Chapter Two | Gage
Chapter Two
Gage
Mack Stagg was waiting when I walked into the station.
"Judge got an appointment today?" My senior deputy leaned against my office doorframe, coffee in hand and that knowing smirk on his weathered face.
I hung my Stetson on the hook. "Two o'clock. Why?"
"Just wondering if you're gonna handle it yourself again." He took a long sip. "That's what, four months now you've been personally driving him instead of letting me or Dell take him?"
"He's my K9. My responsibility."
"Uh-huh." Mack's grin widened. "Funny how he's been your responsibility for five years, but you only started handling every single appointment yourself back in September."
I sat down at my desk, pulled incident reports toward me. "Don't you have patrol?"
"Dell's got morning. I'm on at three." He settled into the chair across from me like he planned to stay awhile. "You know, when Judge got hurt in that bust three weeks ago, I offered to take him to his rehab appointments. You nearly bit my head off."
"Because he's my partner."
"Right. Your partner. The one you've been hauling to the vet yourself for months now—since way before he got hurt.
" He studied me over his coffee cup. "Five years that dog's been yours, and suddenly last fall you won't let anyone else drive him to his checkups.
What's so interesting about that clinic all of a sudden? "
"Get out of my office, Stagg."
His laugh echoed down the hallway. "Must be something real special over there."
I stared at the paperwork, not seeing it.
Mack was right. For the past four months, I'd been insisting on bringing Judge to every appointment myself. Routine checkups that Dell or Mack could've handled. Minor follow-ups that didn't need the sheriff personally driving across town.
But I'd made sure I was the one walking through that clinic door every single time.
The problem? Crosswell wasn't big enough for awkward. If I asked Lacey Bennett out and she turned me down, I'd still be walking through that clinic door for the next five years. She'd still be the one handling Judge's care. Small-town dynamics meant you didn't make things uncomfortable.
And I definitely didn't want to be another guy hitting on her while she was trying to do her job.
But damn, I wanted to ask.
***
When I walked into North Texas Animal Hospital at two, Lacey was behind the reception desk. She glanced up and smiled, and something in my chest went tight as a fist.
"Hey, Gage. Judge."
Judge moved toward her immediately. She knelt, scratching behind his ears, and he leaned into her like she was his favorite person in the world.
Smart dog.
"Y'all ready?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
Pink crept into her cheeks. I'd been calling her ma'am for months now, and that reaction never got old.
She led us to exam room two, and I watched the way she moved—fluid and confident, ponytail swinging between her shoulder blades.
She knelt beside Judge, running her hands over his injured shoulder with gentle competence.
"How's our patient doing?" she asked.
"Good. Doing his exercises without complaint."
"That's great." She worked through the examination, noting improvement in the healing tissue. "The swelling's way down. Range of motion is excellent."
She demonstrated a stretch, extending Judge's front leg while supporting his shoulder. I moved in to watch, and our knees bumped.
She didn't pull away.
"Like this?" I mimicked her hand position on Judge's other side.
"Exactly." She reached over to adjust my grip, her fingers warm against mine. "Just support the joint here."
Close enough to see the freckles scattered across her nose. Close enough to catch the little hitch in her breath when my thumb brushed the inside of her wrist.
I could ask her right now. Just say the words.
"Got it," I managed instead.
Judge let out a long, dramatic sigh and rolled onto his side.
Lacey laughed. "I think someone's done with his therapy."
"He's milking it." I straightened, pulse hammering. Do it. Just ask. "Lacey, I was wondering—"
"Lacey, I was wondering—" "Lacey?" The receptionist's voice crackled through the intercom. "Dr. Bev needs you in treatment. The Doberman's IV came out." Lacey's expression shifted immediately—professional, focused. "I should—" "Go. It's fine."
She gave me an apologetic smile and stepped out.
I stood there in the exam room with Judge, who was now sitting up and staring at me with what I swear was judgment in those brown eyes.
"Don't start," I muttered.
His tail thumped once against the floor. Coward.
By the time Lacey came back, the moment was gone. She made notes in Judge's chart, confirmed Monday's appointment, and I paid at the desk.
