I grabbed my phone to call Gracie, my personal assistant. “Book me a flight to Austin, please.”
Her response was quick, if not surprised, at hearing from me. “Will do. Business or pleasure? Need a hotel or car?”
“Just a car. Thanks, G. Oh, wait—” I stopped. “I'll need a refill of my pain pills.” Can't forget the Percocet, not right now.
With that, my mood lifted. Maybe that's all I needed—the promise of self-care in a way that only The Ranch offered.
For the first time in two weeks, I smiled.
Chapter One
Dusty
The singing bowl's last note faded out, and I opened my eyes. A dozen guys lay scattered across their mats in that post-yoga glow: CEOs and billionaires who spent their days running empires, now looking like they'd just had the best nap of their lives.
“Thanks for being here today,” I said. “If you want to keep the vibe going, the back rooms are open. Suites too. Garden's beautiful this time of day. Whatever feels right.”
This part never got old. Kenji Nguyen, the software guy whose algorithms ran half the internet, looked loose and relaxed as he sat up. Cillian O'Connell, a hedge fund manager with money to buy small countries, had tears on his face from whatever he'd worked through in warrior pose. A few others were pairing off, heading toward the zen garden out back. These guys spent their days being ruthless and powerful, but here they got to just be people. No armor, no performance.
That's what kept me coming back to this work.
“Dusty,” Kenji approached first, his usual sharp business demeanor absent. “That sequence you created—something shifted in my shoulder. The tension I've carried for months, just... gone.”
“Your body was ready to let it go,” I replied, accepting his grateful embrace. “Sometimes we just need permission to release what no longer serves us.”
One by one, they came to me. Cillian pressed a soft kiss to my cheek, his expensive cologne mixing with the sandalwood incense that always burned during sessions. “I look forward to these yoga classes with you as much as anything else here,” he said, squeezing my hand.
“That means the world, man. Thank you.” Warmth spread through my chest at the compliment.
They filtered out toward the changing rooms and whatever came next: the pools, private suites, the gardens set up for hookups and connection. I felt that familiar bittersweet pull I always got at the end of sessions. Three weeks left.
Come November, all of this would be behind me.
I moved through cleanup, rolling up mats and putting props back on the bamboo shelves. Sun came through the enormous windows, making patterns on the floor. My bare feet knew every board in this room. For seven years I'd been teaching here, figuring out how to help people feel good in their bodies again.
My paintings covered the walls, stuff I'd done between sessions over the years. Bright colors, bodies in motion, that kind of thing. I liked working here, being part of a place where people could figure out what they wanted without anyone judging them. The Ranch gave rich guys a break from performing their lives, letting them be whoever they actually were for a weekend.
And in a few weeks, I'd be gone.
The thought pulled me to my office corner, where all the paperwork for my new life sat in stacks. I dropped into the leather chair I'd found at a flea market in Austin and stared at the documents on my desk. The mortgage application sat on top—Miller Fine Artsin fancy script, then pages of legal crap that made my head hurt. Under that, bank statements showing seven years of saving. Teaching here, selling paintings when I could, summers working with Jake and Sam in the family adventure business back home. Every dollar went toward this.
The numbers looked good. Really good, actually. I'd been careful, maybe too careful, still that scared kid from Big Bend who showed up here with some talent and a lot of hope. But now I had enough for the down payment, fixing up the building, buying inventory, six months to get the gallery running. On paper, I was set.
So why did signing feel like stepping off a cliff?
“Second thoughts?”
I looked up at the footsteps, expensive shoes on the bamboo floor. Only one person walked through The Ranch like that, and I was smiling before Ibrahim even showed up in my doorway.
“Master,” I said, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. “Perfect timing. I was just reviewing everything one more time.”
Ibrahim Nassar settled into the chair across from me, white leather outfit crisp even in the afternoon heat. He and Vincent Stone had built Dove Canyon Ranch and Resort from nothing seven years ago, two guys with connections to Middle Eastern oil billionaires and a vision for something different. Ibrahim handled the staff side, making sure companions were safe, respected, and boundaries honored. He was one of those guys who could make powerful people nervous just by existing, but he'd always been cool with me. His dark eyes were warm, that slight accent making even simple words sound important.
“Preparing for your departure, I see.” His gaze took in the mortgage documents with a quiet observation that missed nothing. “The gallery in Marfa—how are you feeling about it?”
“Stoked. Terrified. You know, the usual.” I tried to smile, but it came out shaky. “Leaving here feels like leaving family.”
“The Ranch will miss you terribly, Dusty. Your yoga practice has been the heart of our wellness offerings since we opened.” His expression grew serious. “You've been one of our most requested specialists among the membership. Finding someone to fill your role will be extraordinarily challenging.”
