Chapter Nine
Dusty
Cord was still asleep when I woke, sprawled across the bed with one arm flung over his head.
I sat cross-legged in the worn armchair, sketchbook balanced on my knee, pencil moving across the page.
His features had gone soft in sleep, those worry lines smoothed out.
Without that constant guard he kept up, he looked different.
More like the college kid from those highlight reels Ramon showed me than the guarded NFL player who'd shown up at The Ranch.
I was turning into a total creep, always sketching him like this.
But I couldn't help it. Something about him made my fingers itch for a pencil, made me want to capture the way he existed in space.
I'd drawn plenty of people before, bodies in motion during yoga classes, quick studies of hands and faces.
But this felt different. More urgent somehow.
Like if I didn't get it down on paper, I'd lose something important.
I sketched the slope of his shoulder, keeping my touch lighter on the injured one.
Even on paper it needed gentler handling.
The sheet draped low across his hips, revealing his chest rising and falling with each breath.
My fingers worked almost on their own, translating what I saw onto the page.
Not just his body, but something of that vulnerability he only showed when he wasn't performing.
Last night we'd watched some old Western I found on Vincent's shelf.
Cord pointed out all the historical inaccuracies—history minor in college, apparently—while I just enjoyed the weight of his good arm draped over my shoulders.
Easy silence between us, broken by occasional commentary or laughter.
Different from the charged intensity of our fucking by the stream, but just as intimate somehow.
The domesticity of it was dangerous in a way I wasn't ready to think about.
I'd sketched him a few times already during our stay, but always while he was awake. This quiet moment felt almost like trespassing, but I couldn't stop.
Cord stirred, his breathing changing. I thought about closing the sketchbook, pretending I'd been doing something else, but something kept my hand moving.
His eyes opened, focusing first on the ceiling, then sweeping the room until they found me.
"Morning," he said, voice rough with sleep. He didn't move to cover himself or sit up, just lay there watching me watch him. "What time is it?"
"Just after eight." I made a few more quick strokes, trying to capture the light on his collarbone. "How'd you sleep?"
"Better than I have in months." He stretched his good arm overhead, muscles flexing. "No dreams, no waking up in a cold sweat. Just... sleep." His gaze dropped to the sketchbook. "What are you working on?"
"Just a study." I turned the book toward him, heat creeping up my neck. Quick lines capturing the way his body rested against the sheets, the relaxed curve of his fingers, the soft vulnerability of his mouth in sleep.
Cord propped himself up on his good elbow, sheet pooling at his waist. "You made me look... peaceful."
"You were peaceful." I tucked hair behind my ear. "Does that bother you?"
He tilted his head, considering. "No. It's just weird seeing myself through someone else's eyes. Most people only see what I can do on a field."
"I've never seen you play." I closed the sketchbook, set it aside. "Maybe that helps."
"Maybe." He sat up, wincing as he adjusted to accommodate his shoulder.
I stood and moved to the kitchenette, needing something to do with my hands. The coffee maker gurgled to life, filling the cabin with that rich smell. "Hungry?"
"Starving, actually." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulling on sweatpants one-handed with practiced ease. "Haven't had much appetite for weeks. Feels good to want food again."
I busied myself with eggs and the last of Vincent's bread, hyperaware of Cord moving behind me. The soft pad of his bare feet on the wooden floor. The rustle of fabric as he pulled a t-shirt over his head. The quiet hum of some melody I didn't recognize.
My phone buzzed on the counter. Sam's name. I glanced at the preview without picking it up. Just finished walkthrough with inspector. He said foundation might need work. Will explain on report.
"Everything cool?" Cord's voice was closer than expected. He leaned against the doorframe.
"Just Sam." I turned back to the eggs, which were starting to firm up. "Acting as my proxy while I'm out of town."
"For the gallery?"
"Yeah." I slid the eggs onto two plates, adding toast to each.
"He's been messaging more than usual. I'm sure it's fine.
He just likes to keep me in the loop." I carried the plates to the table.
"Vince and The Master have been cool about letting me make extra calls home while I've been arranging things with the mortgage company and the artists. "
"All that and your full-time job." Cord took his plate. "And then you get to babysit a mess like me."
