by A. J. Thomas
“I heard the transmission from the ship,” Sean admitted. “I was already loosening the first bolt when he got on the radio. It was an accident. It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”
Nate nodded. “Just because something was an accident doesn’t mean that no one is responsible for it. If you rear-end a car on the highway because you’re following too close, it’s called an accident, but it is still your responsibility. And just because someone is responsible, that doesn’t mean they acted maliciously. CPG has more than enough insurance to cover their liability here, and the reason they have it is because working on those rigs is dangerous. I doubt they’re going to let a lead engineer with eighteen years of experience go because of an accident. Besides, I doubt it’ll be a big issue.”
“How do you figure?”
“There are enough inconsistencies in the Republic Sea’s maintenance logs that I believe I can show a pattern of negligence on behalf of both CPG and Malik United that led to both thrusters failing.”
“What?”
“Yeah. There are plenty of maintenance records, roughly twice as many as there should be. The problem, which we have Mr. Alden here to thank for pointing out, is that none of their supposed maintenance could have happened. None. Not for the last five years.”
Sean looked at Cory, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. “What is he talking about?”
“CPG has records of having Malik United perform maintenance in Corpus Christi about every eight weeks. At Mr. Alden’s suggestion, I checked transit records from a dozen different port authorities on the dates in question, and they show the Republic Sea was hundreds of miles from Corpus Christi. The shipyard responsible for the maintenance has matching records, but I have two witnesses who are willing to testify that the records were forged. They said the same thing you did about your signature. Sometimes things get done on the fly, but it didn’t get done by them.”
“You got them to admit it?” Cory seemed surprised.
“I may have mentioned that if they did perform the maintenance listed, they would be a party to this lawsuit. I mean, if it was done at all, someone was obviously negligent in the process, otherwise those thrusters wouldn’t have failed.”
Sean leaned back in his chair, stunned. “Five years?” He gaped at Cory. “But Bruce checked every system on that ship at least once a week. If they needed maintenance, he’d have noticed.”
Cory’s smile was gone, his face pale, but he nodded. “I’ve been on the crew for six years now. Bruce only ever put the ship in the yard when something broke that we couldn’t fix, but he was a bit arrogant about what he thought he could deal with. And I know I’m responsible for it too, that’s why I couldn’t stand by and let them screw you over. They’re going to,” Cory said, swallowing hard. “Bruce has actually been rehearsing lines Harrison and Poole gave him so they can convince a jury the accident was your fault. They say that if you hadn’t tried to disconnect the cables, we could have used the emergency release valve and saved you and the ship.”
Sean shook his head. “Bruce wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t….”
Nate shifted to another folder and pulled out a double-spaced document. “They responded to our complaint with a countersuit alleging the events of June 7 were due entirely to your negligence and refusal to follow Mr. Lancaster’s instructions.”
He shook his head harder. Not only was CPG going to blame him, but Bruce was too.
“I’m sorry, Sean,” Cory mumbled. “I know this sucks. But I wanted to let you know I’ll do whatever I can to make this right. I won’t let the company get away with doing this to you. I gave a copy of the video to headquarters, but I also gave a copy to Mr. Delany here. I’ll testify about what happened, about all of it. I even did a deposition thingy, in case we’re under way when you need me.” He set his hand on Sean’s shoulder and squeezed gently, then climbed to his feet. “I’ll help any way I can.”
Sean tried to say something, but he couldn’t force his mouth to work.
“Call me after your meeting, okay? My number’s still the same.”
He managed to nod.
He wasn’t quite sure when Cory left, or when Hawk and Nate had started talking on the couch. Everything seemed to slow down, his brain grinding to a halt. He was vaguely aware of Nate trying to talk to him, of the soft warmth of Nate’s hand settling over his shoulder.
And then someone slapping him in the back of the head.
