Chapter 14 #2
“Good. I wanted to check in about the plea deal I sent you last week.” Simon said it casually, but there was something—faint and maybe just a figment of Dawson’s overly paranoid imagination—off about the way he said it.
“I looked at it,” Dawson said. “I’m not sure I’m on board.”
There was a part of him that just wanted it to be over. Let it go, man, that voice told him insistently, it’s over. The only one who gives a shit still is you.
But how could he let it go when it felt like the only person who did give a shit anymore was him?
“Dawson, we talked about this,” Simon chided.
Dawson thought a little resentfully that Simon had talked about this. Talked at Dawson, in fact, but not really about Dawson’s concerns.
“Yeah, you did,” Dawson said.
“Alex and I are in agreement. You need to put this behind you. The last thing you need right now is to dredge all this crap up again. You’re fitting in on the Thunder. You guys are five games in and five wins in. There’s no reason to keep wanting to punish Ackerman.”
This was so ridiculous that Dawson didn’t hold back his eye roll. “Maybe the reason is because nobody else wants to punish him.”
“The plea deal punishes him plenty.”
“Yeah, restricts him to his seven-thousand-square-foot mansion with its putting green, its sauna, and a freaking in-ground pool. A real punishment.”
“House arrest isn’t nothing,” Simon reminded him, not very gently.
He and Simon had been friends for a long time. Simon had been his first lawyer, when he’d gotten to the NFL. A fellow teammate had recommended him, and he and Simon had hit it off. When Dawson had lived in Baltimore, they’d even gone golfing together.
But now, suddenly, Dawson wondered if Simon was on his side.
Why else wouldn’t he want Ackerman to pay the same way Dawson did?
“He stole my money, Simon. A lot of fucking money.”
“He’s starting to repay it. That’s part of the terms of the plea.”
“Yeah, God knows where he got that money,” Dawson muttered. He’d seen it filling back in his accounts. But it didn’t feel right to him, because in his mind, once a thief, always a thief. Anything Ackerman paid him back might be just as dirty as the money he’d taken from Dawson in the first place.
“Daws, you know why he took your money. It was supposed to be a loan, a stopgap measure, and he’d always intended to put it back.”
Yes, that was the official story. The story Ackerman had told Brynn, which was why she was still talking to her father.
But Dawson had never believed it.
“That’s bullshit,” Dawson said, temper rising in his throat.
He paced in his room. Back and forth. He was done playing nice.
Simon should know that by now. Should know him by now.
“He never intended to put it back. He thought he could take it and cover it up and I’d never notice.
And if Brynn and I hadn’t divorced, he’d never have gotten found out. ”
“Maybe,” Simon said, not sounding convinced. “But regardless if what he said is true or not true, it doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters to me,” Dawson argued.
“Yes, that much is clear,” Simon huffed.
“I want to talk to the prosecutor about the plea.”
“Dawson,” Simon warned. “You know why that’s not a good idea.”
“I’m doing great here. You said it yourself. If I want to talk to them, why shouldn’t I?”
“You know why.” Simon didn’t need to say it.
Dawson swallowed his arguments. He didn’t want to fuck himself up again. He didn’t. But he also didn’t want Ackerman to spend the next few years lounging by his pool and enjoying his putting green, sleeping between thousand-thread-count sheets, and never, ever really paying for what he’d done.
“I’ll think about it,” Dawson said uselessly. Simon wasn’t wrong. That was the worst part of this. Maybe he should be prioritizing his own emotional well-being over some potentially misguided desire to punish his ex-father-in-law for his “temporary loan.”
“Good,” Simon said. “I’ll tell the prosecutor’s office you need a few more days, but I’m sure that when you’re back in Toronto, you’ll give the plea another look and it’ll look better, yeah?”
Dawson was not convinced of that, at all, but he would at least try. He owed himself that much, didn’t he? Simon had said it himself, he was fitting in great in Toronto. Rejuvenating his battered reputation. Why did he want to drag it all back out again? He should want to let it go.
“Okay,” Dawson said.
He hung up and flopped down on the bed. For a second he lay there and told himself the story Simon had tried to sell, once and then twice and now a third time.
He wanted to believe it was true. That this was the best he was going to get. But there was a feeling, tickling at the back of his throat, in the base of his stomach, that felt the same now as it had when he’d first begun to realize what Ackerman had done.
Like Simon wasn’t only on his side. Not anymore.
But that would be crazy. That would be Dawson being paranoid again, sure that everyone was out to get him. And everyone wasn’t.
