Chapter One | Lacey #2
Gage rose to his full height—six-two of solid muscle and authority, all wrapped up in that uniform. The shirt pulled tight across his chest as he straightened.
"He's healing really well," I said, moving to the counter to update Judge's chart. "You're doing great with him."
"Couldn't do it without you." The words were simple, but something in his tone tightened my throat. When I turned around, he was watching me with an intensity that made it hard to think straight.
"It's my job," I said, but it came out softer than I intended.
"Lacey?"
"Hmm?"
"You doing all right?" He studied my face, and I fought the urge to squirm under that sharp hazel gaze. This was a man who noticed things. A sheriff who paid attention. "You seem a little... tired, maybe. Everything okay?"
The concern in his voice caught me off guard. "I'm fine. Busy."
"Between here and—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening slightly.
And what? I wanted to ask. What did he know?
But Dr. Bev's voice carried down the hall, something about the next appointment, and the moment broke.
"I should let you go," Gage said, though he didn't move toward the door. His hand came up like he was going to touch my arm, then dropped back to his side. "Take care of yourself."
"Wednesday at two," I reminded him, trying to sound normal.
"Wouldn't miss it." The corner of his mouth kicked up in something that wasn't quite a smile but set my heart racing anyway. His gaze held mine for another beat before he finally moved. "Come on, Judge."
I stood in the exam room after they left, listening to the front door chime, listening to the sound of his truck starting in the parking lot. My hands trembled slightly.
I was in so much trouble with this man.
The rest of Monday crawled by. When Tuesday evening finally rolled around, I grabbed my phone and keys, checking the time before heading out.
The drive to Highway 81 took me east through Crosswell, past neat brick buildings and well-lit streets, into the area where things got rougher around the edges. Pawn shops and closed-down businesses, apartment complexes that had seen better days.
I'd been teaching for a year now, and the drive still set me on edge after dark.
The Crosswell Pawn & Loan sat on a corner lot, its neon sign flickering weakly in the growing dusk.
The space I rented for my classes was on the second floor, above the shop.
I let myself in through the main entrance and headed to the small first-floor bathroom, making sure the door was locked before changing.
I traded my jeans and sweater for athletic shorts and a sports bra, stuffing my clothes into my gym bag.
The interior staircase creaked as I climbed to the second floor. The door at the top—the one that should secure my studio space—had a broken lock. The building owner kept promising to fix it, but six months later, here I was shouldering it open like always.
The space wasn't much—an open room with eight chrome poles anchored floor to ceiling, left behind by whoever had the space before me.
Another pole fitness instructor, maybe, or aerial arts.
I'd mounted mirrors on one wall myself, set up my portable sound equipment in the corner, added some mats for floor work.
An old couch sat against the back wall, useful for students to rest between sets.
I'd built something here. Every class, every student, every dollar earned—that was mine.
I started the music and began my warm-up routine. I'd discovered pole fitness two and a half years ago, back when I was still with Boyd. The first time I'd climbed a pole and inverted, I'd felt powerful. Strong in a way I'd forgotten I could be.
Six months later, I finally left him. And I'd never looked back.
The chrome was cold against my palms, but I barely noticed. Muscle memory took over as I climbed, inverted, spun. My body knew what to do, had learned these movements through hours of practice and determination.
"Lacey!"
Maya's voice carried up the stairs, and I smiled as I came down from an aerial spin. My first student had arrived.
"Hey! Come on up."
Maya was in her thirties, an accountant with two kids and a husband who thought her pole fitness hobby was "cute." He didn't know that Maya could hold an iron cross for ninety seconds or that she was working on her aerial invert.
Jenna arrived next—a nurse in her twenties with arms that were getting seriously toned—followed by Riley, a divorced mom in her forties who'd told me once that pole fitness saved her life after her marriage fell apart.
Three regular students. Fifteen dollars a class, three nights a week.
The math was simple: roughly five hundred forty dollars a month before expenses.
After I paid the four hundred in rent for this space, I had maybe a hundred and forty left over.
Some months there were extra costs—equipment repairs, liability insurance, new mats.
But slowly, painfully slowly, I was building savings for school.
