Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Dusty
I folded the last yoga mat and stacked it with the others, moving through the familiar rhythm of closing down my studio for the day. Late October sun slanted through the windows, warming the bamboo floors. The space was quiet now, empty of the men who'd just finished my afternoon class.
Quiet except for my thoughts.
I had an hour before Lars Yonling arrived for his private session. The reminder on my phone had been taunting me all day.
I walked to the supply closet and straightened the rolled towels there, trying not to look at the portfolio sitting open on the bench near the windows.
Sketches of Cord visible on top. I'd been looking through them this morning before class, unable to stop myself.
Forgot to put them away when students started arriving.
Should've hidden the evidence of how much those seven days had meant.
But I was tired of hiding things.
The studio felt different now. Smaller, maybe.
Or I'd outgrown it without noticing when it happened.
How many private sessions had I conducted here over seven years?
How many times had I dimmed these lights, set out these mats, prepared my body and mind for intimate work with me who booked time with me specifically?
The last time had been too close. Cord walking in for what was supposed to be a simple session. The way everything had shifted the moment our eyes met.
My chest ached with the memory.
It'll hurt less with time, I told myself. That's what people said, right? That heartbreak faded, that you moved on, that eventually you stopped seeing someone's face every time you closed your eyes.
Lars was a good client. Easy. He usually just wanted oral—straightforward, uncomplicated blow jobs, maybe a finger up his ass.
I could do this. I'd been doing this for seven years.
I just needed to stop comparing everyone to Cord.
At three exactly, a knock sounded. I took a breath, found my professional smile, and opened the door.
“Dusty.” Lars stepped inside wearing loose linen pants and a soft shirt. Norwegian, mid-forties, with the kind of generational wealth that didn't need to announce itself. He’d stopped by my yoga studio many times, each time he visited The Ranch. “Thank you for fitting me in.”
“Of course. How are you feeling today?”
“Tense. My shoulders are a disaster.” He glanced around the studio with the appreciation he always showed for the space. “I've been looking forward to this all week.”
“Let's see what we can do.” I gestured to the mats I'd laid out. “We'll start with some stretching, see where your body needs attention.”
Lars nodded, already pulling off his shirt. He settled onto the mat with the ease of someone comfortable in his body, comfortable with this arrangement.
I kneeled beside him, hands finding his shoulders. The familiar knots were there. He carried stress in his upper back, always had. I worked the muscles gently, feeling for where he held tension.
“That's good,” he murmured. “Right there.”
My hands moved lower, following the line of his spine. This was the part where the yoga became something else, where professional touch shifted into intimate contact. Lars shifted beneath my hands, responding to the pressure.
I guided him through a hip opener, hands on his thighs, adjusting the angle. His breath deepened. The afternoon light was warm on both our skin.
“Come here,” Lars said quietly, reaching for me.
I moved closer. He turned his head to kiss me, and I was already leaning in when he stopped.
His gaze had caught on something past my shoulder.
“Is that your work?” He was staring at the bench near the windows, at the open portfolio.
I followed his gaze to the visible sketches. Cord sleeping. Cord laughing by the creek.
“Yeah. Just some drawings.”
Lars sat up fully now, the intimate moment broken. “May I look?”
I should've said no. Should've redirected him back to the mats, to what we'd scheduled. But something made me nod.
He stood and walked to the bench, picking up the portfolio with careful hands. I stayed on the mat, watching as he flipped through pages. His expression shifted to surprise, then something deeper. Appreciation, maybe. Or recognition.
“These are extraordinary,” he said quietly.
“They're personal.”
“That's what makes them extraordinary.” He looked up at me, those clear blue eyes serious. “I collect art, have for years. And this… this has something most gallery work doesn't. Honesty. You're not hiding in these.”
I was quiet, unsure what to say.
Lars turned another page—Cord in warrior pose on the cabin porch—and I had to look away. “Have you shown these anywhere?”
“No. They're private.”
“I'd like to buy them. The whole portfolio.”
I paused a beat, then— “They're not for sale.”
