He stared at her, not moving from his bed.

“I told you last night, no more pawside service. Not when you keep trying to bury it in your bed.”

Slowly, he stood, stretched, then jumped down and walked over to his bowl, staring up at her.

Bitch.

Well, that’s what his expression read, anyway.

“Deal with it,” she told him as she tried to decide what she wanted for dinner. First, though, she flipped on the TV and scrolled through the channels until she found something interesting. She’d invested in a satellite package that meant no matter where she was, she could usually get reception.

Worth every penny, and then some.

She settled on nuking a bowl of leftover macaroni casserole, a mix of ham and cheese and broccoli, instead of cooking something else. Then she settled back on the couch to watch TV and eat before her next part of her routine would begin.

Paperwork.

Logging in what she’d sold, bookkeeping, and checking for new online orders. She also specialized in custom BDSM collars for people, collars that looked like chainmaille jewelry and could be worn every day without causing suspicion. Three quarters of her online income was that demographic.

Unfortunately, it was also how she’d met Sam, in a local BDSM community in the Sarasota area.

When she’d divorced him and taken off for a roving RV life, she’d unfortunately left that part of herself behind. She missed having a Dom, and she wouldn’t deny it.

But not that Dom. And maybe after being independent for so many years, she knew she might not even be fit for a relationship, much less be a submissive in a D/s one.

Didn’t mean she didn’t miss being in one.

* * * *

By the time she was ready to collapse for the night a little after ten, she’d caught up with her bookkeeping and made two bracelets to replace ones she’d sold that day. She’d e-mailed Eliza the RV park’s address, too, something she’d meant to do the day before and had forgotten.

With Chewi curled along her back, she settled in, the RV’s AC unit humming and helping to drown out the various sounds outside.

Overall, other than the occasional loneliness, she didn’t have many complaints about her life. Her parents lived in California, a state Rebecca didn’t like driving the RV through. Not the southern part of the state, at least. Too much traffic, and gas prices were too damn expensive. They usually flew out and met her somewhere every Christmas, usually somewhere warm, and they’d spend a week with her in whatever locale Rebecca had picked for the holiday.

She had plenty of friends online, via Facebook and FetLife, as well as friends she regularly saw at events where she vended.

She could pay her bills, had a decent savings account built up, owned her home—technically—and had a fairly low-stress existence.

So what if she didn’t have a guy?

She had Chewi, at least.

I’m pitiful.

Chapter Two

How long are we going to keep going on like this?

Toby Sorto stared out the kitchen window at their large backyard garden. Herbs, vegetables, even some fruit, with a manicured tropical ornamental border around it. It was a beautiful Saturday morning, and Logan was still asleep, meaning Toby had peace until his partner awoke and they started what passed for their routine now.

He loved this house, loved what they’d done to it, loved that they’d put their heart and soul into it. But it felt like every day, more and more, that everything was slipping through his fingers.

Ever since Julie had left, it was like part of them had left with her.

Well, part of them, and a chunk of their bank account. They’d never expected her to betray them sexually or financially. They could have pressed charges, but unfortunately, they had nothing in writing and her name was on the account, too.

Thank god it was only money in checking and she didn’t have access to our savings account.

She could have wiped them out if she had. It was only because Logan had received text alerts about the withdrawals that he’d been able to immediately stop her from taking any more money out of the account.

At least the house hadn’t been in her name, and she hadn’t changed her driver’s license or car registration to their address. That meant when they dumped all her shit in the front yard for her to come get it, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

And they had thrown a tarp over everything when it started raining. They could have been dicks about it and let it get soaked.

Now, six months later, they both still stung and had drawn apart, and he didn’t know how to get “them” back.

Or if they even could.

Toby had tried coaxing Logan into seeing a counselor with him, but his typically closemouthed partner had shut down even more, like some hermetically sealed vault with no way in.

He didn’t know if it was the loss of Julie, or her multifaceted betrayal of them, or the fact that it had been Logan who’d met Julie and then pressed Toby to open their relationship to a poly triad that weighed on Logan’s mind heaviest.

Hell, he didn’t know what was weighing on Logan’s mind since the man didn’t want to talk.

He loved Logan, but if this was the kind of relationship they’d have for the rest of their lives, Toby knew he’d have to give serious consideration to thinking about moving on if Logan refused to deal with this. With him.

With them.

He was forty-two and Logan was forty-four. Long past the playing games phases of their lives.

Turning from the view, via the front windows he caught sight of the mailman heading their way. He walked outside and down their long driveway to meet him and say hi. Their expansive front yard was mostly lawn, with azaleas surrounding the four oak trees scattered around. Easy to maintain, unlike the high-maintenance backyard. They had nearly two acres total. They’d purchased it together seven years earlier and enjoyed working on it. They both worked in downtown Sarasota—him in the county’s zoning department and Logan at the Clerk of the Court’s office—and drove in together every day.

It meant the weekends were theirs to do with as they wished.

Except lately, those weekends had felt pretty empty, indeed.

He was waiting across the street at the mailbox when the carrier drove up. “Hey, Toby.” The carrier handed a bundle of mail out the window to him. “Thank god it’s Saturday, right?”

“You can say that again.”

“Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Is your neighbor okay?”

“Who, the Smiths?”

“No.” He hooked a finger over his shoulder at the property next door and directly to the west of them. This rural area in northeastern Sarasota County, east of I-75, had been a mix of agricultural and residential properties. As developers bought some of them, they were divided. But there were still larger properties scattered throughout the neighborhood. Theirs was one of them, as was their neighbor’s.

Only the neighbor owned a much older house, one story, maybe built in the 1950s, and had nearly ten acres.

“Jackson Hames?” Toby asked.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. We don’t talk to him a whole lot, but come to think of it, I haven’t seen him coming or going the past few days. Why?”

“His mailbox is overflowing, and I can’t fit anything else in there. No mail hold, like he went out of town or something. I know he lives alone. At least, he never gets any mail for anyone but him.”

A bad feeling settled in Toby’s gut. “I’ll take it up to the house.”

The carrier handed it to him. “Better empty his box, too.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

The carrier drove off while Toby walked over to Jackson Hames’ mailbox. Sure enough, it was filled to capacity.