Chapter Eleven
Dusty
The elevator climbed toward Vincent and Ibrahim's offices while my stomach dropped in the opposite direction.
Each floor we passed held luxury suites where billionaires were probably living out fantasies they couldn't explore anywhere else.
The Ranch hummed with its evening rhythm: soft sounds from behind closed doors, laughter floating up from the pools, the constant pulse of pleasure that funded this entire operation.
Sam's words kept replaying. Urgent family business.
Sam didn't use words like “urgent” unless he meant it.
He was the steady brother, the one who'd kept the family business running while I took off for six months each year to play yoga instructor for the rich and famous.
Jake might panic over a flat tire, but Sam only called emergencies when they actually were emergencies.
Vincent's office door stood open, warm light spilling into the darkened reception area. The space felt different at night, like stepping into someone's private study instead of a workspace.
I sank into his desk chair and dialed Sam's number. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see The Ranch spread out below, lit up like a constellation.
Sam answered before the first ring finished. “Dusty, thank God. I've been trying to reach you.”
“What's wrong? Is Mom okay?”
“Everyone's fine. Physically.” His voice carried weight I'd never heard before. “But Dusty, I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry.”
Sam never swore. He was the one who said “dang” when he hit his thumb with a hammer, who called disasters “challenging situations.”
“What happened?”
“It's the money. Your gallery money.” Each word sounded like it was being pulled from him. “Jake lost it. All of it.”
The city lights beyond the window blurred. I gripped the phone tighter.
“What do you mean lost it?”
“You remember when you gave me access to your savings account before you left? In case something happened while you were out of communication?”
I remembered. Two hundred thousand dollars. Every extra shift, every private session that ran late, every time I'd said no to something I wanted because the gallery mattered more. Money I'd moved to Sam's oversight because I trusted him, because that's what family did.
“Jake had access to the account. He's been handling some of the business investments, trying to expand our equipment rentals, and I thought...” Sam's voice cracked. “I thought he'd gotten his gambling under control. That crypto thing from last year… I thought that was behind him.”
The leather chair was too soft, like I might sink through it and disappear. “Sam.” My voice sounded strange, disconnected. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“He saw the balance. All that money just sitting there, and he thought he could make it grow for you. Some cryptocurrency platform promising guaranteed returns, then when that went bad, he tried to win it back through day trading.”
Each word was another door closing. Two hundred thousand dollars. The adobe building in Marfa with its high ceilings and perfect light. The artists who'd submitted portfolios believing in my vision.
“How much is left?”
The silence stretched before Sam whispered, “Maybe eight thousand. After fees and penalties.”
Eight thousand out of two hundred. The number didn't compute, like trying to understand how an entire ocean could evaporate.
“Put him on the phone.”
“Dusty, maybe you should wait—”
“Put Jake on the fucking phone.”
Shuffling, muffled voices, then Jake's voice came through small and broken. “I'm so sorry, brother.”
“How could you do this to me?”
“I thought I could double it. Triple it. Make your gallery something amazing instead of just getting by.” His words tumbled over each other. “The platform had testimonials, success stories, and I wanted to give you something incredible.”
“By gambling with my entire future.”
“I have a problem.” He was crying now, ugly sounds that made me think of when we were kids and he'd broken Dad's fishing rod.
“I thought I had it under control, but seeing all that money, I couldn't stop thinking about what it could become. And when I started losing, I kept thinking I could win it back before you knew anything was wrong.”
I could picture him in the family's converted garage office, surrounded by booking calendars and equipment inventories, making trades on his phone while Sam was out guiding tourists through Big Bend. Watching numbers that represented my entire future disappear with each failed bet.
“I’m supposed to close in two weeks. I've got seven artists counting on exhibition space.”
“I don't know how to fix this.” His voice broke completely. “I don't know what to do.”
Because there was nothing to do. Some things, once broken, couldn't be pieced back together.
I hung up.
Vincent's office was quiet. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to my realtor's number. Past eight, so she probably wouldn't answer, but I needed to do something, even if it was just leaving messages that would ruin her morning.
“Hi, Sasha, it's Dusty Miller. There's been a family emergency, and I need to discuss the Marfa property. The closing date might be...” I paused, searching for words that didn't sound like complete failure. “Please call me as soon as you get this.”
Next, the mortgage broker. Another voicemail, another carefully worded disaster. “This is Dusty Miller regarding the loan for the Highland Avenue property. There's been an unexpected situation with the down payment funds. Please call me.”
Each message was like admitting defeat, but at least it was action. Something besides sitting here watching my future dissolve.
I left Vincent's office and walked back through The Ranch, everything looking different now that I knew I'd be seeing it indefinitely.
The main lodge glowed with warm light, couples visible through the windows enjoying late dinners.
The pool area was still active. October in Texas was perfect for evening swims in heated pools, and several guests were taking advantage.
This was my world now, for however long it took to save my money back, or figure out another plan.
Years, probably. Many years.
The yoga studio was dark when I reached it, but muscle memory guided me to the lights. Everything exactly as I'd left it four days ago, before the cabin, before everything changed.
The communication tablet on my desk showed a message notification. Cord's suite number. My finger hovered over it before I tapped.
Everything okay? Here if you need to talk.
Such simple words, but they made my chest ache. He was probably in his suite right now, working through those career options, planning a future that seemed impossibly bright compared to the darkness I was staring at.
I pulled out my phone and started drafting messages I’d send tomorrow, responses to the artists who'd submitted work, then stopped. What could I say that wouldn't sound like betrayal? Sorry, my brother's addiction destroyed your opportunity?
Instead, I unrolled one of the yoga mats and sat in the center of the studio, trying to find that calm place I helped others reach every day.
But my mind wouldn't settle. It kept circling back to the same thoughts.
