See You Sometime

  Maybe that’s why I have a soft spot for sadists.

  * * * *

  It was nearly one in the morning when she finally pulled up in front of her parents’ house on their quiet rural road in eastern Sarasota County. She wasn’t surprised to see lights on inside, or the front lights on, but she was surprised when the front door opened and her parents walked out to meet her.

  It took every ounce of self-control she had not to run into their arms like she was five.

  And considering she hadn’t murdered Kelly—short for Kellog—Carling in his goddamned sleep before she kicked his ass out, she had a lot of fucking self-control.

  Not enough to keep her from pitching a damn screaming tantrum on the side of I-75, but enough.

  Her father reached for the keys. “I’ll back it in for you.”

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  He grinned and looked at his wife. “Ooh, did you hear that? I got a Daddy out of her.”

  Her mom smirked. “Still not calling you that, Howard.” She reached for Barksley. “Give me my grandbaby. Come here to Grandma.”

  She handed the wagging mop over. “You need help, Mom.”

  “Only grandchild I’m getting. Throw me a bone.”

  Her father turned. “I already threw you—”

  “Howard!”

  Skye turned to where her incorrigible father wore a playful grin. “Just sayin’.”

  Moon Bauer rolled her eyes as she slowly shook her head. “I promise I’ll tell him to tone it down. He’s like a big damn kid now that he’s retired.”

  “How’s that working, anyway?”

  “Well, as you can see, he’s still alive.” She threw him a glare. “Barely.”

  Twenty minutes later, Skye was stretched out on their couch, Barksley busy getting to know her parents’ dog and their less-than-happy-to-have-an-extra-dog-in-the-house long-haired cat. They’d already emptied their guest room of furniture, having anticipated her moving her bed in there tonight when she arrived.

  That meant a night on the couch.

  She didn’t care. She was home.

  Well, sort of. She hadn’t been back to Sarasota in over ten years, and she’d never visited them here in this house, which they’d bought eight years earlier. They always came up to visit her for holidays, because her father had traveled a lot to the Northeast for work and her mom had usually accompanied him on visits to see her, and they’d been well off enough to afford to do it.

  She…hadn’t.

  Even while married to someone from the Carling Automotive empire family who usually came up with every excuse in the book why he couldn’t give her money to go visit her family even while keeping himself in good suits and cars.

  But early on, it hadn’t seemed…inequitable. He’d paid for more, wooed her.

  She’d been young and stupid and dazzled and not really thinking clearly when she’d signed the prenup that didn’t entitle her to any alimony when they divorced, no matter how long they’d been together.

  She’d stupidly thought if that ever happened that he’d do the right thing.

  He…hadn’t.

  I guess I’m lucky he didn’t give me an STI.

  Just a raging case of the shit out of lucks.

  At least she started her new job on Tuesday. A friend of her mom’s, in the same book club, had hooked her up with it. Doing billing for a doctor’s office. Nothing exciting, but at least a paying job and benefits.

  And in Florida. Twenty minutes from her parents’ house.

  She’d interviewed over the phone, and, fortunately, it was in a field that while it in no way related to her English degree, it was a medical billing job, for which she had several years of working experience.

  She didn’t even have to buy work clothes because she already had scrubs, and they didn’t wear a required pattern or type.

  One lucky break, at least.

  I’m going to focus on work, find a reliable kinkster to beat my ass without wanting to do more than that to or with me, and rebuild my life.

  Maybe then she could put the ghosts of Kelly—short for Kellog—Carling’s damaging words and actions out of her head for good.

  Chapter Two

  “So what do the women look like?” Rusty asked.

  Eliza lightly backhanded his shoulder from where she sat next to him. “Does it matter?” She tipped her head toward Darryl’s son, Kyle, who was nearly fifteen and sitting on the other side of the table.

