Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Cord
I'd been awake for maybe twenty minutes, just watching Dusty breathe.
The suite was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning and distant laughter in the hallway.
My shoulder ached, that dull throb reminding me surgery was looming Tuesday.
But I'd learned to let pain sit in the background instead of consuming everything.
Last night had been... different. Not bad, but something had been off.
The way Dusty had kissed me back without quite being present, the way his hands had moved over my skin like he was going through motions instead of being in the moment.
I'd chalked it up to whatever family crisis he was dealing with, figured he just needed time to decompress.
But lying here in the morning light, watching the tension that hadn't left his face even in sleep, I knew it was more than that.
What mattered was this: Dusty's warmth against my side, his hand resting on my chest, the way his hair was still messed up from where I'd run my fingers through it.
We'd found our way back to each other after those few days apart, and fuck if that didn't feel like something worth holding onto. Even if something was clearly wrong.
He stirred, those blue eyes opening slowly before focusing on me. A smile curved his lips, sleepy and genuine, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. That hollow look from last night was still there, lurking underneath.
“Morning,” he murmured.
“Morning.” I brushed a strand of hair from his face. “Sleep okay?”
“Better than I have in days.” He stretched, careful not to jostle my shoulder, then settled back against me. “What time is it?”
“Just past eight.” I pressed a kiss to his temple. “No rush. I don't fly out until this afternoon.”
The reminder of my departure hung between us. Instead of acknowledging it, Dusty traced lazy patterns on my chest, his touch sending warmth through my body despite everything we probably needed to talk about. Despite whatever he'd been holding back last night.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Starving.”
We moved slow, neither of us wanting to leave the bubble we'd created. Dusty pulled on his clothes from last night while I found sweats and a t-shirt, both of us dancing around each other in the small space with the easy familiarity that comes from sharing more than just sex.
Room service delivered breakfast with their usual discretion—fresh fruit, eggs, toast, coffee that smelled like heaven. We settled at the small table by the window overlooking the courtyard, and for a few minutes everything felt simple. Normal. Like maybe this could actually work.
Except it couldn't. Not with whatever weight Dusty was carrying.
I watched him push eggs around his plate, not really eating.
The tight set of his shoulders, the way he kept starting to say something and then stopping.
Last night I'd let it slide, too caught up in having him here, in touching him again.
But in the morning light, I couldn't ignore what I was seeing.
“So,” I said finally. “You going to tell me what's really going on? Something with your family?”
His fork stilled. “Everyone's fine. Physically.”
“But?”
Dusty took a breath, and I watched him struggle with something internal. Pride warring with the need to tell someone what had happened. When he finally spoke, the words came out rushed, like he needed to get them out before he lost his nerve.
“Jake took my money. The gallery money. All of it.”
The sentence didn't make sense at first. “What?”
“Sam had access to my bank accounts, the ones I had for the gallery, in case expenses came up and I was unreachable.” His jaw clenched. “Jake somehow saw it sitting there and thought he could multiply it. Crypto, day trading. Classic gambling addiction shit.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.” The number came out flat, controlled. “Seven years. Gone in a week.”
The number hit me like a blindside sack. Seven years of work, of saving every dollar, of saying no to things he wanted. Gone because his brother couldn't control himself. This was why he'd been so distant last night. This was what he'd been carrying alone.
“Fuck, Dusty. I'm so sorry.”
“I've already called the realtor, the artists.” His hands clenched around his fork. “It's over.”
My mind was already moving, calculating. Two hundred thousand was significant but manageable. I had money from contracts, investments Ruben had set up. Maybe if I took the Pittsburgh job, signed the contract immediately... This was fixable.
“I can give you the money.”
The change in his expression was immediate. Walls slamming up, jaw tightening. That easy warmth from this morning gone like someone had flipped a switch.
“No.”
“Dusty, it's not—”
“I said no.” He stood, grabbing his plate even though he'd barely touched his food.
“Just listen for a second—”
“I don't need you to save me, Cord.” He moved to the kitchenette, his back to me, shoulders rigid.
