Chapter Three | Lacey
Chapter Three
Lacey
Friday's appointment with Judge had been torture.
I'd stood in that exam room trying to focus on the healing tissue in the dog's shoulder while Gage crouched beside me, close enough that his thigh brushed mine every time he shifted weight. Close enough that I caught the scent of leather and soap, warm and masculine.
The intensity in his gaze every time our hands brushed made me fumble the bandage scissors. The way his voice dropped lower when he said "Yes, ma'am" sent heat racing through me. By the time he left, I was wound so tight I could barely function.
Now it was Friday evening, and I still couldn't stop thinking about it.
I didn't have class tonight, but I'd driven to the studio anyway.
New combinations had been running through my head all week, and I needed to work them out.
Needed to move, to burn off this restless energy that had nothing to do with pole fitness and everything to do with a certain sheriff and that deep drawl.
The building was dark and quiet when I arrived just after seven. No pawn shop customers, no students, no one around. Just me and the cold January wind rattling the loose siding.
I let myself in through the main entrance and headed straight for the first-floor bathroom. The small space was cramped—barely enough room to turn around—but it had a door that locked from the inside. I slid the bolt into place and started stripping off my work clothes.
Scrub top over my head. Tank top next. I was unclasping my sports bra when I heard it.
Scraping. Metal on glass.
I froze and turned toward the window.
A dark silhouette filled the frame. Backlit by the streetlight in the alley, just a shadow—but unmistakably male. Watching me.
The scream tore out of my throat before I could stop it.
The figure jerked back, disappeared. I heard running footsteps on gravel, fading fast.
My fingers wouldn't steady as I yanked my tank top back on and slid the bolt free. I stood in the cramped bathroom, heart pounding, listening.
Nothing. Just wind and the creak of old wood.
He's gone. You're fine. You came here to practice.
I forced myself to finish changing—pulling off the tank again, sports bra and shorts on, trying to ignore the tremor in my hands. I wouldn't let some creep ruin this. Wouldn't let fear win.
I climbed the interior stairs to the studio, flipped on the lights, and started my playlist. The familiar bass thumped through the speakers, and I approached my usual pole.
Grip. Climb. Simple warm-up moves I'd done a thousand times.
Except my palms were slick with sweat. My hands slipped on the chrome. When I tried to invert, my core wouldn't engage—too tense, too wound up. I came down hard, stumbling.
Breathe. Focus.
I tried again. Made it into a basic spin, but my timing was off. My body felt wrong, disconnected. Every shadow outside the window made me flinch. Every creak of the building made my pulse jump.
What if he was still out there? What if he came back?
What if he climbed the exterior fire escape while I was up here alone?
I looked at the studio door—the one that wouldn't latch, wouldn't lock. Anyone could walk right in.
Panic clawed up my throat.
No. Not doing this. Not tonight.
I grabbed my bag, pulled the studio door closed—knowing the broken lock meant it wouldn't actually secure—and practically ran down the stairs and out to my car. Locked the doors immediately. Checked the back seat twice before starting the engine.
The drive home took forever. Every set of headlights behind me felt like a threat. Every shadow looked like that figure in the window.
By the time I got to my apartment, my whole body was shaking.
Get it together, Lacey.
I made it inside, threw the deadbolt, checked every window. Pulled the curtains shut. Turned on every light in the small space until it was bright enough to chase away the worst of the fear.
Then I sat on my couch and tried not to fall apart.
Who was it?
The question circled in my mind, picking up speed with every pass.
Boyd.
The name hit me like ice water. My ex had been obsessive—showed up at my work unannounced, drove by my apartment at weird hours, always needing to know where I was and who I was with. When I'd finally left him two years ago, he'd moved to Dallas for a construction job.
But what if he'd come back?
What if he found out about the pole fitness classes and decided I needed him to "protect" me? What if this was his way of checking up on me, making sure I hadn't "moved on" the way he'd accused me of wanting to when I broke up with him?
My stomach twisted.
Or—
My father.
The thought made me feel sick, but I couldn't shake it. Dad had made it clear what he thought of my pole fitness "side hustle." Eight months of silence since that fight at his garage. What if he'd sent someone to spy on me? To prove his point about the kind of men my business attracted?
I hadn't gotten a clear look at the face. Just the silhouette, backlit and featureless. Could've been anyone.
