Chapter Five #2
“You are controlling it right now. You're choosing to breathe, choosing to be present even though it's hard as hell.” I wanted to touch him, ground him with more than words, but something held me back. “That takes more strength than throwing a football ever did.”
He looked up at me then, his dark eyes wet with unshed tears. “I don't know how to do this, Dusty. How to be this person.”
“You're already doing it, man. One breath at a time.” I sat down beside him on the examination table, close enough that our shoulders touched. The contact seemed to steady him. “Listen, I have an idea. But you have to trust me.”
“What kind of idea?”
“Vincent has a cabin about twenty minutes from here. Private, quiet. We could go there for a few days, give you space to work through this without the pressure of being around everyone. I'd be with you the whole time.”
He turned to look at me, searching my face for something. “You'd do that?”
“Yeah, I would. If you're willing to try.”
“Try what? Cold turkey?”
“Not exactly. More like... learning to sit with what you're feeling instead of numbing it out. Using breath work, movement, meditation. All the stuff that actually helps your body heal instead of just covering up the pain.” I took a breath.
“It's not going to be easy. You'll probably hate me by day two. But I think it could help.”
He was quiet for a long moment, and I could see him weighing his options. Leave The Ranch and go back to the same patterns, or take a chance on something different. On me.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Let's do it.”
Relief washed through me, mixed with something else. Fear, maybe. This was going way beyond the boundaries I'd kept with clients for seven years. But looking at Cord's face, seeing the desperate hope there, I knew I couldn't walk away.
I stood and extended my hand to help him up. “Let me talk to Vincent and Dr. Hart. We'll need their approval.”
He took my hand, his grip strong despite everything. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen me before my morning coffee.”
That got a small smile out of him, the first I'd seen since entering the room. I held onto that smile as I left to find Vincent, knowing I was about to ask for something way outside standard protocol.
Vincent and Dr. Hart were waiting in the hallway, their expressions carefully neutral.
“We need to talk,” I said. “All of us.”
Vincent's eyebrows rose, but he nodded and stepped into the examination room with Dr. Hart, closing the door behind them.
The space felt smaller with all four of us here—Cord still sitting on the examination table, me standing beside him, Vincent leaning against the counter, and Dr. Hart by the door.
“So,” Vincent said, looking between Cord and me. “What's the plan?”
“Your cabin,” I started, then realized how presumptuous this sounded. “The one by the creek.”
Vincent blinked. “My personal cabin?”
“I know it's a lot to ask.” It was his private space, where he'd go when he needed to get away from it all. Few people knew about it.
Vincent leaned back against the counter. “That's... quite the request, Dusty.”
“I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important.” I glanced at Cord, who watched me with those dark eyes that saw too much. “But it would give Cord the isolation he needs to work through this without being completely cut off.”
“Define 'work through this.’” Dr. Hart clearly didn’t like what he’d heard. “We're talking about potential withdrawal symptoms, panic attacks, pain management without medication—”
“I'm not an addict,” Cord said firmly, and I could hear the edge of desperation in his voice. “I just... need help to find better ways to manage what I'm dealing with.”
The room went quiet. Vincent leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in that way he had when he was thinking through all the angles. “It's an interesting idea. But Dusty, this puts you in a complicated position. You're not trained for—”
“For what? Meditation? Breathing exercises? Pain management through movement?” I felt defensive heat rising in my chest, my hands clenching. “I've been doing this for seven years. I know my limits.”
“Do you?” Vincent's voice was gentle but pointed. “This is different from a yoga session. This is...” He looked at Cord, then back at me, and I saw understanding dawn in his eyes. “This is personal.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
The admission changed the energy in the room. Dr. Hart cleared his throat. “From a medical standpoint, I have concerns. What if there's an emergency? What if the anxiety is worse than anticipated?”
“The cabin has a landline,” Vincent said slowly, like he was thinking out loud. “It's only twenty minutes from here if something goes wrong. We could do daily check-ins.”
