I almost want to knock his teeth out just for saying my name.
By some miracle, I hold myself in place, motionless, as Vance Haydn hefts his bulky frame onto the stool next to mine.
Too close.
Too goddamned close.
I feel the griminess of his body heat, and smell the mingled sweat and terrible cologne rising off him. His scent is this sour musk that you only pick up around regular cocaine users.
He’s a wealthy man, and yet he looks cheap.
Dark-grey suit, over-starched to the point of looking like plastic. No tie. A mauve shirt open at the throat, exposing a tangle of grey chest hair.
Then there’s his ugly fucking mug.
His broad face is tight and puffy, a contradiction that makes him that much harder on the eyes.
Someone’s getting vain enough to hit the Botox, though. His brows look permanently arched in smarmy surprise.
He might’ve been handsome enough when he was younger, but now he’s gotten a little vain about keeping up with his underage girlfriends.
I’m probably not doing well at masking my contempt as I rake him over.
A murderous rage at the sight of him—a fury I have to control.
Size him up. Play the long game. Then aim to kill.
This isn’t my moment yet.
Oh, but fuck is it coming.
Taking a small sip of my bourbon—just enough for its fire to help my composure—we lock eyes.
“Haydn,” I say as I set the tumbler down with a harsh clink. “Since you arranged this meeting, drinks are on you.”
I hate his crooked smile, like a rat breaking into a cheese cellar.
“And I assume, being who you are, that you ordered the most expensive bourbon in the house,” he retorts and then signals the bartender. “You always were obsessed with the finer things, weren’t you, Osprey?”
I raise my brows, running my fingers along the rim of the glass.
“Was I?” I answer mildly. “Last I heard, I was a money-grubbing piece of shit rolling around in everyone else’s dirt.”
He snorts. “Media can be so unflattering...”
“I assure you, I can be more than unflattering.”
Electricity snaps between us.
Bright animosity sizzling as we stare each other down.
“I,” Haydn says slowly, “would like to think we’re both honorable men.”
“You’d be wrong,” I throw back.
“Talking about me or yourself?” His lip curls in a nasty sneer.
“Yes,” I say without elaborating.
That’s it. Wind him the fuck up. Make him charge like the pissed off bull I know he can be.
“I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. That little blog you run is basically a comedy rag at this point, isn’t it?” His upper lip twitches as he turns away to take his drink from the bartender—apparently the same as I’m having.
He just has to show off by making it clear he doesn’t care about a couple fingers from a $17,000 bottle of bourbon.
“That’s the funny thing,” I point out. “Satire and humor are protected by law. You sure that’s why you wanted to get together? To thank me for the laughs?”
“We’re off the record, aren’t we?” he asks, his eyes darkening.
“We are, and I’m dying to know why.” I take another slow, measured sip. Pacing myself, but also taking my sweet time, fighting to control the narrative. “Most people arrange private meetings when they want to settle out of court—as the defendant. You’re the plaintiff here. You want to drop the suit, that’s on you. We don’t need to talk.” I wait while his face settles into an irritated mask, then add softly, “Unless, of course, there’s something you want from me in exchange for dropping the suit.”
Haydn’s face turns wary now, watching me with cold calculation.
“You are one blunt fuck,” he says. “Perhaps I’m offering you a touch of charity. A chance to pull the article before I burn you to the ground. I know a lawsuit won’t faze you. Your legal team are a group of highly paid snakes, and they’ll pull whatever dirty tricks it takes to throw the suit out. But I have other options, Osprey. You can do the right thing before I’m forced to use them.”
Other options...like driving my brother to suicide?
I grind my teeth.
If I bring up Barrett, I’ll lose my shit for sure and end up with possible criminal charges—and not the kind I can just talk my way out of like I did with convincing that guy not to press a case against Alvin Landry.
Not after I beat the living hell out of this animal next to me.
I take a page from Callie’s book and take a slow, calming breath before I look at him and speak. “Vance Haydn, are you threatening me?”
“Advising you is hardly threatening.” The attempt at an ingratiating smile on Haydn’s face looks more like sniveling. “Look, I get why you might not believe I have good intentions.”
“Do you?”
“After what happened to Barrett—”
It’s like someone steps on a dry twig tucked inside my head.