Intrigued, Rom glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “I’m interested.”

  Kent smiled. “Neg? And can you show me recent results on Saturday? Like, less than a month old?”

  Rom nodded.

  “Good.” Kent pulled out a business card, motioned for the pen in Rom’s shirt pocket, and wrote his home address and a cell number, along with a four-digit code, on the back of the card. “I like playing matchmaker and have pretty good luck with it,” he said as he handed the card and the pen to Rom.

  “That’s the gate code. I mean it about keeping it quiet, though. No plus-ones, no talking about it to anyone. And I have a pool and a hot tub, so bring a couple of towels. Feel free to bring a toybag, if you have one. I also have a…eh, playroom in the back, and there’s usually a few subby boys in attendance. If I wasn’t mistaking your type based on what we saw last weekend, huh? Five sharp, we’ll have dinner, go over the rules, all of that. Have time to relax ahead of the party.”

  Rom glanced around again and kept his voice low. “Not to sound like a dick, but I’m extremely allergic to peanuts.” He held up his right wrist, showing his allergy alert bracelet. “I keep an EpiPen on me. Including peanut oil. Like, I can’t be in the same room with peanut products.”

  “Any other allergies?”

  “Just that one.”

  “Then we can accommodate you.” Ken shook with him. “See you at five sharp on Saturday. Call me if you can’t make it or are running late. Or, if you have questions, feel free to text or call me.” Kent wagged a finger at him. “Just remember—keep it quiet. I protect privacy and expect the same courtesy. If you have anyone you feel might be a good, eh, fit, talk to me first and I’ll approach them. But if you vouch for someone and they break my rules, it means you lose party access, too.”

  That sounded like the guy was serious, which was good to know. “Will do.” Rom slipped the card into his wallet before returning to stand with Denise.

  No, he couldn’t get involved with Kent…but there weren’t any rules saying he couldn’t be friends with the guy, or let the guy introduce him to fuckable guys.

  Hell, it’d be worth it not to have to drive all the way up to St. Pete. And who knew? Maybe he’d meet someone he’d hit it off with.

  It was definitely worth a shot. What he was doing now damn sure wasn’t helping him find Mr. Right.

  Once Kent had departed, Rom returned to where he’d been standing. He loosened his tie and unfastened his top two buttons. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered to Denise.

  “So what’d he want?” she asked. “Isn’t he that rich guy?”

  “Yeah, he wanted to sit down and discuss his accounts this morning. He said he’d come back tomorrow.”

  “Seems like a nice guy. Always been pleasant to me. Always see him with a smile on his face.”

  Rom smiled. “Yeah, seems like a really nice guy.”

  * * * *

  “Full name?”

  Rom tried to keep his patience, but it was fucking hot out here in the sun and he didn’t even have water or sunglasses or anything. “Romeo Allen Quinn.” He spelled everything for the sheriff’s office detective.

  It was nearly noon, and while doing the initial search, the bomb dog had made a hit on a safe deposit box in the vault.

  Because the dog was also a drug dog, apparently. And, according to their records, the box’s owner had accessed it yesterday morning.

  That meant now they were awaiting a search warrant to be issued, and the sheriff’s office was hunting down the owner of the box, as well. While the initial opinion was that the bank was clear, and the dog was likely smelling some sort of narcotic, they still weren’t allowing anyone back inside until the box was opened.

  Just in case, of course. Wink-wink, nudge-nudge.

  What a fucking pain in the ass.

  Rom had to go through yesterday’s encounter with the elderly woman for what felt like the tenth time that morning. They’d located her, based on her phone number being traced, and had already taken her into custody.

  But still, here they waited.

  By the time the detective was done interviewing him, someone had come up with a portable picnic canopy tent and a few cases of water, a cooler full of ice, and plastic cups.

  Rom greedily sucked down three cups of water and wet the back of his neck. “I’m getting pretty damned hangry,” he muttered to Denise. “I should’ve gone into the break room and grabbed my fucking lunch before I left the building.”

  “You and me, both.”

  It was nearly two o’clock before the box was opened and the owner and his girlfriend arrested for possession of cocaine, among other things. Apparently there’d been a couple of baggies of it in the large box, along with about twenty grand in cash, and three handguns.

  Loaded.

  Reported stolen in burglaries in Sarasota.

  And the guy was already a convicted felon on probation.

  Finally, they were allowed back inside. Rom groaned as he felt the AC hit him. He stood there in the foyer, out of the path of the door, with his arms out and shirt unbuttoned and exposing his undershirt. He’d done that about an hour earlier—as had three other male employees—and he was soaked with sweat.

  He wasn’t the only one.

  “You realize we’re not happy right now, don’t you, Mark?” he called to the branch manager.

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry, guys. Marcy, can you please print up signs for the front door and the drive-thru that we’ll be closed until tomorrow morning?”

  “Sure.” She headed for her desk.

  Rom finally made his way over to his desk and collapsed in his chair, dropping his tie onto the desk. “What a freaking day.”