  Rusty blundered on, clueless as always. “Of course it matters. If there’s five chicks skinny-dipping in the pond, I want to know what they look like.” He arched his eyebrows in expectation as he smiled at Axel.

  Axel damn well knew what Rusty was doing. Axel was no frigging prude, and he knew darn well some of their friends sitting around this table right now were either kinky or definitely non-vanilla. But Rusty frequently had fun teasing him, because they all assumed Axel was the straight-laced guy in the group.

  Why did I even go there?

  These were five inconsequential NPCs, for chrissake, not even real NPCs he’d made up in advance and planned for the actual campaign. But when Rusty had led the merry gang of murderhobos currently masquerading as their first-level D&D characters the wrong direction at the crossroads and away from the town where they were supposed to be going, where Axel had, oh, actually planned for them to go and had spent all of last week setting them up to go, Axel had said the first thing that came to mind when they’d decided to explore the surrounding countryside.

  Behind his DM screen, Axel quickly jotted notes in pencil in his spiral notebook as he talked. “Roll a spot.”

  Everyone at the table did, calling out numbers. He rolled against them, not glancing at the die yet as he quickly pulled five non-existent NPCs out of his brain.

  Then he glanced at the D20 and hoped he hadn’t groaned out loud.

  “Show of hands, everyone above a thirteen?”

  Everyone except Mike raised their hands. “I didn’t see shit,” Mike said. “Rolled a one.” Even with a ranking in spot, a natural one was an automatic fumble.

  “You think you need new shoes,” Axel told Mike. “Those are looking pretty worn out. Maybe you can buy a new pair in the next town. Everyone else sees what looks to be three humans, possibly an elf, and a humanoid woman with golden-hued skin and dark eyes.”

  Rusty perked right up. “I break cover and walk down to them, calling out a greeting in Common.”

  Of course he does.

  Just to keep it above-board, Axel rolled his D20 five times, one for each NPC. “The three humans scream and swim deeper to get away from you. The elf disappears below the surface and you can’t see where she goes. The golden-skinned one just stares at you.”

  “Ohhh, this isn’t good,” Darryl said. “Come back to the road.”

  “Yeah,” Grant said. “Get out of there.”

  Susie snorted as she leaned in toward Eliza. One hand stroked her swelling baby bump. “This’ll be fun.”

  She and Eliza fist-bumped.

  “Dude,” Milo said. “Get out of there.”

  John and Kyle both shook their heads. “Can I duck?” Kyle asked.

  “You’re still behind the stone wall, right?” Axel asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Axel rolled a D20, even while digging out four extra D6 from his zipper case on the table. “She doesn’t see you, only Rusty. In fact, she points at Rusty.”

  Rusty grinned. “I start talking to her. ‘Hey, we’re new around here and—’”

  “You see her mouth move and then you get hit by three bolts of Scorching Ray for…” He rolled the set of D6 once…twice…three times. He winced. “Oooh… You take forty-two points of fire damage.”

  “Oooh,” everyone else around the table said.

  “Three bolts of Scorching Ray means she’s at least eleventh level, probably a sorcerer or wizard,” Kyle said where he’d quickly looked up the spell in the Player’s Handbook. They played an older version, 3.5, a
nd everyone had their own books.

  “I turn around and haul ass toward the town,” Mike said. “Full withdrawal. I don’t even wait. I damn sure don’t look back, and I don’t stop at the crossroads we just came from. Dead run toward town, fast as my freaking druidic dwarven legs will carry me.”

  “Me, too,” everyone else said.

  “You’re not even going to try to heal me, you rat bastards?” Rusty asked.

  “Dude, you are a first-level rogue,” Mike said. “You had eleven hit points. That means you’re at negative thirty-one. You’re dead, and we don’t have nearly enough gold to resurrect your stupid ass. We don’t even have enough healing potions or spells between everyone in the party to restore that many hit points. Roll up a new character.”

