Chapter 13
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.
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?
That familiar voice started whispering again.
The one that convinced me I wasn't cut out for this.
Maybe Jake's betrayal was just confirmation of what I'd always suspected, that some people are meant to dream, other people are meant to make those dreams work.
I'd always been better at the dreaming part.
“I'll work through it,” I said.
“Of course. But you need not do it alone.” Ibrahim studied me with those dark eyes. “Consider that healing others might prove easier when you are not holding so much pain yourself, Dustin.”
I nodded, but before I could deflect further, his expression shifted to something more immediate.
“How much does Mr. Morales know about your situation?”
Heat crawled up my neck. “He knows there are family business complications. Nothing specific.”
“You've been avoiding him since you returned from the cabin.” Not a question.
Fuck. Of course he'd noticed. Nothing happened at The Ranch without Ibrahim cataloging the emotional undercurrents, especially when it involved his staff avoiding clients who were technically paying for their time.
“He's leaving tomorrow morning,” I said. Not really an answer to his unspoken question.
“It would be logical to tell him the truth,” Ibrahim said. “He deserves honesty about why you've been distant, at minimum.”
I nodded. Ibrahim was right. I couldn't keep avoiding Cord, especially not on his last night here.
“Yeah,” I said. “I'll talk to him.”
Ibrahim was quiet, his expression softening slightly. When he spoke again, his voice carried unexpected gentleness. “Be careful, Dustin. You're dealing with considerable emotional stress, and complicated farewells have a tendency to compound existing difficulties.”
I nodded and walked away before he could dig any deeper into territory I wasn't ready to explore. Ibrahim meant well, but I needed to handle my immediate problems before diving into therapy about family trauma and broken trust.
Back in the conference room Vincent had offered me for privacy, I sat at the glass table and stared at my phone.
The contact list showed names of artists I'd been courting for months.
Marisol Rosas was first, the painter whose desert landscapes captured something essential about West Texas that galleries in Santa Fe could never quite understand.
The phone rang twice before her warm voice answered. “Dusty! Perfect timing. I was just finishing up a piece that would be perfect for the gallery.”
Straight to the heart. Like ripping off a bandage.
“Marisol, I need to tell you something.” My voice sounded steadier than I felt. “There's been a family emergency. I have to cancel the gallery project.”
Silence stretched between us long enough that I wondered if the call had dropped. Then: “Cancel? But we were so close to finalizing everything.”
“I know. I'm sorry. There was a financial situation with my family, and I lost the funding for the building.” The words tasted bitter. “I can't afford to open the gallery at all now.”
“Dios mío. Dusty, are you okay? Is someone hurt?”
Her concern for me when I was crushing her opportunity made everything worse. “Everyone's physically fine. It's just money problems. Bad decisions by people I trusted.”
“Oh, mijo. I'm so sorry.” A pause. “Is there any way to postpone instead of cancel? Maybe find other funding?”
I'd already run those calculations a hundred times since Sam's call. “I’m so sorry, there aren’t any other options right now.”
Another silence, shorter this time. When she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of someone who'd had dreams deferred before. “These things happen, Dusty. Art finds a way. Maybe this isn't the right time, but there will be other chances.”
“I hope so.” I didn't believe it, but hope seemed like something I owed her.
Six more calls followed the same pattern.
Nico, whose bronze sculptures deserved museum recognition.
Sydney, the photographer who captured ranch life with an intimacy that made you homesick for places you'd never been.
Artists who'd been excited about showing their work, who'd started imagining what it might mean for their careers.
Each conversation was like dismantling something I'd built by hand. Nico's quiet “Oh” when I told him. Sydney asking if there was anything she could do to help when she was the one losing an opportunity. Artists who'd started imagining futures that now had to be folded back up and put away.
I took a five-minute break between calls four and five, stepping out onto the conference room balcony to breathe desert air that didn't taste like disappointment.
The Ranch spread out below me—guests lounging by the pool, staff moving with purposeful efficiency, the whole operation humming along like a well-oiled machine.
Vincent and Ibrahim had built something lasting here.
Maybe that was enough to aspire to right now.