  “Thanks, everyone, for your patience,” Mark called out. “The bank will pay for dinner tonight. I’ll try to get everyone out of here no later than seven.”

  There were several groans at that news, and two of their tellers immediately headed over toward Mark. Rom knew both of them had young kids and wouldn’t be able to stay past their normal time.

  That means me. Lucky, lucky me. Since he didn’t even have a dog or cat to inconvenience by his absence, he really didn’t feel right grouching about it.

  At least the rest of the day was made slightly more bearable for Rom by the thought of what might be in store for him Saturday night. He hesitated to let his mind run too far ahead, for fear he’d get his hopes up just to be let down.

  It was nearly eight thirty by the time he finally walked through his front door, where he stripped right there.

  Freedom!

  It wasn’t even that he was a nudist. He just didn’t like the feel of clothes. He was very particular about what he wore for that very reason. It was a tactile issue. Chad and Ina even had him tested for autism when he was a kid, after her older sister read an article that it was sometimes a symptom of the condition, but that had been ruled out.

  He just didn’t like certain things. He didn’t like the texture and taste of raw celery, but he was fine with it cooked, and he loved raw carrots and broccoli and other veggies. Or how he hated having anything sticky on his hands. He was the weird kid growing up who ate watermelon with a fork instead of his bare hands, or always got a cup of ice cream instead of a cone, because he didn’t like it dripping.

  He dumped his clothes, except for his tie, into the small washer in the closet just off his kitchen and started the load. That was another benefit to this apartment—it came with a washer and dryer, meaning he didn’t have to fight for a spot in a common laundry room, or schlep his clothes over to Chad’s to wash them.

  Except it would be nice to have someone to come home to.

  Maybe it’s time I really start buckling down and searching for a guy. Or at the very least keeping an open mind about Saturday night.

  Being alone was starting to suck, and the emptiness following one of his play weekends had gone from feeling numb to prickling him in uncomfortably repetitive ways.

  After heading into the bathroom, he climbed under the spray and groaned with relief to finally get the sweat rinsed off him. He didn’t mind sweating his ass off if he was running, or even if he was having sex, but when he was at work he wanted it to not be Hell-level-hot. Standing there with his hands braced against the wall at the far end and the water hitting his back, he took in a deep breath and thought about Kent’s offer.

  Rom was definitely interested in the party. That the guy didn’t approach him at the Toucan spoke to how discreet Kent was. Obviously, Kent wouldn’t want anyone knowing his private activities.

  Come on, Saturday.

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday morning, Colton was already awake when his alarm went off.

  Work awaits.

  He hated getting out of bed in the mornings. Once he made it as far as the car, he’d be okay. He went through this every morning.

  Every morning.

  He forced himself to sit up on the side of the bed, where he reached for his phone to shut off the alarm.

  Up and at ’em.

  Yeah, now he remembered another reason why he’d suck at a regular job—he hated mornings. At least he loved what he did, other than the whole he wished it started about five hours later part.

  Coffee, breakfast, car. He started waking up a little more and emerging from auto-pilot mode during his drive to the gym. This morning, he was working with one of his regular clients, as well as a new guy, older man. Recent divorcee, looking to reclaim his youth.

  Not that Colton would say that aloud to the guy, but in his ten years doing this, he’d seen that type plenty of times. Guy was mid-forties, married for ten years, and now wanted to snag a younger and hot revenge wife to make the ex jealous, regardless of how sad and pathetic—and unhealthy—that was.

  That meant having abs, or so the guy thought.

  Hey, Colton didn’t give a shit about their lives outside the gym, or their personal motivation, as long as they were paying him and not rapists, or bigots, or had BO or something.

  They could have Daddy issues and like to walk around in drag while wearing a banana butt plug, as long as they listened to him and followed his plan and did what he told them to do.

  By the time seven o’clock rolled around, Colton had finished with his two clients and started his own workout. Today was leg day. After he worked out, he grabbed a shower and was ready to return to the shop to eat and start the rest of the day.

  On Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, he had morning clients at the gym. And on Thursdays and Fridays, he had afternoon and evening clients at the gym, as well. But even on the mornings he didn’t have morning clients, he still got up early to get his own workouts in. He only took off Sundays and Mondays from his training to rest.

  He hadn’t meant to get into this line of work. He’d stumbled into it accidentally. In high school, he’d ended up bullied and pushed around when kids learned he was gay and that he worked with his grandmother in her shop. She’d paid for him to start going to the gym when he was sixteen and a sophomore in high school, both as a way to build himself up as well as a way to burn off the growing anger she saw within him. One of her friends’ sons was a personal trainer and started working with him before and after school. By the time he’d hit junior year, kids weren’t picking on him anymore because he looked like he belonged on the football team.

  In fact, the football coach even approached him and asked if he wanted to try out, that he’d be happy to give him a walk-on position.