  Eliza cackled as Rusty reached for a folder tucked into the bookshelf behind him, which contained blank character sheets. “Two sessions into a new campaign. Not even a full two sessions, because we’re only ten minutes into the night. I think that’s the fastest you’ve ever gotten yourself killed off, my stubborn barbarian.”

  Axel jotted a short note onto a piece of paper, folded it, and had it passed around to Rusty.

  “Nastygram for Mongo,” Mike teased when he handed it to him.

  Rusty sneered. “Very funny.” He read it.

  Your long-lost identical twin can show up in the town in a little while, minus your masterwork crossbow and shield. Swap out for plain ones, and kick back the difference into your GP.

  Axel watched Rusty bob his head side to side for a moment before finally nodding and refolding the note. “Okay, fine. Thank you.”

  “Change his name, too,” Axel told him.

  Truth be told, this would be less work for him. He’d already inputted everyone’s base stats into a table he had printed out for quick reference for combat. It’d be a pain in the ass to have to change the whole thing right now just because Rusty was an idiot.

  And he wouldn’t have to wait a whole week for Rusty to try to decide what else to be, as well as roll up skills and pick a matching figurine for the character.

  “Dude,” Eliza said. “Axel’s letting you respawn? You’d better bring him beer next week.”

  “Forget beer,” Susie said. “You’d better bring him sushi.”

  “I can be bribed with brownies,” Axel said, smiling. “Okay, so you’re all rapidly heading toward town…”

  * * * *

  At ten o’clock, Axel’s phone started wheezing the sound of the TARDIS taking off.

  “That’s it, folks. Perfect timing. We’ll pick up there next week.” Right now, the games were on Tuesday nights because that worked best for everyone’s schedules. Sometimes they had to change the day, usually to accommodate Darryl or Kyle.

  He made a note in his spiral notebook where they’d left off and started packing his things. Because he was still working on the campaign at home to stay far enough ahead of them, he was taking his stuff home every week. Now that they permanently played here, at Grant, Darryl, and Susie’s house, everyone usually left their game gear behind each week rather than hauling it around. It was a really nice set-up, because they had a dedicated game room with a large table and could leave the combat mat and figurines in place.

  Even better, once Susie had her baby in a few months, they wouldn’t have to drop out of gaming, because the game was held there.

  After bidding everyone good night, he headed for his car, his stomach growling in protest for the delay. He’d been running late tonight and went to gaming straight from work, meaning he hadn’t had time to grab dinner.

  Dammit, now I want sushi.

  But he knew Publix would be closed, and he didn’t feel like going out of his way and hunting around Sarasota for a sushi place that might be open. Instead, he stopped by a Subway on the way home and grabbed a turkey sub.

  He hauled his laptop bag and the messenger bag holding his D&D stuff inside and dumped it all on the couch. Then he turned on the TV before continuing to the kitchen. There, he poured himself a glass of iced tea and ate his sandwich while standing at the sink.

  As he did, he looked around his house.

  Empty house.

  Empty-feeling.

  Maybe I need to get another dog.

  When Baker died two years ago, he hadn’t had the heart to get another dog. And then…

  His heart had felt like it’d shriveled up and died.

  He had friends, yes. Tonight was proof of that. And people from work he sometimes had dinner with.

  He worked, had D&D, and came home, mostly.

  When was the last time he’d dated?

  That would be a little over two years ago, not long before Baker died.

  Then again, after the way his ex-wife had taken a cheese grater to his heart and then poured rubbing alcohol over the remains, was it any wonder he didn’t have the energy to even try to date?

  Maybe I’m depressed.

  He’d considered talking to a doctor about it, but he wasn’t sure if it was something clinical, or more him being lazy and no longer willing to keep putting himself out there to try.

  Maybe that’s why I need to talk to a doctor, duh.

  When he finished he cleaned up after himself and stood there for a moment trying to decide what to do. If he tried to go to bed this early, he’d only lie there and stare at the ceiling.