Seven years of work, gone. Independence, gone.
The chance to meet Cord as an equal, gone.
“Thought I might find you here.”
I looked up to see Ramon in the doorway, holding two bottles of beer. He crossed the bamboo floor and handed me one before settling beside me on the mat.
“Saw the lights on,” he said. “You okay?”
“No.” The honesty felt strange but necessary. “Jake took my gallery money. All of it. Gambled it away on cryptocurrency and day trading.”
Ramon's beer stopped halfway to his mouth. “Fuck. All of it?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.” The number felt impossible to say out loud. “Seven years of saving, planning, dreaming. Gone because I was stupid enough to trust family with my future.”
“That's not stupid. That's human.” He took a long drink, then studied me. “So the cabin thing with Cord… how did that go?”
I almost smiled at the redirect. Classic Ramon, knowing when to let heavy things breathe.
“It was intense. Good intense. He worked through the worst of it, learned some coping techniques.” I picked at the label on my beer bottle. “We talked. Really talked. About things that matter.”
“And?”
“And I think I'm in trouble.” The admission slipped out before I could stop it.
“The thing you said about me getting attached to people who need healing?
It's happening.” I took a sip of beer, letting the cold bitterness ground me.
“At the cabin, it was like we were building something. Like maybe after I opened the gallery and he figured out his next steps, we could find a way to make it work.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm trapped here indefinitely while he's got several paths to choose from, all of them leading away from this place.” I gestured at the studio, The Ranch beyond. “How does that equation ever balance?”
“You could tell him what happened. Let him be part of the solution.”
“That's not who we are. I'm the one who helps, who provides the healing space. He's finally recovering, finally seeing possibilities. I'm not dragging him backward.”
“That's not your choice to make.”
“Isn't it?” I stood, needing to move. “He's got a surgery consultation Tuesday that could give him his career back. A coaching offer from Alabama. Real opportunities, not the disaster I'm facing.”
Ramon watched me pace. “You know what your problem is?”
“Besides my brother stealing my entire future?”
“You think love is about being equal. About bringing the same things to the table.” He set down his beer and stood too. “But maybe it's just about being present. Being real. Letting someone see you when you're not okay.”
“I don't know how to not be okay. Not with him. He needs—”
“What he needs is the truth. Not some perfect version of you that doesn't actually exist.”
“The truth is I have until October 28th to find two hundred thousand dollars.” I laughed, but it came out wrong, bitter and sharp. “Maybe I should start a GoFundMe. 'Help a sex worker escape to art dealing.'“
“That's not funny.”
“It's a little funny.” I moved to my office alcove, looking at the sketches and paintings covering the walls. My work from seven years, documenting my time here. “All of this was supposed to go in the gallery. Now it's just decoration.”
I pulled out my sketches from the cabin—Cord sleeping, reading, that peaceful expression when he meditated.
In every drawing, he looked like someone discovering himself for the first time.
In the margins, barely visible, were my own notes.
Beautiful when unguarded. Stronger than he knows. Trust in his eyes.
“You're in love with him,” Ramon said, looking over my shoulder.
“Yeah.” No point denying it. “Completely smitten with someone whose world would implode if anyone found out he was dating a sex worker.”
“Ex-sex worker. You're leaving.”
“Was leaving. Now I'm here until... I don't even know. Years.”
Ramon was quiet for a moment. Then: “You could ask Vincent for a loan.”
“I'm not asking my boss for two hundred thousand dollars.”
“He'd probably do it. You know he would.”
I did know. Vincent and Ibrahim had been nothing but generous with me. But that generosity had limits, and I wasn't about to test them.
“I need to handle this myself,” I said. “That's what I do. I handle things.”
“No,” Ramon corrected. “You handle other people's things. Their pain, their problems, their healing. But your own stuff? You pretend it doesn't exist.”
He wasn't wrong. Seven years of being the stable one, the healer, the guy who had his shit together. I didn't know how to be the one falling apart.
The communication tablet chimed again. Another message from Cord's suite: I know you're dealing with family stuff, but I'm here. Whatever you need.
The simple kindness of it nearly broke me. Here was this man, fresh from his own crisis, offering support he didn't even know I desperately needed.
“I should go to him,” I said quietly.
“Yes, you should.”
“And tell him what? That everything we talked about at the cabin is impossible now? That I'm stuck here indefinitely while he builds his new life?”
“Tell him the truth. That you're hurting and you need him.”
The words felt foreign. I need him. When was the last time I'd needed anyone?
“Tomorrow,” I said. “I'll tell him tomorrow.”
But we both knew tomorrow I'd find another excuse, another reason to protect him from my disaster. Because that's what I did, protected people, even when it meant drowning alone.
Ramon finished his beer and squeezed my shoulder. “Don't wait too long, hermano. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone catch you when you fall.”
After he left, I sat alone in my studio surrounded by seven years of art that would never hang in my gallery. Outside, The Ranch continued its rhythm of pleasure and release, fantasy and fulfillment. The sound of other people getting exactly what they wanted while my own dreams turned to ash.
Tomorrow I'd have to start making calls. Disappointing artists. Explaining to my mother. Watching my carefully constructed future collapse one conversation at a time.
But tonight, I just sat with the weight of it all, letting myself feel the full scope of the loss. Not just money, but possibility. Not just independence, but the chance to meet Cord as an equal, to build something together from solid ground instead of shifting sand.
The sketches of him were still spread across my desk. In one, he was laughing at something I'd said, his whole face transformed by joy. I'd captured that moment perfectly—the exact way his eyes crinkled, how his shoulders relaxed when he really let go.
I gathered them carefully, storing them in my portfolio. Whatever happened next, I wanted to preserve these. Evidence of those perfect days when everything had felt possible.
Even if possibility was all they'd ever be.