  Colton had never felt that level of satisfaction before as when he smiled and politely told the coach no thanks, and the guy’s jaw had literally dropped. Their team had placed within the top three schools in the entire state the last five years running, coming in first twice. They always had college scouts showing up.

  At least his anger passed. From that point on, he was basically ignored, which was fine by him. It meant a relative level of peace in his life, for a change.

  He’d always felt more at home and accepted in the gym, even though he wasn’t as religious about his workouts as some of the guys there. Colton refused to use any kind of performance-enhancing drugs. He didn’t need to be fitness-magazine ripped, or a bodybuilder. He was solid and broad-shouldered, an imposing presence at six-four.

  Which meant a lot of people were shocked to find out he was an artist and ran a ceramics studio.

  Fine by him. He had nothing to prove to anyone. Now, his workouts were more a part of his personal calling card for his training clients as they were to keep the snakes out of his brain. It sucked, and was shallow as hell, but the truth was people didn’t want to hire a personal trainer who wasn’t in shape. He didn’t have to kill himself at every workout, but he felt sort of off-kilter if he missed a regular workout.

  Aunt Roberta was already there when he returned. “You’re here early,” he said as he walked over to kiss her cheek.

  “I felt bad I had to cancel on you yesterday.”

  “Yeah, but it was for the doctor, and you told me in advance, so it’s fine. Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, sure. Just routine, for our prescription refills and stuff. If you want to take off today, I can stay all day.”

  He thought about it. “I wouldn’t mind a few hours to catch up on bookkeeping.”

  “You do that. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Thanks.”

  He headed upstairs. One of the bedrooms he used as an office. After dumping his sweaty clothes into the hamper, he headed in there to work. At least he had everything computerized now. Grammy had resisted him doing that until she realized how much time it would save every month, as well as broaden their reach by integrating it with their website.

  Then she put him in charge of that, which allowed her the freedom to teach more classes and work on her own artwork, some of which he’d removed from sale from their showroom shelves and brought up here after her death. He’d bought display cases and lovingly kept them safe.

  Sure, he sensed her spirit chattering at him for not selling them and keeping the money, but they were a part of her soul, and he needed that tether to her more than he needed the few hundred dollars in the bank right now.

  Grammy was his maternal grandmother. He never knew his grandfather—he’d died when his mom was young. She’d been raised by Grammy, a single working mom running the studio, and his mom had hated everything to do with it.

  Not Colton. He’d adored the time spent at Grammy’s, loved helping in the store and even teaching classes, once he was old enough.

  His father’s parents had been in New York, and he’d barely known them before they passed.

  And now his own parents…

  Well, they’d thrown him out and disowned him, and Grammy for taking him in, when Colton came out as gay at twelve.

  Apparently, his parents’ acceptance of gay people stopped when it came to their own son.

  Grammy had demanded his parents immediately give her custody of him, and then…

  That was it.

  Him and Grammy against the world. Well, and there was Aunt Roberta and Uncle Mike, Grammy’s younger sister and brother-in-law.

  Colton knew his parents had moved away from Venice at some point, but he didn’t know where and honestly didn’t care anymore. He was still here, at the shop, which had occupied the same building for over thirty years now. They knew where he was, yet made no effort to contact him or reconcile.

  Grammy had specifically ordered him not to invite them to her funeral unless they apologized and accepted him.

  Aunt Roberta had volunteered to reach out to them with the message, but they rebuffed her.

  Which was fine. Grammy’s funeral was filled with laughter and love and hundreds of people who’d turned out to celebrate her life and support Colton.

  Other than the fact that he was lonely as fuck in the romance department, he really didn’t have many complaints about his life. He didn’t need to be rich, as long as he could pay his bills. He enjoyed what he did for a living. He had a roof over his head. He was healthy.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be griping about that one damn thing after all.

  * * * *

  It was a little after lunch when Aunt Roberta texted him to ask if he could come downstairs for a minute. That someone wanted to speak to him personally.

  He was both pleased and surprised to find Kent Corwin awaiting him.

  “Hey. Welcome back.” They shook hands.

  Kent tipped his head toward the empty classroom area. “Can we talk privately?”

  “Sure.” Colton swallowed back the anxious energy trying to jump-start his pulse.

  When Kent spoke, he kept his voice down, his back turned away from Aunt Roberta out in the showroom. “Question—you’re single and gay, correct?”

  “Yeah?”

  “My boys and I were talking yesterday after we left. See, we throw…parties at our home. Very exclusive guest list. Very…private guest list, if you get my drift?”

  Colton’s heart raced as he slowly nodded. “I think I do.”

  “Now, my boys and I, we don’t play with anyone except each other.” Colton ignored the disappointment that threatened to wash through him at that declaration as Kent continued. “But these parties are for people over twenty-one, neg, and can prove it with recent results, and who like to…have fun. No drugs, no excessive drinking allowed. Nothing illegal, everything consensual. Would that be something that interests you?”

  Colton somehow managed to keep the grin off his face, glancing over toward Aunt Roberta first before nodding again. “Sex parties?” he whispered.