TEJRAN - U MIGHT BE A PLAYER BUT IM THE GAME

chapter one part 2

Grabbing my iPhone, I wowing a towel around my neck and John back upstairs to my flat on the sixth floor.

Stripping off my cloths, I discard them in the bedroom and head into the en suite bathroom. Beneath the shower, as I wash my hair, I consider how to deal with andha. We each recognized a kindred spirit, and it drew us together, two thirteen year old boarders with divorced parents. I was new boy and she took me under her wing. We became inseparable. She is and always will be my first love,my first fuck .... my disastrous first fuck. And years later she'd chosen my brother, not me. But in spite of all that, we managed to remain good friends and keep our hands off each.....until omis death.

Shit. It has to stop. I don't want or need the complication. As I shave, solemn hazel eyes blaze back at me. Don't fuck itup with anusha. She's one of your few friends. She's your bestfriend. Talk to her. Reason with her. She knows we're incompatible. I nod at my reflection, feeling more resolved about her, I wipe my face free of foam. There I gather up black jeans, which are embedded in a pile on one of the shelves, and I'm relived to find hanging a newly pressed white shirt and dry cleaned black blazer. Today I have lunch with the family solicitors. I slip on my boots and grap a coat to defend myself from the cold outside.
Shit it's Monday.

I remember that krystna, my ancient polish daily, is due later this morning to clean. Taking out my wallet, I deposit some cash on the console table in the hall, set the alarm, then stroll out of the front door. Locking up behind me, I forgot the lift and take stairs.

Once I'm outside on Chelsea embankment, the air is clear and crisp, marred oy by the vapor of my frozen breath. I stare beyond the gloomy, gray Thames on the other side of the street to the peace pagoda on the opposite bank. That's what I want, some peace, but that may be a long coming. I hope to have some questions answered over lunch. Raising an arm, I hail a cab and order the driver to take me to Mayfair.

Housed in the Georgian splendor of Brook Street, the firm of Pavel, Marmont and H
offman has been the family’s solicitors since 1775. “Time to be a grown-up,” I mutter to myself as I push open the ornate wooden door.

“Good afternoon, sir.” The young receptionist beams, a flush staining her olive skin. She’s pretty, in an understated way. If these were normal circumstances I’d have her number within five minutes of conversation, but that’s not why I’m here.

“I have an appointment to see Mr. Rajah.”

“Your name?”

“KananKundrra.”

Her eyes scan her computer screen, and she shakes her head and frowns. “Please take a seat.” She waves toward two brown leather chesterfields that are situated in the paneled hall, and I slump into the nearer one picking up that morning’s edition of the Financial Times. The receptionist is talking on the phone with some urgency while I peruse the front page of the paper but take nothing in. When I glance up, Rajah is coming to greet me himself, striding through the double doors with an outstretched hand.

I stand.

“Lord king k , may I offer you my sincere condolences for your loss,” Rajah says as we shake hands.

“Lord kundrra, please,” I reply. “I’ve yet to get used to my brother’s title.”

My title…now.

“Of course.” Mr. Rajah nods with a polite deference that I find irritating. “Would you like to come with me? We’re having lunch in the partners’ dining room, and I must say we have one of the finest cellars in London.”

Mesmerized, I stare at the dancing flames of the fire at my club in King k.

Earl of king k.

That’s me. Now.