“Hey, what the fuck?” he snapped, glaring up at Tonya Olsen, the woman who had single-handedly kept the studio open and profitable while Sean had been stuck in the hospital and Hawk had been glued to his side.
“You spaced out,” she explained, ruffling his hair where she’d smacked him. She’d been working at Hawk’s longer than Sean had been there, and she had forced Sean into the role of her little brother from the start. She was dressed in a pair of shorts and a tiny pink bikini top, although every inch of her skin was covered with ink, so it was hard to tell if she was dressed or not. This week, her short hair was the same color as her bikini. “Who is the living Ken doll?” she asked, draping her arms around Sean’s neck and glaring at Nate.
Nate glared right back, his gaze fixed on her arms.
“Tonya, this is Nate Delany. He’s helping me with legal shit. Mr. Delany, this is Tonya. She’s another artist here at Hawk’s. Without her, the shop would have been closed down the last few months.”
“Damn straight,” she said with a bright smile. “But even I’ve got my limits. You boys are on your own this weekend.”
“Turning off the Open sign isn’t the end of the world,” Hawk reminded them.
“It is when I’ve got three more clients booked this afternoon. You’ve got two yourself,” Tonya said.
Hawk looked like he wanted to roll his eyes. “I haven’t forgotten. But that means I’m not going to be able to drive you anywhere,” he said, glancing at Sean. “Might put a damper on that meeting.”
“I can deal with the meeting,” Nate reassured him again. “You can either come with me or give me a specific amount you’re willing to accept to settle the case. I’m planning to open at just under twelve million.”
Hawk gasped. “Twelve million?”
“Medical expenses, compensation for lost income for the entirety of his career, and damages for pain and suffering.” Nate explained the ludicrous amount with an indifferent air. “I’ve got it broken down in a spreadsheet, and there’s a standardized matrix for calculating a dollar amount for pain and suffering.”
Sean’s thoughts reeled. The company hadn’t just kept the ship under way at the expense of everyone’s personal life—they’d pushed the ship just like they had the crew, as hard and as long as possible, not stopping to fix something until it broke. His right leg still throbbed from his most recent physical therapy session. His left leg had been disposed of in a medical incinerator four months ago. His therapist said he might still be a good candidate for a prosthetic limb with another two months to a year of physical therapy to get his right leg working again, and that was the best outcome he could hope for. Everything he’d worked for, everything he’d strived for, had slipped away in an instant because the company hadn’t wanted to lose a single day of revenue.
And CPG offered less than a single day’s revenue in exchange for destroying his life. From what he’d taken in while skimming the countersuit Nate had pulled out, they even expected him to pay for damages to their fucking ship.
“Is there proof?” he asked, finally focusing again. “About the maintenance?”
“Three witnesses and conflicting documentation from several neutral third parties constitute pretty strong evidence, yes.”
“If you were me, what would you accept?”
“I wouldn’t accept a settlement at all,” Nate said immediately. “I’d go all the way to trial just for a chance to expose them. But what I’d want and what’s in your best interests aren’t necessarily the same thing. We’ve filed the complaint, and we have their
countersuit, but we won’t actually get to court until December, and they’ll file a half-dozen motions to delay the trial. You’d be waiting for over a year to recover if we went that route.”
Sean glanced sideways at Hawk, the question hanging in the air between them.
“It’s not like I’m going to kick you out, kid. The hospital might get a bit bent out of shape about not getting paid, but they’ve been understanding so far. We can figure out payments or something.”
“I can start working in the shop again. You can keep whatever money I bring in here to cover it,” Sean promised.
Hawk grumbled and frowned. “Your only job right now is to heal. I’ll figure something out.”
Sean laughed bitterly. “Yeah, right.”
“I can work with the hospital to postpone payments,” Nate assured them. “They’re usually pretty reasonable, so long as you’re willing to keep them posted.”
“Maybe they’re reasonable with you, but you’re wearing a suit that cost more than my first home. They’re not so understanding with me,” Sean said bitterly.