I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them.
You handle your own problems, I reminded myself. You don't need anyone to save you. You've been taking care of yourself for two years.
But God, I was tired. Tired of being scared. Tired of looking over my shoulder.
No woman—no person—should have to feel like prey. Like something to be claimed and devoured by whatever predator happened to be circling overhead.
Sleep didn't come that night. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, jumping at every sound from the apartment complex. A door slamming down the hall. Footsteps on the stairs. The rattle of the heating vent.
By Saturday morning, I'd made a decision. I wasn't someone's victim waiting to happen. And I didn't need anyone to rescue me.
I drove to the hardware store as soon as it opened and bought a tension rod and blackout curtain. Drove straight to the studio and installed it over the bathroom window. It wasn't perfect—anyone determined enough could still get in—but at least now I could change without being watched.
The anxiety followed me through the rest of Saturday. I tried to distract myself—cleaned my apartment, did laundry, made a grocery run I'd been putting off. Nothing worked.
By the time Saturday evening rolled around and I was driving to the studio for my seven o'clock class, my nerves were shot.
Maya, Jenna, and Riley arrived on time, chattering about their weeks. I forced myself to smile, to be present, to teach. We warmed up, stretched, worked through combinations.
Around eight, during a water break, I glanced out the window toward the street.
A sheriff's cruiser sat parked two blocks down.
My chest went tight.
From this distance, I couldn't see who was inside. But I knew. Somehow, I knew.
Gage.
"You okay?" Maya asked, following my gaze.
"Yeah. Fine." I turned back to the pole. "Let's run that carousel transition again."
But I couldn't focus. My attention kept drifting to that cruiser. Still there. Still watching.
By nine o'clock, when I walked my students to their cars like always, the cruiser hadn't moved.
"Great class," Riley said, hugging me goodbye. "See you Tuesday?"
"Yeah. Absolutely."
I waited until all three of them had driven away before getting into my Honda. Locked the doors. Started the engine.
The cruiser's headlights flicked on.
I pulled onto Highway 81, heading west toward my apartment. Checked the rearview mirror.
The cruiser followed.
Not close. Not aggressive. But there. Steady. Deliberate.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Was Gage following me?
Fury and want collided in my chest—confusing and intense. Every turn I made, those headlights stayed behind me. Every stoplight, that cruiser pulled up three cars back.
By the time I reached my apartment complex, anger had won out over everything else.
I pulled into my parking space, threw the car in park, and climbed out. The cruiser pulled into the lot behind me, engine idling.
Oh hell no.
I stormed across the pavement toward the driver's side window. It rolled down before I reached it, and Gage looked up at me with those eyes that had been haunting my dreams.
"Are you following me?" The words came out sharper than I intended. "Spying on me?"
He cut the engine and opened the door, unfolding that tall frame from the cruiser. In full uniform—badge gleaming under the parking lot lights, duty belt riding low on his hips, Stetson casting shadows across his face.
"Need to talk to you." His voice was rough. Lower than usual.
"So you followed me home?" I planted my hands on my hips. "That's not talking, Gage. That's stalking."
"I know." He took off his hat, ran a hand through his dark hair. "And I'm sorry. But we need to talk, and you wouldn't have let me if I'd tried at the studio."
"How would you know? You didn't try!"
"Because I saw you Thursday night."
The words landed like a punch.
I went still. "What?"
"Thursday night. Around eight-fifteen." He met my gaze, steady and unflinching. "I was on patrol—Highway 81's part of my regular route. Drove past your building and looked up at the window. Saw you teaching."
My face went hot. "You were watching me?"
"Didn't mean to." His jaw tightened. "But yeah. Saw you on that pole in those little shorts, and I nearly crashed my damn cruiser."
My breath caught. The anger flickered, replaced by something hotter and more dangerous.
"So what—you've been following me ever since? Checking up on me?"
"No." He took a step closer, and I fought the urge to back up. Fought the urge to close the distance. "I've been making sure you're safe. There's a difference."
"I don't need—"
"Someone was watching your building Thursday night."
That stopped me cold. "What?"
"Male. Standing in the alley by the dumpster while you walked your students to their cars. Soon as I stepped into the street, he took off. Couldn't catch him." His expression went dark, dangerous. "And Friday morning, I went back. Checked the building."