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.”
Cruz Gonzalez read through some reports, an outline of what had happened the night I’d completely come unhinged, the injuries incurred, my arrest, and my bail.
Jennings squirmed in indignation and hate as the night was relived. But there was no chance my hate wasn’t so much greater. My displeasure steadily grew, that aggressive coil tightening in my gut as Cruz Gonzalez took us on a play-by-play of that night, what had led up to the snap, the break in my mind that had thrown me over the edge.
It made it sound as if I’d rung the doorbell to Martin Jennings’s house without an inciting factor.
“There are no disputes on either party that your client, Sebastian Stone, was involved in the incident with Martin Jennings on the night of July 13?” Gonzalez asked.
Kenny gave a slight shake of his head, not needing to look to me for confirmation. I was there. I hadn’t denied it then. Wouldn’t now.
“And it’s agreed that monies are due to Mr. Jennings for his injuries?”
Kenny cast me a furtive glance, and I gave him a tight nod to proceed, as much as it fucking killed me to do it. He looked back at the mediator. “Yes. We agree that Mr. Jennings should be compensated financially for his injuries.”
“Currently, Mr. Jennings is seeking two million dollars…”
My mind got lost in a haze as I listened to Jennings’s bogus claims, the entitlement behind it. Of course, he was offering zero accountability on his part, unwilling to claim any blame, just an innocent asshole who got in the way of my fit of rage.