“No, it wasn't.” The familiar anger started rising in my chest, hot and bitter.
“Anger's not always a bad thing,” Vincent said. “Depends what you do with it.”
Before I could respond, he was changing the subject, asking about my plans for the rest of the week.
“I definitely want to hit up the Leather Lounge again this year. Had a hell of a time there last time I was here.”
Vincent grinned. “The Loft might be right up your alley too. New room, over near the dance club. Tall exposed beams withswings and other suspended elements. I imagine you’d be very popular there, if you can keep your shoulder brace on.”
Oh yeah, that sounded fucking amazing, strapped into a swing, my ass open and exposed for anyone to come take it. Then I told him about Dusty, about the yoga sessions, carefully leaving out the more intimate details. “Good call with the yoga. I'd have never in a million years thought about it, but it helped loosen me up.” I snorted at my double entendre, especially when Vince raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that was good too.”
“Dusty's good people,” Vincent said. “Talented too. You should see his artwork. He's got pieces displayed around the property. He's leaving here soon to open up his own art gallery. I hate to lose him, but I respect ambition.”
Back in my suite after dinner, I stretched out on the couch and pulled out my phone. The wine had left me loose and warm, the kind of comfortable buzz that made reaching out feel easier than usual. I thought about heading over to room with the sex swings that Vince mentioned. That would definitely get my mind off all the shit I’d heard on the podcasts today.
Instead, I reached for The Ranch’s in-house communication devices, and scrolled until I found Dusty’s profile. I clicked the MESSAGE button.Hey there.
His response came within minutes.Hey there! How’s the shoulder?
Not bad. Managed a swim. Left-handed. I paused, then added, You busy tonight?
The three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.Was planning to work on some paintings, but I could be convinced to procrastinate. What'd you have in mind?
I considered how to phrase it. This wasn't about sex, not primarily, anyway. But I also didn't want to sound like I was asking for a session, some kind of professional appointment.
Just thought it'd be good to hang out. Maybe another yoga session if my shoulder's up for it.I hesitated, then sent another message.No pressure if you're swamped with your own stuff.
Nah, I could use a break from the canvas. Give me an hour to clean up?
Yeah. That works.
I set the phone down, surprised by the anticipation building in my chest. This was supposed to be simple: physical release, therapeutic stretching, nothing complicated. But somewhere between yesterday's session and tonight, something had shifted. I actually wanted to see him, not just use him to feel better.
The realization should have worried me more than it did.
I headed into the bathroom to prep for Dusty's visit. I showered again, cleaned myself out, and then put on the shoulder brace, trying to ignore the way my hands shook as I adjusted the straps. The pain was manageable, but barely. I reached for the pill bottle, then stopped.
I'd already taken three today. That was more than usual. But fuck it, I was on vacation. And if I was going to spend the evening with Dusty, I wanted to be present for it, not distracted by pain.
The knock came at eight sharp. Dusty stood in my doorway wearing loose linen pants and a faded t-shirt, a small bag slung over his shoulder. Even in the soft hallway lighting, he looked good, all lean muscle and easy confidence.
“Ready for some real healing?” he asked, stepping into my suite.
“Depends on your definition of healing.”
He set his bag down and pulled out a small wooden box, opening it to reveal a perfectly rolled joint. “Thought we could start with this. Weed's amazing for pain. Helps your muscles relax without shutting everything down.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You're prescribing weed now?”
“Just offering another option, man.” His tone was easy, but his blue eyes were serious. “Pain pills work, but they're not the only way through this.”
Fair point. I'd been going through my Percocet faster than I should, and I knew it. “Alright. Let's give it a shot.”
We settled on the couch, and he lit the joint, taking a long drag before passing it to me. The smoke was smooth, earthy, and within minutes the tension in my shoulders started to ease. Not the numb disconnect of the pills, but a gentle loosening, like someone had turned down the volume on my nervous system.
“How's that feel?” Dusty asked.
“Different. Good different.”