I followed him to the small table by the window, dropping a kiss on his temple. "I've had worse projects."
He grinned, cutting into his eggs.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Just forks on plates and some mockingbird outside. Through the window, I could see clouds building on the horizon. The kind that promised an afternoon thunderstorm.
"Tell me about the gallery," Cord said, pushing his empty plate aside.
I leaned back, cupping my coffee between my palms. "Small.
Just a converted storefront on Highland Avenue in Marfa.
This beautiful old adobe from the 1930s with high ceilings and original hardwood floors.
" My enthusiasm built. "There's a courtyard in back where I want to host small events, maybe some live music on weekend evenings. "
"Sounds perfect."
"Planning to feature mostly regional artists.
People who capture the essence of West Texas but maybe don't have the connections to show in the bigger galleries in town.
Mix of photography, paintings, sculpture.
" I took a sip of coffee, realizing how long it'd been since I'd talked about this with anyone outside family.
"I want it to be a place where tourists can discover local talent, but also where locals actually want to hang out. "
"And your own work? Will you show that too?"
The question caught me off guard. "Some, maybe. In the beginning at least, to fill the walls while I build relationships with other artists." I traced the rim of my mug. "Honestly, I'm more excited about curating other people's work than showing my own."
"Why?" Cord's gaze was intent.
I shrugged, heat creeping up my neck again. "I don't know. I guess I've always been better at recognizing talent in others than believing in my own."
"That's hard to square with the confident guy who walked me through yoga poses at The Ranch." His tone was gentle. "The one who knew exactly when to push and when to back off."
"That's different." I stood to clear our plates, needing the movement. "That's about reading people, understanding what they need. Art is... personal. Putting it out there feels like walking naked down Main Street."
"Says the guy who works at a sex resort."
I laughed. "Fair point. But when I'm working with clients at The Ranch, I'm performing a role. The boundaries are clear. With art..." I trailed off, searching for words. "It's like handing someone a piece of your soul and asking them what they think of it."
Before Cord could respond, lightning flashed. Thunder cracked a second later, seemed to shake the foundation. Then rain started hammering the roof.
Not a gentle spring shower but full Hill Country downpour.
"That moved in fast," Cord said, standing to look out the window.
I joined him, standing close enough that our shoulders touched. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees in the last few minutes. I could feel cooler air seeping through the single-pane glass. "They usually pass quick too. Fifteen, twenty minutes of drama, then it's over."
"Kind of like a panic attack." He said it without looking at me, his reflection in the glass showing a wry smile. "Intense as hell, then it clears."
"How are you feeling? Really?"
He was quiet for a moment, watching the rain sheet down.
"Better. The physical stuff's mostly gone.
No more shaking, no more feeling like my skin doesn't fit.
But the mental part..." He paused. "It's like the volume got turned down, you know?
The noise in my head. It's still there, but it's not drowning everything else out. "
I turned to face him, studying his profile. "What's the noise saying now?"
"That I need to make some decisions." He met my eyes. "About surgery, about my career. About what comes after football if that's really over."
"Any idea what you want those answers to be?"
"Not yet." He reached for my hand. "But I'm starting to think maybe that's okay. Maybe I don't have to have everything figured out right now."
The rain continued, steady and hypnotic. Through the window, I could see the creek starting to rise, brown water churning over rocks that'd been exposed just hours ago.
"You worried about the foundation?" Cord asked, nodding toward my phone.
"A little." I squeezed his hand. "But Sam's solid. If there's a real problem, he'll figure it out. That's what he does, he fixes things while Jake dreams big and I..." I trailed off.
"You make beauty," Cord said. "You help people. You create spaces where they can be themselves."
The words settled into my chest, warm and solid. Nobody had ever put it quite like that.
"And where does The Ranch fit into all this?" Cord asked quietly.
I took a breath. "It's been a good way to make money while planning everything else. Hours are flexible, pay is excellent, and..." I hesitated, then decided on honesty. "I'm good at it. Helping people find what they need, even when they're not sure themselves."