That was the only thing he’d said that had managed to get Nate’s neutral expression to change—it morphed dramatically into a shocked and strangely sympathetic look. Nate had been so carefully controlled before, he couldn’t help but want to see what else it would take to make him look less like a robot. “Are you joking?”
“No,” Sean said, forcing himself to smile as he studied Nate’s reaction. “Before my mom hooked up with Hawk, she and I lived in an old rusted-out Subaru.”
Nate leaned forward, his eyebrows knitting together. “You were homeless? You and your mom?”
“Yeah. Until my mom started hanging around with Hawk. They were both usually too drunk to think straight, but there was always ramen, so things were good.”
“She does like to drink,” Hawk agreed. “I can’t imbibe anymore—my liver just won’t tolerate it.”
Sean nodded, miserable. “And she couldn’t tolerate sobriety, so we ended up back in the car. The next guy she hooked up with didn’t want me, so he kicked me out.”
“Family is about more than blood anyway,” Hawk said.
“What about your mom?” Nate asked, his voice cracking.
Sean watched Nate’s blue eyes as his gaze stayed firmly locked on him. The single crack in his voice when he’d spoken was the only clue that he’d made Nate uncomfortable, and that was impressive. He didn’t know what possessed him to push Nate, but he suddenly wanted to see how much it would take to wipe that cold expression off his face. “I haven’t seen her since then. She stayed with him. It’s not a big deal, though. She was too tired to move on. She lied and said she was in love, like she had with every other man before him. As much as I wish she could find someone who actually makes her happy, the only thing men have ever been to her is a meal ticket. With Joe, she was sure we’d be set for life. And she’d done all of it to feed me, so it’s not like I could be mad at her.”
“She loves you,” Hawk insisted. “She’s always loved you.”
“I couldn’t magically go back in time and make myself less of a burden. Unfortunately panhandling as a preteen wearing decent clothes was a lot more difficult than it had been when I was a little kid and dressed in threadbare thrift-store finds.” After a few weeks of scrounging for food, he’d been too hungry to care if agreeing to blow some random asshole for twenty bucks was a bad idea. Slipping under the bridge in Buffalo Bayou Park that first time had been frightening, but he’d seen clips of blow jobs on Joe’s computer and it didn’t seem like that big of a deal. That night he was thrilled to be able to buy a huge dinner in an air-conditioned McDonald’s, eating slowly and milking the free refills at the soda fountain for everything he could get. The next time he tried it, though, he’d ended up getting smacked into the cinder-block wall beneath the bridge while the guy emptied his pockets, called him a faggot, and took off.
None of that, though, made for polite conversation.
“Well, I’m the one who gained the most out of the mess. He’s talented,” Hawk said, pulling down a couple of photos of Sean’s tattoos. “He must have done a thousand variations of this butterfly, and ladies still keep coming in for it.”
Nate took the photo and stared at the perfectly shaded monarch that looked as though it had landed on the client’s calf. “Show him your sketchbook, kid.”
“Oh, yeah.” He’d shoved the wirebound pad beside him in the wheelchair so it was always handy. “I broke in here one night because I knew Hawk always had food,” he said, forcing himself not to grimace. “Instead of calling the cops, he made me ramen noodles, so I stuck around. I’ve always loved to draw, and he said I was good at it, so when I got old enough, I convinced him to give me a job.”
Nate turned through the pages past sailboats, sunsets, compasses, and every variation of seashell Sean had been able to find a picture of on his smartphone. The soft gasp from behind the sketchbook made a flare of panic rise in him. Nate had apparently stumbled upon Sean’s drawings of him. None of them were actually pornographic—he’d been too worried about offending the nurses to do anything explicit—but there were plenty of drawings of Nate without the ever-present suits, or anything else, to cover his skin. When he lowered the sketchbook far enough that Sean could see what drawing he was looking at, Sean sighed and relaxed. He was staring at Sean’s nautilus shell, a design that had consumed his attention for weeks.
