Chapter 35 Dan
DAN
The next three weeks with Carson are so good, I want to retroactively kick my own ass for hiding my feelings from her for so long.
We spend a few more nights together on the futon in my room while she works to clear out her parents’ old bedroom.
A woman from a local nonprofit that collects furniture for people starting over after leaving abusive partners comes by and picks up the bedroom set.
I help Carson haul the old mattress out to the street.
She orders a new one, and when it arrives, she places it in the middle of the room on a standard-issue metal bed frame.
“It’s a little frat boy, but I want to take my time buying furniture,” she says. She doesn’t say that she’s thinking about buying furniture for an entirely different house, but I see her scrolling Zillow at all hours of the day.
Unfortunately, we make it only one night in her new bedroom before she declares that it feels like her parents are watching her.
The next morning the woman from the nonprofit returns to pick up the futon, and I move her new mattress into my room.
And every night after that, she curls up in the nook of my shoulder and traces her fingers across my tattoos while I tell her the story of each one—the ones that mean something and the ones that simply mean I wanted another tattoo.
When she lets her fingers wander down to play with the metal in my cock—one of her favorite activities—we end up staying up later as I make her scream my name.
But every night, she eventually falls asleep in my arms.
I sleep well for the first time in my life.
Most mornings we wake up with the sun and head to the gym. Her confidence grows right along with her strength. I teach her to squat, and her form is impeccable—as is her ass.
Most days we tumble into bed as soon as we get home.
The pipe in Decker’s apartment gets fixed, but neither of acknowledge it. It goes unspoken that I should stay.
Other than the gym and trips out to the quarry (where we have yet to don swimsuits), we keep our romance mostly within the walls of the house.
Neither Carson nor I is ready to submit to the watchful eyes of the residents of Cardinal Springs.
People have guessed what’s going on between us—Mrs. Eberle certainly didn’t keep her mouth shut—but my family knows better than to talk to me about it.
Carson refers to this period of hibernation as our “long sex weekend.” I’m happy to go with that.
“Should I wear the red socks or the black socks?” Carson asks, holding up two pairs of knee-high athletic socks. She’s getting ready for her first scrimmage with the other new skaters today. “I’m trying to decide if I want to go all black or if I want a pop of color.”
“All black. You’ll look extra badass,” I say. I’m stirring a pot of high-protein chili for dinner. Between her lifting and her derby practices, she’s going to need it. There’s a cast-iron pan of cornbread in the oven to go with it, and I’m going to pick up muffins for dessert.
She leans in and kisses me, then turns and skips over to the kitchen table to put them on.
She’s already wearing the black shorts that I love peeling off of her so much and her new practice jersey.
It’s black with the Bloomington Bruisers logo on the front, her name and assigned number on the back.
After she gets drafted to a team, she’ll get to pick her derby name and her own number.
There’s a list of names on the fridge that we’ve been adding to for a couple of weeks.
The current frontrunner is Gluteus Maxximus, Maxx for short—my suggestion.
“We have track setup at ten, and then we’re doing a freshie class lunch. We’re supposed to be back at four for final setup and warm-ups. Doors open at five, scrimmage starts at six,” she says, running through her mental schedule.
“I know, babe, you’ve told me six or seven times, and the schedule is on the fridge,” I say, laughing.
“I can’t help it. I’m nervous! I get hyper-organized when I’m nervous.”
I go over and plant a kiss on the tip of her nose. “How about doing a little swipe of eye black for the scrimmage? That’ll look tough as shit.”
She grins with delight, her nose wrinkling. “I love it,” she says.
I love you, I don’t say. I’ve been thinking it for weeks, and the words have been on the tip of my tongue for days. But she’s been so busy preparing for the scrimmage, so busy making plans for her future, that I don’t want to put anything else on her. I want her to focus on her.
“I’ll be there around five thirty. I’ve got a tattoo appointment at four. Someone requested a nightshade tattoo from my weeds flash, but I don’t think it’ll go long,” I assure her. “I can’t wait to see you kick ass.”
She’s practically vibrating as she jumps out of the chair and does a spin. She looks incredible in her scrimmage uniform. Like the feisty little fighter I know she is.
“Okay, I’m going to head out,” she says, but she doesn’t move. She looks like her feet are glued to the floor, and I can tell that the nerves are taking over. I take her shoulders in my hands and give her a little shake.
“Hey. Look at me,” I say, and wait until she gazes up from beneath her long lashes. “You’ve worked really hard and come really far. You’re going to crush it today, and I’m going to be on the sidelines cheering louder than anybody.”
She laughs. “I’ll believe that when I see it,” she scoffs.
“Hey, for you I’d cover my shirtless body in paint like those weirdos at IU basketball games,” I tell her, then plant another kiss on the top of her head. “Now go get ’em, killer. I’ll see you tonight.”
She takes a deep breath and blows it out before she nods and pivots.