It was a white-collar crime. Simon had been telling him that from the beginning, but also from the very beginning he’d mentioned more than once how lucky all the victims were that Dawson was included in their ranks because he brought attention and publicity to a case that might not have gone anywhere otherwise.
But Simon’s narrative had changed. Now he was eager to get Dawson away from this as fast as possible.
That might be because Dawson had struggled so hard last year. It might be a selfless action—Simon hoping that Dawson could redeem himself and resuscitate his career. Or it might be for another reason entirely.
His phone, on the bed next to him, vibrated, and he glanced over.
It was a text from Cam. It only read 684.
His room number.
Cam hadn’t invited him, but the invite was there anyway, in between the lines.
After Cam had gone out of his way to mention that he didn’t have a roommate on this trip, he’d intended to head over to Cam’s room just before curfew hit, but now he was in kind of a shitty mood and wasn’t sure he should.
Of course, if he didn’t, he’d just sit and stew. Feel worse, instead of better. Because Cam was always like magic—mellowing Dawson’s grumpiness effortlessly, like he wasn’t even trying to do it, it just happened.
With that thought lingering, Dawson picked himself off the bed. Changed into a pair of loose shorts and an old, comfy T-shirt, brushed his teeth, pocketed his phone and his room key and headed towards room 684.
Cam opened the door with a pleased smile. “Hey,” he said. As soon as Dawson stepped in the room, Cam was wrapping an arm around his waist, more touchy-feely than he’d been downstairs. Tugging Dawson against his body until they were pressed together.
“Hey, rook,” Dawson murmured back.
Cam’s hair was damp from a shower. Dawson reached up and pushed it back, tangling his fingers in the waves.
“How was your call?”
Dawson made a face. “Frustrating.” He almost added he didn’t want to talk about it.
Because he’d thought he didn’t. But now that he was here, in front of Cameron, he realized that wasn’t true at all.
He did want to talk about it. He wanted to exorcise all of it, and let Cam take away the sting, one bit at a time, until it was gone.
Maybe he should feel guilty about using Cam that way, but then Cam said, “You wanna talk about it?” in such a hopeful voice, like he wanted to do that for Dawson. Like it wasn’t too much of a burden for him, at all. Like he was willing to take it on, for however long Dawson needed.
“Ugh, I shouldn’t—”
“Yeah, you should.” Cam tugged him over in the direction of the bed and they sat down on the edge of it.
It was evidence of how conflicted Dawson was that being on the same bed as Cam only gave him the vaguest pulses of arousal.
“I don’t want to just dump on you every time so you’ll just make me feel better.”
Cam frowned. “Trust me. You don’t. We’re friends, right? Friends listen, Daws.”
It wasn’t hard to fold, especially since Dawson had realized he did want to talk about it.
“Alright. Well. You know how I told you Ackerman’s defense is pushing for a plea?”
Cam nodded.
“Well, my lawyer is too. He wants me to just go along with it. I’m not against it, but . . .”
Cam frowned. “Yeah, you are.”
For a second, Dawson didn’t say anything. But Cam wasn’t wrong. He was against it.
“Yeah. You’re right. I’m against it. But I don’t know if it’s just me being . . .petty?”
“Petty?” Cam’s jaw dropped. “The guy was your father-in-law. Practically your fucking family. You trusted him because of that. Then he stole from you. Wanting him to pay for that isn’t being petty; it’s totally justifiable. Is that what your lawyer keeps telling you?”
Dawson shrugged. “Not exactly. Simon just keeps pushing for me to go along with the plea deal. And it’s a cushy-ass plea deal. Sure, it would mean it’s over, and I do want it to be over. I do. But fuck, not like this.”
“Then tell him no.” Cam said it so simply, like it was that simple, even though it wasn’t.
“It’s not entirely up to me. The prosecutor is only really giving me an opinion because I’m .
. .God, this sounds awful, because of who I am.
” Unease at admitting that spiked through.
He’d never bought into the mysticism of celebrity.
He was just a regular guy, who was really good at one thing and had worked hard to get better at it, and then because of a combination of luck and circumstance, had gotten rich and famous because of it.
“So?” Cam wondered. “You told me yourself that the case might not have gotten anywhere if you weren’t an NFL player, and that part of why you did that was not just for you, but the other victims too. You don’t need to be embarrassed to admit it.”
Dawson didn’t know when he’d gotten so fucking transparent. “I’m not . . .not really.”
Shooting him a knowing look, Cam reached over and squeezed his thigh. “So why don’t you talk to the prosecutor directly? Can you do that?”