Chapter Thirteen
Dusty
Before heading over to talk to my bosses about happened, I finally responded to Cord's messages. Three texts asking if I was okay, each one making the guilt worse.
Me:Sorry. Family stuff got complicated yesterday. Everyone's safe. Can I come over tonight after my 6pm class?
Cord:Thank god. Been worried. Yes, please come by.
Me:I'll be there around 7.
Cord:Looking forward to it. Miss you.
I put my communication device away and headed out of my apartment, the conversation I needed to have with him tonight already weighing on me.
“So Jake gambled away all of it?” Vincent's voice stayed neutral, but I caught the way his fingers drummed once against his desk. Processing multiple angles at the same time.
I nodded. Words stuck in my throat like broken glass. Two days since Sam's call, and the reality hadn't gotten easier to swallow. Two hundred thousand dollars of careful savings,seven years of planning, months of negotiations with artists and contractors and real estate agents.
Gone in a matter of days.
Ibrahim's dark eyes studied my face with that intensity he usually saved for reading clients during intake. “Comprehensive destruction.”
“He thought he could double the money, then triple it.” The words came out rough. “Win back everything he'd lost plus interest.” I rubbed my face with both hands. “Road to hell and all that.”
Vincent leaned back in his ergonomic chair, those sharp eyes reading more than I'd said. “What kind of support do you need?” he asked.
The question caught me off guard. I'd come here to officially withdraw my resignation, tell them I couldn't afford to leave The Ranch after all.
“I don't know.” The admission cost me something. “I'm still processing what this means. I need to take back my resignation.”
“Done. Your position here is secure.” Vincent pulled out his tablet without hesitation. “You're one of our most requested instructors, Dusty. We've been dreading losing you to the gallery.”
Ibrahim nodded. “Your healing work deserves recognition. We've been discussing expanding our wellness programs. More specialized therapeutic offerings, deeper integration of mindfulness practices.”
“You want to promote me?” I stared between them, trying to make the shift from disaster to opportunity make sense.
“We want to give you something meaningful to build while you figure out what comes next,” Vincent said, sliding the tablet across his glass desk. “This doesn't replace your gallery dreams, but it gives you a foundation.”
I swiped through the presentation. Detailed plans for a wellness center integrating everything I already did—yoga, meditation, therapeutic massage—into a comprehensive healing program. The salary figures alone would help me rebuild my savings. Maybe even pursue the gallery again someday, though that felt distant enough to be hypothetical.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
“Because you make people better, Dusty.” Vincent's voice carried the same warmth I'd heard when he talked about Ibrahim. “Not just physically. Emotionally, spiritually. That's rare. It's valuable.” He gestured toward the window overlooking the pool area. “We can teach anyone to fuck expertly. Very few people can teach others how to heal.” He glanced at Ibrahim knowingly before turning back to me. “And more and more of our clients are coming in needing a little of that Dusty magic.”
The weight of his words settled over me. Not the future I'd planned, but a future. Something to anchor myself to while the gallery dreams dissolved completely.
I sat there staring at the glowing screen, trying to reconcile this unexpected opportunity with the wreckage of my original plans. The wellness center expansion felt like a life preserver thrown to someone who'd been planning to swim to shore on their own. Gratifying and humiliating in equal measure.
Vincent excused himself to handle some crisis with the reservation system. Ibrahim and I walked out together into the courtyard. Morning air carried the scent of desert sage and chlorine, the familiar mixture that had become home over seven years.
“How much of this burden are you carrying alone?” Ibrahim asked as we paused near the spa entrance. His tone took on that careful precision he used when discussing delicate emotional territory.
“What do you mean?”
“Family financial emergencies typically involve more than monetary loss. Betrayed trust, complicated dynamics, guilt about circumstances beyond your control.” His voice carried the authority that made him so effective, but underneath I caught something gentler. “Considerable weight for someone whose profession requires helping others heal.”
He wasn't wrong. The money loss stung, but Jake's betrayal cut deeper. The way he'd gambled with my future like it was spare change, the casual destruction of years of careful planning. How could I trust my own judgment about anything when I'd been so wrong about my own brother?
