And what? Now I was just going to walk away?
Couldn’t do that anymore than I could drag Shea into this life.
Kenny Lane, my attorney, stepped out from where he waited in the foyer, his arm outstretched as he approached. “Sebastian,” he greeted, his salt and pepper hair combed in a blunt part on one side, suit tailored and expensive, the man tall and thin and no-nonsense.
I’d liked him the moment I met him.
I shook his hand. “Kenny.”
He turned on his heel and started walking, expecting us to follow, and began talking as we did. “Martin Jennings and his team are already upstairs. I’ve been in preliminary talks with his attorneys. They seem willing to negotiate, but I’ve sensed some resistance on Mr. Jennings’s part. If questions are asked of you, they will be directed to me, and you’ll direct your answers back to me. Same as with Jennings and his attorneys. Keep your tone mild and contained. Basically what we’re going for here is to agree on a dollar amount to keep the personal injury suit out of court and for Jennings to back away on the criminal charges. If so, I feel confident we can make a plea deal for lesser charges with the state. A fine. Community service. Probation. No jail time.”
He’d already gone over all of this with me on the phone yesterday afternoon. Apparently he felt the need to reiterate.
I nodded understanding as he quickly and quietly gave more directions toward my ear, our dress shoes clacking on the marble floors as we rounded into the hall. Kenny pressed the button for the elevator. The doors immediately opened and we stepped into it.
As we ascended, with each floor the dial flicked through, it was like my anxiety ramped up another rung, like I was climbing toward disaster. One step closer to bringing me face-to-face with a man whose life I’d nearly ended.
“Do you have any last questions for me before we go inside?” Kenny asked.
“No. I think I’ve got it.”
Bottom line, I was going to pay.
Just another bitter pill to swallow, more misery added to this insufferable pain.
At the eighth floor, the doors slid open. Kenny walked out ahead of us into the lobby, and Anthony tossed me one last pleading look.
Keep your cool.
He straightened his coat jacket, I knew more out of nerves than anything else. “You can do this, Baz.”
Not sure that I really could. I just gave him a succinct nod.
Kenny spoke with the receptionist in the plush office, then led us down a hall to the left, pausing for one moment at the obtrusive double wooden doors. With a short knock, he let himself in. Anthony and I followed him into the large conference room.
And it didn’t matter how hard I tried to keep my eyes trained low, to remain neutral and smooth and aloof, my attention jumped right to him. Because I could feel him. Swimming in all that arrogance, contempt dripping from his pretentious ego.
Martin Jennings sat on the opposite side of the conference table, rocked back in the posh black leather chair, ankle crossed casually over his knee. Probably not any older than thirty, he had his sandy-blond hair slicked back like he was giving tribute to a 1930s mobster. Brown eyes were keen and impatient, but his expression was subtle and interested, like he’d perfected the act of schmoozing—flashing that bright white smile at just the right time to get his way, exploiting what he had to offer up against what he was getting ready to take. Though all I saw? The patronizing glare under all of it.
Of course I couldn’t forget the three-inch scar splitting his chin, a little gift I’d left behind to mar that pretty boy face. I was betting he couldn’t forget it, either.
Almost panicked, Anthony looked back at me from where he was making pleasantries with Jennings’s team and the assigned mediator, like he could feel the ripple of hostility curling like acid in the stagnant air.
“This is Sebastian Stone.” Anthony stepped in to introduce me, summoning me forward. And I was doing my all to front all those same kind of pleasantries, giving my best not to glare over their shoulders at the asshole sitting smug in his chair, who seemed to be holding all the cards, when I’d been dealt a bad beat.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” Kenny offered, waving his hand out in a gesture for me to take a seat.
Warily, I did.
Directly across from Martin Jennings.
The mediator, Cruz Gonzalez, began. “I believe we all understand the serious nature of the charges brought against your client, Mr. Lane, and this mediation is in no way meant to downplay them, but rather to act as conciliation between the two parties.”
Kenny sat forward, hands pressed to the table on either side of the documents spread out in front of him. “Yes, we understand and hope to find a reasonable solution for both parties.”