more he acquires only further proves the void he so often feels cannot be satisfied withthings. Not even the people who surround him are capable of giving his life meaning. It is his productivity, his success, hisnamewhich fuels his desire to build—not for the sake of money, but for the integrity of worth. He endeavors to immerse himself in the task of finding something of real value and unearthing it. Over and over again, he seeks, and he finds. It is tireless, but it’s the path he’s chosen, and he doesn’t regret it.

Khalohn gathers thelast of his things into the banker box on top of his desk, then slides the lid on top. He hardly notices the furtive glances being thrown his way, too distracted by his own boldness and the high that makes him feel on edge.

On the edge is exactly where I am—the edge of possibility; the edge of the future; the edge ofeverything.

He doesn’t speak a word of farewell to anyone, his mind reeling as he begins to take his leave. He’s known, since he enrolled in Columbia’s Business School three years ago, he was one day going to forge his own way and start his own firm. Blakney Properties was a steppingstone from the start. It was his first opportunity to get his feet drenched in his area of expertise after he’d earned his MBA. It was his chance to make a home in the city. It was where he belonged—until five minutes ago.

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