Hawk met Sean’s gaze, his eyebrows raised. Sean tried to shrug as nonchalantly as possible. If Nate hadn’t actually gotten past the nautilus shell, he could still try to save face. Hawk chuckled under his breath and rushed away to greet a customer.
“These are incredible,” Nate said, his face lighting up in a bright smile as he flipped through more pages. “Why’d you go into engineering when you can do this?”
Sean was too dumbstruck by that smile to say anything. When he’d set out to break through that formal, uptight shell, he’d just meant to fuck with Nate a little. Nate had listened to him talk about being homeless without much reaction at all. His art was what finally broke through Nate’s facade of decorum, and that made him pause.
“Do you actually listen to Metallica, or did I hallucinate that?”
Nate grinned. “I love old heavy metal. And some of the new stuff. But this….” He held up the sketchbook reverently. “This is like the art equivalent. It’s amazing. You going into science just seems wrong when you can create something like this.”
“Money,” he explained, refusing to feel like a sellout when faced with Nate’s mournful expression. “When the free soda refills at McDonald’s are the only things that keep you from starving to death, the idea of financial security is a fairy tale. Working for Hawk is fun, and I love seeing my work come to life on someone’s skin, but I would have made more in one year working for CPG than I’d have made in ten years working here.”
“This nautilus shell….” Nate’s mouth opened and closed. “And the compass is crazy. They’re like photographs, but more surreal. Do your tattoos really look like the drawings?”
Sean blushed. “No. Those are rough sketches. The final tats are way better.”
“Do you do a lot of ocean stuff?”
“Uh, not for other people. Those are all designs I’m playing with for my next tattoo, and I really love nautical themes. But everybody wants tribal shit these days, and when someone asks for something ocean related, it’s almost always the old classic mermaids.”
Nate stared at him over the edge of the sketchbook, his piercing blue eyes full of emotion. It was a startling contrast to the cold, impossible-to-read expression he’d worn when talking about the settlement. “Any of them would look amazing on you.”
Sean swallowed hard, dropping his gaze. “I just want to feel normal. I’ve got so many scars,” he explained. “I don’t want to remember the accident every time I have to look at them. It’s going to suck, because scar tissue is hard to tattoo. The needle has to be set almost a half a
millimeter deeper than for regular skin, and every single scar is so sensitive it’s ridiculous. But I’d rather hurt like hell for a bit than have to look at them for the rest of my life.”
Nate flipped the sketchbook closed and handed it back to him. “Come to the meeting with me? You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. And if you get too tired or start to hurt too much, we’ll end the meeting then and there.”
The prospect of being stuck with Nate Delany for the rest of the afternoon was frustrating and tantalizing at the same time. “If we wait for a time when I’m not hurt or tired, it’ll never happen. But I can’t drive, and Hawk’s busy. If I had time to figure out the bus, maybe, but I don’t see it happening.”
“You can’t drive at all?”
“My right leg seizes up when I try to use the gas pedal. And even if it didn’t, there’s still the whole clutch issue.”
“Ah. Not having a left leg makes that tricky.”
“But it’s my Jeep or nothing, because wrestling my wheelchair into the trunk of a taxi is awkward as hell.”
“Okay, so I’ll drive. Is it all right if I leave my car out front?”
Sean sighed. “Let me grab some drugs and Gatorade.”
Chapter 3
THE OFFICE of Harrison and Poole was decorated just like every other law firm Nate had ever seen, from the light tile floors to the interchangeable tables and faux-leather chairs. The open floor plan was new, with brightly polished desks spaced periodically throughout the room. It was a nice change from the modular cubicle walls at his father’s firm. A receptionist led them into one of the few enclosed spaces, to a conference table where three men in crisp suits already sat. Next to them were two older men in CPG polo shirts.