But that was the problem. I didn’t know if I still wanted to play.
Anthony had thrown a show together last minute, something to scream Sunder was back and we weren’t going anywhere. Part of me couldn’t wait to wrap my hands around my guitar, to feel the music come alive, to experience the chemistry between the guys and me when we got on stage.
Amid the turbulent chaos roving through a show, somehow I always felt washed in peace.
The other part of me?
I wanted to walk into this meeting, give the bastard whatever he wanted, then walk away. And run straight back to Shea, never turning back.
But that didn’t mean the disaster I’d created wouldn’t follow me there.
And the guys…they’d stood behind me for my entire life. Supported me when I got thrown in prison the first time, back before we’d ever made it. When we were struggling to get venues to take us, begging everyone and anyone to listen to our demos, and sleeping in the damned van just trying to make a name.
They could have booted me then.
But they’d held out, waited for me because none of them believed in Sunder if it didn’t mean the four of us made it up. The second I got out, I’d gone clean, put my all into the band and my brother. When we’d lost Mark, I was sure it was all going to fall to pieces, and with my little brother following down the same path, I’d been sure there’d be no way to mend that kind of break. Until Zee had stepped in and became a balm to all that hurt, even though looking at him still ripped me up inside.
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.”