  If he got involved in doing some project, he’d likely be up late to complete it.

  He didn’t even feel like looking up some porn and masturbating.

  Hell, how long’s it been since I masturbated?

  He realized he couldn’t even remember.

  Months, easily. At least.

  Shit.

  He took a deep breath. Okay, I definitely need to talk to my doctor.

  * * * *

  Axel remembered he had laundry to do. That provided him a brief respite instead of going to bed.

  If someone had told him a few years ago this was where he’d be right now, he would have laughed in their face.

  His wife? She loved him. She was the best thing in his life.

  He had a great job, and a decent home he wasn’t in danger of losing. His car was paid off and ran well.

  He was lucky.

  Blessed, some might say.

  Happy.

  When he tried to look back to visualize his descent from where he’d been to where he now found himself, he could clearly see the slow, gradual decline. Even his waist was trying to increase a little, gravity inexorably tugging at him in that way also, not just metaphorically and emotionally.

  Last he’d heard, Linda had married the guy she’d been cheating on him with, and they were expecting a baby.

  It was midnight before he conceded the day over, knowing he rapidly approached that zone of “up too late” versus “lying in bed and hating himself.”

  He’d still lie there hating himself, even if it wasn’t necessarily all his blame to bear.

  Still, he was the only one there to blame, at this point.

  Alone.

  Chapter Three

  Wednesday morning, Skye tried not to make much noise as she got ready for work. She’d discovered yesterday morning that, since her father’s retirement, her parents had gone from asscrack-of-dawn risers to sleeping late.

  She envied them.

  Maybe that’ll be me, one day.

  As she drove to day two of her new job, she thought about her life and how she’d arrived here.

  This had not been her plan when she’d attended college. She’d wanted a degree in English, then be a teacher while she tried her hand at writing.

  Then he happened.

  She’d been in the process of getting her teacher’s certification when he’d walked into her life, spun it upside down and inside out, and she’d lost sight not only of her life plan, but of her.

  If he hadn’t cheated on her, lied to her, they would have had a perfect life.

  Well, sort of.

  She would have remained his devoted s
lave.

  Even despite him being a cheapskate.

  Even despite his asshole family, who’d pretty much hated her on sight and gave plentiful and thinly disguised, less-than-veiled insults about her English degree.

  They were less than impressed he hadn’t married a business major, or at least an accountant, someone they could press into use in one of the dealerships.

  She’d always felt inadequate at family gatherings. Like they believed Kelly had dressed up a mongrel stray and that at any moment she was liable to take a shit in the middle of the dinner table or otherwise embarrass him.

  Had not escaped her notice there were plenty of times she hadn’t been invited to functions where other spouses had been included. Someone usually made sure to tell her that after the fact.

  Kelly—short for Kellog—had always attended.

  Even that was stupid.

  Especially stupid.

  If he hated being called Kelly so fucking much, why the hell hadn’t he just gone by Kellog in the first fucking place?

  Fuck. He really had been a creep.

  Except she’d been a year into exploring BDSM and knew she was a masochist. He’d been a very handsome, charming sadist three years older than her and going to grad school in Tampa. He’d effortlessly plugged into every mental socket she’d had, and six months in, she found herself collared to him.

  A year later they were married, and she found herself moving to Pennsylvania to spend her life with him.

  Everything went reasonably well for the first five years. As they delved more deeply into BDSM and settled into newlywed nesting in their new townhouse, she’d happily overlooked his shortcomings.

  The next five years had seen a slow decline in the quality and quantity of their time spent together. He stayed late at work, frequently went in on weekends.

  The five years after that, she hadn’t realized he’d been cheating on her until midway through year three. It’d taken her a couple of months of self-deprogramming to figure out what to do about it.

  Another couple of months following that to put together a plan of action and practically memorize forward and back the document she’d stupidly signed without thoroughly reading before she’d married him so many years ago.