“I understand.” He set the portfolio down carefully, but didn't move away from it. “But you should sell your work, Dusty. Maybe not these specifically, if they're too personal. But work like this… people would pay for it. I would pay for it.”
The words landed differently than I expected. Not flattering or abstract, but concrete. Real.
“I was saving for a gallery,” I heard myself say. “In Marfa. To show other artists' work.”
Lars leaned against the wall, studying me with the same focused attention he brought to difficult poses. “That's ambitious. Noble, even. But why other artists? Why not your own work first?”
The question hit like a well-placed adjustment, exposing exactly where I was out of alignment.
“Because...” I stopped.
Why not my own work?
The answer rose up, uncomfortable and clear: because it was safer. Because if I failed at opening a gallery for others, it wouldn't really be about me. My art. My voice. But putting my work out there? That was terrifying.
I'd been hiding behind the idea of helping others instead of being brave enough to help myself first.
Lars seemed to read something in my silence. “You're very good at making other people feel good, Dusty. Your yoga, your presence here, all of it.” He paused. “But when's the last time you did something just for yourself?”
The studio was quiet except for the faint sound of voices from the courtyard below.
I stood, brushing off my knees. “Lars, would you mind if we canceled today's session?”
He looked at me for a long moment, then smiled. Not disappointed, just understanding. “Because of the art?”
“Because I think I need to figure some things out. And I can't do that if I'm still going through the motions here.”
“I understand completely.” He reached for his shirt, pulling it back on with easy movements. “Though I'm curious what epiphany my terrible timing interrupted.”
“Not terrible timing. Maybe perfect timing.” I managed a smile. “There's a performance happening in the Dionysus building right now. Greek comedy that gets pretty raunchy by the second act. I bet you'd enjoy it more than a session with someone who's got his head somewhere else.”
Lars laughed, that warm Norwegian sound. “Raunchy Greek comedy? You know me well.”
“The performers are great. Very interactive.” I grabbed my keys. “Come on, I'll walk you over.”
The Dionysus building sat at the edge of the property, designed to look like an ancient amphitheater. Through the open doors, I could hear laughter and music.
The performance already underway.
We paused just outside the entrance. Through the archway, I could see the stage where three performers were enacting what looked like a scene from Lysistrata, or at least, The Ranch's version of it.
Two men in short togas were arguing over a third man kneeling between them, his mouth occupied with one while his hands worked the other.
The dialogue was sharp and funny, the actors hamming up the comedy even as the sexual acts were explicit and real.
One of the standing men delivered his line about “withholding the sacred mysteries” while the man on his knees deep-throated him, and the small audience roared with laughter.
The third actor stroked himself lazily, complaining in mock-tragic tones about the “terrible injustice of democracy” while visibly hard and grinning.
The actors moved seamlessly between actual sex and theatrical performance, breaking the fourth wall to invite audience participation. One guest was already being coaxed onto the stage by a performer in a satyr costume, the tail bobbing as he led the man forward.
“Second act starts in about twenty minutes,” I told Lars, tearing my gaze away. “That's when things get really interesting. The satyrs join in, and they pull volunteers from the audience for the fertility rites scene. Just go in, find a seat. The performers will take care of the rest.”
He clapped me on the shoulder, then leaned in to press a kiss to my cheek—warm, brief, no hard feelings. “Thank you, Dusty. For the recommendation. And for being honest today.”
“Thanks for looking at my work.”
“I meant what I said. You should share it.” He headed toward the entrance, then paused. “Good luck with whatever you figure out.”
I watched him disappear inside, then turned back toward the main building.
Time to talk to Ibrahim.
Ibrahim's office was all clean lines and dark wood, reflecting the man himself. He sat behind his desk reviewing something on his computer and looked up when I knocked on the open door.
“Dusty.” He gestured to the chair across from him. “Come in. What can I do for you?”
I sat, the weight of what I needed to say pressing against my chest. “I need to give my notice. I'm leaving at the end of the season after all. I can stay through until the first of January if you need.”