It wasn't much. But it was mine—earned with my own strength.
And it meant something beyond the money. Watching these women discover what their bodies could do, seeing them accomplish things they'd never thought possible—I loved that part. Loved seeing them realize they were capable of more than they'd believed.
"Okay, ladies," I said, once we'd all warmed up. "Tonight we're working on a new combination. It's tricky, so don't get frustrated if it takes a few tries."
I demonstrated the sequence—a body spiral that transitioned into a carousel spin, then caught into a fireman hold.
"We'll break it down piece by piece. Maya, you want to start?"
She approached her pole with determination, gripping high and lifting into the spiral. Her form was good, but she rushed the transition.
"Slower," I coached. "You've got the strength. Trust it."
She tried again, and this time nailed it. Her whoop of triumph echoed through the space.
"Yes! That's it!" I grinned at her. "See? You needed to trust yourself."
"My arms are shaking," Riley admitted, attempting the spiral. She made it halfway before losing her grip.
"That means it's working." I moved beside her pole. "Engage your core before you lift. Pull from your abs, not your arms."
I demonstrated, feeling the familiar burn through my obliques. Riley mimicked the movement, and I adjusted her form.
"Better. Now add the pole."
She tried again, and while she didn't complete the full sequence, she held the spiral longer.
"That's progress. A month ago, you couldn't hold a basic spin for ten seconds. Look at you now."
Jenna picked up the combination on her second try, though her carousel needed work.
"Point your toes," I said. "It's not just about strength—it's about the lines you create."
The hour flew by. We worked through variations, each woman pushing her own limits, cheering for each other's victories.
"This is so much harder than it looks," Jenna gasped during a water break.
"That's what makes it worthwhile," I said. "When someone tells you pole fitness isn't a real workout, you can laugh in their face."
"My husband still doesn't get it," Maya said, stretching her shoulders. "He thinks I'm twirling around."
"Next time, make him try a basic climb," Riley suggested with a grin. "Five bucks says he can't hold himself up for more than three seconds."
"Five bucks? I'd pay twenty to see that."
We were halfway through another combination when something moved outside the window. Just a flicker of shadow, there and gone.
I lost my grip for a second, caught myself.
'You okay?' Maya asked.
'Yeah, lost focus.' I managed a smile. 'Let's run it again.'
But my attention kept drifting to that window. Probably just a cat on the fire escape.
I pushed the unease away and refocused on the class.
By nine o'clock, we were wrapping up. I always walked my students to their cars—the parking lot wasn't well-lit, and this part of town made me nervous after dark.
"Great class," Maya said as we descended the stairs, our breath fogging in the air. "I can't believe I finally got that carousel."
"You killed it. Seriously." I pulled my jacket tighter, the temperature having dropped into the low thirties. "Are you bringing your friend next week?"
"She said she'd try to make it. I've been talking it up."
We reached the gravel parking lot, potholes filled with dirty ice catching the weak glow from a streetlight half a block away. Jenna and Riley had already reached their cars, engines starting with clouds of exhaust.
Maya was telling me about her kids' Christmas break when I noticed him.
A man stood by the dumpster near the alley, half in shadow. Watching. Something about the way he stood there made my skin crawl.
"—don't you think?" Maya was saying.
"Yeah, definitely." I had no idea what I was agreeing to. I picked up my pace, steering Maya toward her car. "See you Thursday?"
"Wouldn't miss it." She climbed into her sedan, oblivious to my tension.
I hurried to my Honda, keys already in hand. The man by the dumpster hadn't moved.
My hands shook as I got in the car and locked the doors fast. When I glanced toward the dumpster, he was still there.
I pulled out of the lot faster than I should have on the icy gravel, checking my rearview mirror compulsively the whole drive home.
Back in my apartment—a cramped one-bedroom in an older complex on the west side of town—the unease wouldn't let go. I kept seeing that shadow. That strange stillness.
Probably some homeless guy. Lots of people hung around that area. It was a rough part of town.
But I'd handle it myself. I'd learned that lesson the hard way—never let anyone make me feel helpless again. Done with that.
I couldn't stop thinking about it as I showered, as I made a sad excuse for dinner, as I stared at the TV for half an hour without seeing it.