Loaded Judge into the truck and sat there for a minute, looking through the clinic windows as she went back to work.
Next time. I'd ask next time.
Judge huffed from the passenger seat.
"Yeah, I know," I muttered, and started the engine.
By Thursday evening, I still couldn't get her out of my head. Dell was finishing up paperwork when I grabbed my keys.
"Heading out for my Highway 81 run," I said.
Dell looked up from his computer. "That sketchy area? Want backup?"
"Nah. Routine patrol. Call if anything comes up."
The Highway 81 corridor was my least favorite part of town—pawn shops, closed businesses, run-down apartments.
The kind of area that needed regular law enforcement presence.
I'd driven this route a hundred times. Working girls on the corner near the old gas station.
Teenagers smoking behind a boarded-up convenience store who scattered when they spotted my cruiser.
The faint smell of mesquite smoke drifting on the wind.
As I approached the Crosswell Pawn & Loan on the corner lot, its neon sign flickering against the darkening sky, I glanced up at the second-floor windows.
Light blazed out. Bright against the dusk.
I slowed the cruiser.
Through the window, I could see an open room. Chrome poles anchored floor to ceiling. Four women in athletic wear—three on the ground, one inverted on a pole with her legs extended in a perfect split, suspended upside-down.
Then she spun down, and I saw her face.
Lacey.
She was wearing a purple sports bra and black shorts that barely qualified as clothing. Every muscle in her arms and core was defined as she demonstrated something to her students, then gestured for one of them to try.
My foot slammed the brake.
A horn blared. A truck swerved around me, driver yelling. I drove forward on autopilot, turned into an empty lot two blocks down, and threw the cruiser in park.
Lacey taught pole fitness.
Here. Highway 81. The worst part of town.
At night.
I sat there gripping the steering wheel, pulse hammering in my ears.
That's why her shoulders were sore. Why I'd noticed calluses on her palms. Why her arms could lift a seventy-pound dog like it was nothing.
I checked my watch. Eight-fifteen.
I should've driven away.
I got out and walked back instead.
A closed hardware store across the street offered cover—metal overhang creaking in the wind. Temperature had dropped into the low thirties. My breath came out in white puffs.
From here, I had a clear view through those windows.
She was in her element. Demonstrated a spin, then stepped back while a brunette attempted it. When the woman's grip slipped, Lacey was there immediately, hands ready to spot her. When another student nailed a climb, Lacey's grin lit up her whole face.
Then she executed a move that had her horizontal to the pole—parallel to the ground, held by nothing but arm strength and core strength.
Climbed hand over hand, legs extended behind her in a perfect line.
Inverted and spun in a slow circle that showcased every toned muscle in her thighs, her abs, her shoulders.
Jesus Christ.
This was pure athleticism. Strength and control and technique that took hours of training to achieve. The kind of athletic ability that deserved respect.
And it was sexy as hell.
I made myself breathe. Made myself think like a sheriff. Not like a man who'd been obsessing over her for months.
The building's security was shit. From my position, I could see the main entrance—no visible cameras. The parking lot was gravel, poorly lit. The exterior metal fire escape was rusted, bolts loose. Anyone could climb up. No motion lights. No security signage.
My jaw locked.
And here I was, standing across the street in the shadows.
But I couldn't leave. Not yet.
The wind picked up, rattling a loose chain somewhere down the alley. My fingers went numb despite my gloves. I tried to count exits, assess sight lines, check for potential threats.
Didn't work. My attention kept drifting back to her. The flex of her muscles as she climbed. The confidence radiating from every movement. The way she coached her students with patience and encouragement.
She wasn't just strong. She was extraordinary.
Around nine, the lights in the studio shifted. Through the small window by the main entrance, I could see them coming down interior stairs—Lacey and three students, laughing, gathering bags.
They emerged into the gravel parking lot. Lacey walked each woman to her car, staying until they were safely inside with engines running before moving to the next.
Smart. Good instincts.
That's when I saw him.
A figure stood beside the dumpster in the alley. Disheveled clothes, hunched posture. Male, from his build. He wasn't moving—just standing there in the darkness, eyes on Lacey as she hugged the last student goodbye.