“No, The Ranch will be closed for the two-week holiday break per usual. The season will end on December 20th.” His expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture.
He closed his laptop, giving me his full attention.
“When we spoke after Jake's betrayal, you accepted the wellness center position. You seemed committed to rebuilding here.”
“I was. I thought that was the right path.” I met his eyes. “But I realized something today. I was using the gallery dream as a shield all along. If I failed at opening a gallery for other artists, it wouldn't really be about me or my art. But putting my own work out there? That's terrifying.”
“Explain.”
“A client looked at my sketches today. Personal work. He said I should sell it, that people would pay for it.” The words came easier now.
“And I realized I've been hiding. First behind the idea of helping other artists, then behind the idea of building your wellness center. Both were ways to avoid the scary part, putting my own voice out there and risking rejection.”
Ibrahim nodded slowly. “And you've decided to stop hiding.”
“I have to try. Even if I fail. Even if it takes me years to save up enough again.” I paused. “I can't do it while I'm here, though. The Ranch requires full commitment, and my mind is already elsewhere.”
“You have not been fully present for some time,” he said. It wasn't an accusation, just an observation. “Even before Jake's betrayal, your attention was divided. The cabin with Mr. Morales clarified that further.”
He wasn't wrong. My mind had been elsewhere for weeks… maybe longer than that.
“I know,” I said quietly.
Ibrahim stood, walked around his desk, and leaned against it, a rare moment of casual posture from a man who was always precisely composed.
“I am disappointed to lose you,” he said. “But I respect the choice. To master anything, you must commit fully. You cannot serve two callings.” He crossed his arms. “Where will you go?”
“I don't know yet. Maybe back home in West Texas, rent a small place. Maybe somewhere else. I just need to make art and see if anyone wants to buy it.”
“And if they don't?”
“Then at least I'll know I tried.”
Ibrahim studied me and I thought I saw something like approval in his expression. Then he extended his hand. “Good luck, Dusty. I hope you find what you are looking for.”
I shook his hand, feeling the finality of it. Seven years, ending with a handshake and mutual respect.
It felt right.
That night I sat in my studio after the last classes ended, portfolio open in front of me. The sketches of Cord stared back at me—honest and vulnerable and the best work I'd ever done.
I couldn't sell these. They were too personal, too much of what we'd shared. But I could create more work like this. Art that came from something real, that didn't hide behind technical skill or safe subjects.
I pulled out my phone and opened a new note: “Next Steps.”
This time, words came:
Give notice to Ibrahim (done)
Research studio rentals in Marfa
Build a simple website
Photograph portfolio pieces (not the Cord sketches. Keep those)
Create new work
Start small. Be brave.
Outside my window, The Ranch continued its familiar rhythm. Pleasure and release, people finding what they needed in connection and touch and temporary escape.
I'd been part of that world for seven years. It had been good to me, taught me things about bodies and connection and presence that I'd carry forever.
But it was time to leave.
Somewhere out there, Cord was preparing for surgery. Moving forward with his life, making decisions about his future. We'd had a week together, and they'd changed me in ways I was still discovering.
I looked at the sketch of him sleeping one more time, morning light soft on his face, completely unguarded. Beautiful in his vulnerability.
Maybe that's what I needed to learn. How to be beautiful in my own vulnerability. How to put my work out there and risk rejection. How to stop hiding behind noble dreams and start with the scary, honest truth of my own voice.
I closed the portfolio and started sketching something new. Not Cord this time, though I could feel his influence in every line. Just what I saw, what I felt, what was true.
The pencil moved across the paper, and for the first time in years, I wasn't thinking about what would sell or what people wanted to see.
I was just creating.
Tomorrow I'd start figuring out the logistics—where to go, how to make it work, what came next. Tomorrow I'd tell Ramon and start packing up seven years of life.
But tonight, I just drew.
Outside, The Ranch settled into darkness. Inside my studio, I worked under the warm glow of the lamp near the windows, finally brave enough to put myself first.
It was terrifying.
It was exactly what I needed to do.