Instead, my mind kept drifting to other things. To a certain sheriff with hazel eyes. To gentle, sure hands on Judge's fur. To a shoulder brushing mine in that exam room.
I gave up on TV and went to bed early, but sleep wouldn't come. The sheets felt cool against my skin as I settled in, trying to quiet my racing thoughts.
My hand drifted down my body. This had nothing to do with Gage Coulter, I told myself, even as I closed my eyes and heard his voice. Yes, ma'am.
In my mind, we were back in that exam room, but Dr. Bev's voice didn't interrupt. Instead, Gage's hand didn't drop back to his side—it landed on my arm, warm and solid. That rough thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of my wrist, and I shivered.
"You sure you're okay?" Lower than before, almost a rumble.
"I'm fine," I whispered, but I didn't pull away.
His other hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my face toward his. Those hazel eyes were dark now, pupils blown wide. "Don't lie to me, darlin'."
The fantasy shifted. Now those work-worn hands were sliding up my sides, pushing under the hem of my scrub top, fingers rough against my bare skin. I arched into the touch, and my real hand moved lower, mimicking the path I imagined his taking.
In my mind, he lifted me onto the exam table, stepping between my thighs. The duty belt pressed against me, hard leather and metal, and I wrapped my legs around his hips to pull him closer.
"Been thinking about this," he growled against my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point. "Thinking about you. Driving me crazy, Lacey."
"Gage—" His name came out breathy, desperate.
His touch was everywhere—sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips, one hand fisting in my hair to angle my head back. His words got thicker, dirtier. "Tell me what you want."
"You. Want you."
My real hand slipped beneath my panties, and I bit my lip to keep quiet. In the fantasy, his hand replaced mine, those thick fingers finding me wet and ready. He made a sound low in his throat—approval, hunger.
"So wet for me already." His thumb found my clit, circling in exactly the right way, and I gasped. "That's it. Let me hear you."
He worked me with his fingers, finding a rhythm that had me panting, writhing. His mouth was on my neck, my shoulder, teeth scraping skin, that deep voice talking me through it.
"You gonna come for me, darlin'? Wanna feel you come apart."
Then he was naked above me. Muscles flexed as he moved, shoulders broad enough to block out everything else, chest hard with strength. He was pressing into me, filling me, and the stretch was perfect. Those big hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise as he moved, slow and deep and deliberate.
"Fuck, Lacey." His control was slipping. "Feel so good. So damn good."
I was close, so close. In the fantasy, his hand slid between us, thumb finding my clit again, and he changed his angle, hitting that spot that sent stars across my vision.
"Come for me," he commanded. "Wanna feel you."
I came hard, back arching off the bed, 'Gage' tearing from my throat—half moan, half plea. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, and I rode it out, imagining him following me over, imagining what he'd sound like when he lost control.
Afterwards, I lay in the dark, waiting for my heartbeat to slow. The satisfaction was still warm in my body, the fantasy still vivid behind my closed eyes. For a moment, I let myself float in it—the imagined weight of him, the phantom touch of those hands, that deep voice saying my name.
Then reality crept back in. The empty bed. The silence. The fact that I'd just gotten myself off to fantasies about my client.
The guilt started as a whisper, then grew louder.
This was exactly what I couldn't do. Couldn't let myself want someone who might try to control me, to make decisions for me, to take over piece by piece until I disappeared again. I'd fought too hard to get myself back.
I knew better. I'd learned this lesson already. Protection turned into control. Helpful suggestions became decisions made for you. Before you knew it, you were small again. Helpless. Trapped.
I couldn't go back to that.
But God, those long looks from Gage. That word in his voice that made my stomach flip. The way his palm had felt so close to mine today. The concern in his gaze when he'd asked if I was okay.
What if he was different?
No. I couldn't let myself think that way. Couldn't start making exceptions, finding reasons why this time would be different. That's how it always started.
My phone lit up on my nightstand. I grabbed it, grateful for the distraction.
Calendar reminder: Judge appointment Wed 2pm
My pulse kicked up despite everything I'd just told myself.
I was in so much trouble.