“I'm not trying to save you. I'm trying to help.” I followed him. “Two hundred thousand isn't that much—”
He spun around, and the look in his eyes stopped me cold.
Not hurt. Anger. Pure, defensive anger.
“Not that much? Maybe not to you. But it's everything to me.”
“That's not what I meant—”
“It's seven years of my life. Every time I said no to something because the gallery mattered more.” His voice was rising now, control slipping. “It was supposed to be mine. Something I built myself, not something handed to me—”
“It's not charity. It's just money.”
“Just money.” He laughed, harsh and sharp. “Of course it is to you. You probably spend two hundred thousand on cars and whatever the fuck NFL guys buy without thinking about it.”
Heat flared in my chest. “You don't know what the fuck I spend my money on.”
“Don't I?” He crossed his arms. “You've never had to scrape for anything. Everything you have, you earned playing a game. My whole life has been fighting for enough to maybe, possibly, someday have something that's actually mine.”
“A game.” The word came out flat, dangerous. “That's what you think this is? A game?”
“Isn't it? You throw a ball around and people pay you millions. Meanwhile, I work two jobs and save every dollar for seven years and still end up with nothing.”
“You think it's easy?” My voice was rising now too.
“You think I didn't sacrifice? Didn't work?
I've spent my entire life training, pushing my body past what it should do, dealing with pain that would put most people on their ass.
And now my shoulder's fucked and my career might be over and you're acting like none of that matters because you decided what I do isn't real work.”
“That's not what I—”
“Yes it is.” I stepped closer. “You're pissed at your brother, pissed at yourself, and you're taking it out on me because I'm offering help and that threatens whatever story you tell yourself about being the guy who does everything alone.”
His jaw clenched. “You don't get to psychoanalyze me.”
“Why not? You just psychoanalyzed my entire career.”
“I'm just saying we live in different worlds, Cord. You're the guy who solves problems with money. I'm the guy who—”
“Who what? Who's too proud to accept help even when you need it? Who'd rather lose everything than let someone give a shit about what happens to you?”
“Better than being the guy who thinks throwing money at something makes it yours.” His eyes blazed. “Is that what this week was? You trying to buy something? Pay for the novelty of fucking the help?”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. “That's not fair.”
“None of this is fair.” He grabbed his jacket from the chair.
“You're leaving in a few hours. Going back to your real life, your surgery, your million-dollar decisions.
And I'm staying here, working at a sex resort, living in the same position I was in seven years ago.
That's reality. Not whatever fantasy you built in your head this week.”
“So that's what I am to you? A fantasy?”
“What else could you be?” His voice cracked slightly. “We had a week, Cord. One week where you played at being a different person and I played at believing this could be something. But we both knew it was temporary.”
“I didn't—”
“Yes, you did.” He moved toward the door. “This was always going to end. This just makes it cleaner.”
“Cleaner.” The word tasted bitter. “You mean easier for you to walk away.”
“Easier than what? Pretending we could make this work? You really want to do long distance with the guy who works at a sex resort? You want to sit in Denver wondering if I'm teaching yoga or if I'm on my back in one of those cabins?”
The bluntness of it stung. “That's a low blow.”
“It's the truth. I work here, Cord. That's my job. And without the gallery, it's going to be my job for a long time.” His jaw was tight. “You think you can handle that? Knowing what I do? Who I do it with?”
“I thought you mostly taught yoga now.”
“I do. But Vincent's been good to me. Let me transition away from sessions because I had a plan. A way out.” His voice went hard. “Now I've got nothing. So yeah, I'll probably go back to taking clients. That's my reality. Not exactly compatible with whatever you're imagining this could be.”
Something snapped in my chest. “So you're just giving up? The gallery's gone so you're going back to—what, exactly? Hating your life? Resenting everyone who tries to help you?”
“I'm being realistic.”
“You're being a coward.” The words came out before I could stop them.
His eyes went cold. “Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you for acting like I'm the problem here. For making me feel like shit because I want to help. Because I have money and you don't. Like that's something I should apologize for.”
“I never asked you to apologize—”