Chapter Five | Lacey
Chapter Five
Lacey
By noon Wednesday, I was climbing the walls.
I couldn't focus on anything at the clinic. My mind kept circling back to Monday night—someone at my studio door, trying to break in.
When my lunch break finally came, I grabbed my keys and drove to the studio instead of eating. I needed to move. Needed to do something other than replay Gage's phone call in my head.
The building looked normal in afternoon light—just another tired structure on Highway 81. I let myself in through the main entrance and climbed the interior stairs.
The lock clicked into place behind me, solid and reassuring.
I changed into my practice clothes and approached my usual pole. The moment my hands wrapped around the chrome, something in my chest loosened. This was my space. My business. I wasn't going to let some stranger take that from me.
I climbed, inverted, and worked through the combination I'd been developing. The burn in my core and shoulders grounded me. Up here, I had control.
Then I heard wood creak below.
Probably nothing. The building settled all the time.
But I came down anyway and pulled up the camera feed on my phone.
My breath caught.
A man stood at the bottom of the interior stairs. Disheveled—layers of jackets, jeans that looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks. He swayed slightly, one hand on the wall for balance, then started climbing.
I watched him approach on the small screen, my hands surprisingly steady as I angled the phone for a better view. When he reached the landing, the camera caught his face full-on. Unshaven. Eyes glassy and unfocused. Mouth moving like he was talking to someone who wasn't there.
I took a screenshot.
He grabbed the door handle below me. The lock held.
He rattled it. Yanked hard. Threw his shoulder against the frame with a thud that echoed through the stairwell.
The door didn't budge.
After several tries, he gave up. Stumbled back down the stairs, still muttering to himself.
I waited until I heard the main entrance slam before I moved. Then I grabbed my regular clothes, pulled them on over my practice gear, and left.
***
The sheriff's station was quiet when I walked in after my shift ended at five.
Gage looked up from his desk. One glance at my face and he was on his feet. "What happened?"
"He was there." I pulled out my phone, hands not quite steady. "At the studio during lunch. The camera caught him."
He guided me into his office and closed the door. I showed him the screenshot.
"Son of a bitch." He enlarged the image, studying it. "I know this guy."
"You do?"
He was already moving, pulling a file box from the cabinet. Mugshots spread across his desk as he compared each one to my screenshot.
The third one down made us both stop.
"That's him," I said.
"Warren Hodge." Gage flipped the photo over, jaw tight. "Forty-two. Local. I've arrested him twice myself."
"For what?"
He pulled the full file. "Peeping tom charges going back two years.
Trespassing. Loitering. Public intoxication.
" He flipped through incident reports. "Last arrest was three months ago—caught in the women's locker room at the community center.
Got probation and mandatory counseling, which he's not attending. "
Nausea rose in my throat. "Of course he's not."
"No." Gage's voice had gone flat. Controlled. "File notes say he makes delusional statements about the women he watches. Claims they're 'performing' for him. That they're in relationships with him."
He looked up, and the fury in his eyes took my breath away. "He's mentally ill, Lacey. Probably using on top of it. That makes him unpredictable."
"What do we do?"
"I'm putting out a warrant. Probation violation at minimum, plus stalking charges based on this footage and your statement." He met my eyes. "And you need to cancel tomorrow night's class."
The words hit me like a slap. "What? No."
"Lacey—"
"I'm not hiding." The edge in my voice surprised us both. "This is my business. My students depend on me. Maya's bringing a friend tomorrow, and I have two new beginners scheduled."
"He's escalating. What if he breaks a window to get in?"
"Then you can patrol during class like you've been doing." I crossed my arms. "But I'm teaching."
"This isn't about proving anything—"
"Yes, it is." I stepped closer. "You said we're partners. That means I get to make decisions about my business. And I'm deciding to teach tomorrow."
His hands curled into fists at his sides. "What if he shows up? What if he gets past me?"
"Then I'll handle it. I have pepper spray. I'll keep the door locked once class starts. My students will be safe inside with me."
"And what if he has a weapon?" His voice roughened. "What if I'm thirty seconds too late getting to you? What if—"
"You can't protect me from everything, Gage." My throat tightened, but I pushed through. "I can't live my life scared. Can't let some stranger take away what I've built."
"Damn it, darlin', I'm trying to keep you safe."
"I know." I touched his arm. Felt the tension vibrating through him. "And I appreciate that. But I need you to trust me. Trust that I can handle this."