My instincts fired all at once. My hand dropped to my duty belt.
I started forward, boots hitting pavement, but he moved the second I stepped into the street. Melted back into the alley like smoke. By the time I reached the dumpster, he was gone—over the fence or deeper into the maze of alleys.
I scanned the darkness. Listened. Nothing but wind and distant traffic.
When I turned back, Lacey was getting into her Honda. Locked the doors immediately—good—and pulled onto Highway 81.
I followed.
Kept far enough back that she wouldn't notice my headlights. Told myself I was making sure she got home safe. Ignored the fact that this was exactly the kind of behavior I'd arrest someone else for.
She drove to an older apartment complex on the west side. Parked. By nine-thirty, I was parked two spaces down. Her lights came on—second floor, corner unit.
I sat in my cruiser for twenty minutes, keeping eyes on her windows, making sure nobody else showed up.
Then I drove home and didn't sleep.
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan. Judge's snores rumbled from the corner.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her. Inverted on that pole, muscles flexing. That slow spin. The curve of her waist. The strength in her thighs.
And then I saw that figure in the alley.
Someone had been there tonight. Standing in the shadows while she walked her students to their cars.
And she had no idea.
I needed to check that building's security tomorrow.
But how the hell was I supposed to tell her what I'd seen? Admitting I'd been there meant admitting I'd followed her home. That I'd stood across the street. That I couldn't stop thinking about her body on that pole.
She'd think I was just another guy who heard "pole fitness" and immediately made it sexual. Another asshole who wanted her to perform for him.
Except I did want that. Wanted to know what those thighs felt like wrapped around me. Wanted to test that flexibility, that strength. Wanted to hear what sounds she'd make when I—
I rolled over, punched the pillow.
Focus.
I wanted more than that. Needed to understand the woman who was gentle with animals and fierce on that pole. Wanted to figure out how those two sides fit together.
Here's what I knew: I couldn't ask her out now. Not after seeing her like that. She'd think it was only because I'd seen her half-naked, that I just wanted one thing.
No.
I'd handle the security situation first. Keep her safe. Then—once that was settled—I'd ask her out properly. Do it right.
Judge's tail swept the floor once.
"Yeah," I muttered to the ceiling. "I know."
***
I was at the Highway 81 building the next morning by seven a.m.
The pawn shop was just opening. The guy behind the counter barely looked up. "Help you, Sheriff?"
"Got a report of suspicious activity. Mind if I check upstairs?"
He shrugged. "Exercise studio up there. Knock yourself out."
I climbed the interior stairs. Noted every detail. Worn treads. Broken steps. One working bulb. Loose railing that wobbled under my hand.
At the top, a door with a cheap brass handle.
I tried it.
The door swung open.
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.
The lock was broken. Mechanism stripped. Anyone could walk through this door.
Last night, while she'd been teaching, while her back was to this door, anyone could have walked up these stairs.
I pulled out my phone. Documented everything. The lock. The stairwell. No cameras. Poor lighting. No secondary security.
Then I headed to the hardware store. An hour later, I had a cart full of equipment. Commercial deadbolt. Wireless camera with night vision. Motion-sensor light.
The clerk rang it up without comment.
I loaded everything into my truck and sat there.
I could install this myself. Fix the problem. Keep her safe.
But that was the wrong move. Installing security without her knowledge. Making decisions without asking.
That's what assholes did. Men who thought they knew better. Men who took over.
No.
I'd go back tomorrow night—Saturday. See if the building was lit, if she was teaching. If she was, I'd wait until her students left and tell her face-to-face. "I was patrolling Thursday night. Saw you teaching. Saw someone in the alley. Your security's terrible. Let me help."
Direct. Honest. Gave her the choice.
And if she shut me down, at least I'd have tried.
But I'd still patrol that block.
One way or another, she'd be protected.
And once the security situation was handled—once I knew she wasn't in danger—I'd ask her out properly. Do it right, not muddied by protective instincts and half-naked memories.
I wanted all of her. The gentle veterinary assistant and the fierce instructor. Every complicated piece.
But first, I had to keep her safe.