Before she makes it out of the kitchen, I land a slap on her ass that echoes with a satisfying crack.
She squeals and bolts. After some rustling in the entryway that I know means she’s wrestling with her giant gear bag, the door slams.
Fuck, I love that girl.
I’m dipping a spoon into the bubbling chili to test the seasoning when my phone rings. I flip it over and see Marcel’s name.
“What’s up?” I ask.
He laughs on the other end of the line. “An actual greeting! My how far we’ve come. That girl is a good influence on you.”
Oh yeah, and I told Marcel and Jameson. What can I say? Carson has made me chatty.
“Shut up,” I grunt, adding some smoked paprika to the chili.
“As much as I’d like to grill you about your romantic life, I have news,” Marcel says, and I immediately drop the spoon.
Marcel wanting to get down to business? This must be something big.
“I hate to tell you this, but I think you’re about to be indicted.
You need to come to New York. The SEC is requesting a meeting with you prior to the grand jury being impaneled. ”
“That’s weird. They want to see me before the grand jury?”
“I know. I tried talking to my contact at the SEC, but they haven’t gotten back to me. It’s weird.”
“You think I’m going to be arrested?”
“I don’t know. They’re not being particularly quiet about their intent to charge you, but something feels off about it. I think you need to come prepared, though.”
“So I’m coming to New York to go to prison?”
“I mean, there will be a hearing, and I doubt they’ll remand you. They’ll definitely release you on bail. But yeah, this could be it.”
I turn off the burner and pull the chili from the stove, then scrub my hand over my face. This is real. This is happening.
“Tomorrow morning?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
Fuck.
“I looked at flights,” Marcel says. “You can fly out of Indianapolis at two thirty this afternoon. Can you get up there that quickly?”
I look at my watch. It’s not a question of whether I can make the flight. It’s what I’ll miss if I do.
“I’m not being subpoenaed?” I ask.
“No.”
“And they haven’t indicted me yet?”
“Not yet, no. I’m telling you, something is weird—”
“So what happens if I don’t come?”
There’s a long silence.
“Dan, I wouldn’t advise screwing around with—”
“What happens if I don’t come?”
“Well, if the grand jury does in fact indict you tomorrow morning, then a warrant will be issued for your arrest. Field agents from Indianapolis will probably head down and pick you up in Cardinal Springs. Handcuffs and all.”
The kitchen suddenly feels very hot, and it’s like the walls are pressing in on me.
It was bad enough when investigators showed up here in front of my friends and family last fall, looking to question me.
The way people talked, I felt like a fucking criminal back then.
But actually being stuffed into the back of a car, my hands cuffed behind me, some federal agent’s hand on the top of my head as I duck inside?
Carson would see that.
And fuck me—everyone would talk about her.
I can’t do that to her.
“I can make the flight,” I say, determination in my voice but a pit in my stomach.
“Sounds good. Take a cab to our place when you get here. Jameson is going to make dinner,” Marcel says.
“Last supper?” I ask.
Marcel laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Let’s try to stay positive.”
“Right. Positive,” I mutter. “Because that’s worked so well for me in the past.”
“When have you ever been positive?” Marcel cracks weakly.
For the last three fucking weeks.
I end the call and lean back on the counter, my head in my hands.
I feel like I’m going to be sick. In the two years I’ve been living under this threat, I’ve thought a lot about what it might feel like for all my testimony and evidence to mean nothing up against the force of a multimillionaire’s lawyers.
What it would mean to actually face a prison sentence.
None of those images live up to the terror I’m feeling right now about all the bad things that are about to happen. To me. To my family.
To Carson.
The front door crashes open, and Carson’s feet pound the floor as she sprints back into the kitchen.
Her eyes are wild, her pigtails flying out behind her.
“Forgot my water bottle!” she cries, snatching it off the counter.
She’s already halfway out of the kitchen again when I grab her wrist and yank her back in, covering her lips with mine.
I kiss her and wonder if this is the last time.
Because if it turns out that I am going to be tried, I’m not going to make her stick around and wait for me.
I won’t put her through that. Not when she’s finally getting her own life together. Not when she’s made so much progress.
And so I kiss her like I might never get another chance. Like I’ll need to remember this one for the rest of my life.
It won’t be hard.
She sinks into me, her hands pressed against my chest as she whimpers into my mouth. Her tongue tangles with mine, and I devour every sound, every sigh. I sketch them all onto my brain, permanent little tattoos disguised as memories.
She pulls back too soon, but then again, there will never be enough time with her.
“What was that for?” she asks with a grin.
“Just a little extra good luck for today,” I tell her, because I’m not going to unload on her, not when she’s about to do this thing she’s worked so hard for. I won’t fuck that up for her.
Her smile is wide as a sunrise over a cornfield. “Thank you,” she says, then steps out of my arms. I feel her absence like it has weight. “I gotta run. See you tonight?”
And then I do the worst thing I can possibly imagine.
I lie to her.