“And I'll monitor my own symptoms,” Cord added. “I know the difference between discomfort and danger. If it gets bad, we come back.”
Vincent looked at me, and I could see him calculating risks and benefits. He knew me well enough to understand that I didn't make offers like this lightly, that in all my time working here I'd never crossed this particular line.
“Ibrahim's not going to like this,” he said finally.
“I'll talk to him,” I said. “This is my choice. My responsibility.”
Another pause. Then Vincent nodded slowly. “Three or four days, and then let’s see how you’re doing after that and we can reassess. Dr. Hart checks in twice daily by phone. Any sign of serious medical distress, you come back immediately.”
“Agreed,” Cord and I said in unison.
Vincent stood. “I'll have the cabin stocked with food. You can take one of the resort vehicles.” He removed a key from his key ring and handed it to me. “Dusty, you know where everything is out there?”
“Yeah,” I said with a grin as I pocketed the key. “I helped you reorganize the kitchen last spring, remember?”
A small smile crossed his face, the first break in his professional demeanor. “Right. The great spice rack intervention.”
Dr. Hart still looked concerned, his medical instincts warring with the situation.
“I want to be clear. I can't condone this from a medical perspective.
But if you're determined to do this...” He pulled out a card.
“This is my personal cell. The Ranch's communication blackout doesn't apply to medical emergencies.”
Cord took the card, tucking it into his pocket. “Thank you.”
We all stood to leave, but Vincent called out. “Dusty? A word?”
Cord slid off the examination table. “I'll go pack.”
I nodded. “Meet you in the lobby. Give me an hour.”
After Cord and Dr. Hart left, Vincent closed the door again. For a moment, we just looked at each other, employer and employee, but also friends who'd known each other since this place was just his and Ibrahim's wild dream.
“This could get messy,” he said finally.
“I know.”
“Ibrahim's going to have concerns about liability, about setting precedents—”
“I know that too.”
Vincent sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. The first sign that this was affecting him more than he let on. “You care about him.”
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “Yes.”
“And you're leaving soon.”
“I haven't forgotten.” The reminder sat heavy in my chest. Less than three weeks now until my carefully planned future began. Until I left The Ranch.
“Dusty...” He trailed off, then tried again. “I've watched you work with hundreds of men over the years. You're gifted at helping people, at creating space for healing. But this feels different.”
“It is different.” I leaned against the examination table where Cord had been sitting, still warm from his presence. The paper crinkled under my hands, and I focused on that small sound rather than the weight of Vincent's concern. “Maybe that's why I need to do this.”
“Or maybe that's why you shouldn't.”
I turned back to him. “Would you walk away from someone drowning because saving them might get you wet?”
“That's not—” He stopped, shook his head. “It's not the same thing.”
“Isn't it?” When Vincent didn't answer, I continued. “Then let me do this. Please.”
Vincent studied me for a long moment, and I saw when he made his decision. “I'll handle Ibrahim. But Dusty? Be careful. With his heart and yours.”
“I will.”
But as I left his office and headed back to my apartment to pack, I knew I was walking into something I'd avoided for seven years at The Ranch. I'd kept boundaries with clients—clean lines between the work I did and anything personal.
Fucking them? Absolutely.
Relationship? Never.
With Cord, those lines were already blurred. Maybe it was the way he'd trusted me with something so raw, or maybe it was just good chemistry mixed with shitty timing.
Either way, this time with Cord in an isolated cabin was going to complicate things. The smart move would be to hand him off to someone else, let Dr. Hart handle it medically, keep myself out of it.
But I couldn't shake the image of Cord's face when he'd asked if I'd really do this for him. That desperate hope, like I was offering him something more than just a quiet place to detox.
I grabbed my duffel bag and started packing. Whatever happened at that cabin, I'd deal with it. Right now, Cord needed help, and I could give it to him.
The rest would sort itself out.