We stared at each other across his desk. I could see the war in his expression—every protective instinct screaming at him to lock me away somewhere safe, fighting against his promise to respect my choices.
"What if something happens?" His voice cracked slightly. "What if I fail—"
"You won't." I moved closer, placed my hand over his heart. "But even if the worst happens, that's not on you. I'm making this choice. Me. Not you."
His hand covered mine. "I hate this."
"I know."
"Fine." He exhaled hard. "But I'm there. Outside the building the entire time. And if he shows up—"
"You arrest him." I laced our fingers together. "You do your job. I do mine."
He pulled me against him. Buried his face in my hair. "You're gonna give me a heart attack, woman."
"Probably." I wrapped my arms around his waist. "But you'll survive."
***
That evening, I triple-checked every lock in my apartment. Looked over my shoulder walking to my car. Texted Gage before bed.
Me: Still good. Locks secure. See you tomorrow.
Gage: Already dreading it. But I trust you. Sleep safe.
I didn't sleep much. Every sound from the apartment complex made me tense. A door slamming. Footsteps on the stairs. The heating vent rattling.
But I didn't call him. Didn't ask him to come over and make me feel safe.
Because I needed to prove—to both of us—that I could do this.
***
Thursday evening, I arrived at the studio at six-thirty. The thermometer on the bank across the street read thirty-two degrees.
Gage's cruiser was already there, parked where he could see both entrances. He'd followed me from my apartment, keeping two car lengths back the whole drive. I'd stopped arguing about it.
I pulled out my phone.
Me: I can see you out there.
Gage: Good. Want you to know I'm here.
I smiled despite myself.
I locked my car and headed inside, climbed the interior stairs to the studio. Started setting up. Queued the music. Positioned mats. Wiped down mirrors. Changed into my practice clothes.
Normal routine. Normal class.
Except my hands shook adjusting the speakers.
At six-fifty, Maya arrived with a redhead. I waved from inside the studio.
"Lacey, this is Christine." Maya grinned as they climbed the stairs. "She's been dying to try this."
"Welcome." I smiled at Christine. "First time on a pole?"
"Yeah. I'm a little nervous."
"Don't be. We'll start with basics."
Jenna and Riley showed up next, followed by two college students who'd found me on social media. Seven women total.
Seven people depending on me to teach them. To keep them safe.
Once everyone was inside, I closed the door and turned the lock.
Outside the studio windows, winter darkness had already fallen. The overhead lights felt brighter against the black glass.
We warmed up with stretches and basic conditioning. I demonstrated a combination—body spiral transitioning into a carousel spin. Maya nailed it on her second try, and Christine whooped.
"That's it!" I grinned. "You've got the movement."
The class flowed. Riley held an iron cross for thirty seconds—a new record. The beginners managed climbs without slipping. I lost myself in teaching, in watching these women discover their strength.
Then, at eight-fifteen, everything stopped.
A loud CRASH from downstairs. Breaking glass.
Everyone froze.
"What was that?" Jenna whispered.
Heavy footsteps pounded up the interior stairs. Fast. Angry.
"Open up!" A man's voice, thick and off-kilter. "Open up! You dance for me!"
The studio door shook violently. The lock held, but the whole frame rattled.
"She's mine!" Warren's voice. Raw. Delusional. "She dances just for me! We're together!"
My students screamed.
My hands were steady now. Clear. I grabbed my bag and pulled out the pepper spray.
"Get behind me," I told the women. My voice came out calm. Controlled. "Now. Against the far wall."
They scrambled back. Maya had her phone out, calling 911.
Warren threw himself against the door. The frame shuddered.
"You can't keep me out!" His fists hammered the wood. "You're mine! You perform for me!"
My heart slammed against my ribs, but my grip on the pepper spray didn't waver. The lock would hold. It had to hold.
Behind me, Christine was crying. Riley had her arm around her.
Another crash. Warren's shoulder hitting the door. The lock rattled but stayed secure.
Then Gage's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.
"Sheriff's department! On the ground NOW!"
Sounds of struggle—Warren shouting, something crashing against the wall. Gage's voice again, harder: "I said DOWN!"
Dell's voice crackled over a radio: "Dispatch, this is Deputy Fuentes requesting backup at—"
"Stop resisting!" Gage. Furious now.
The sounds of the fight echoed up the stairwell. Grunting. A thud. Metal clicking—handcuffs.