The Boyfriend Collector

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  We turn to our right, toward the parking garage where he left his black Lexus sedan with tinted windows. The car seems a little…I dunno. Too mature for a guy his age? But what do I know?

  I let out an involuntary brrrr sound. I have no body fat except on my chest, and I hate it. I get cold way too easily. I’ve been eating more these past weeks just to gain weight because I want to erase decades of bitter memories.

  “Are you cold?” Gustavo asks.

  “Just a little.”

  “I’m so sorry. My jacket is in the back of my car. I should have brought it in with me.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t die.”

  He chuckles nervously. He must be cold too, because I can barely keep up with his brisk pace.

  We turn the corner and head toward the pedestrian entrance of the garage. All I can think about is getting back to my warm apartment and—

  “Yo, hey. Gustavo!” a man calls out from behind us. “Where you going, man?”

  We both turn our heads, and it’s a rotund Latino man wearing a gray T-shirt and a black baseball cap.

  “Oh shit.” I freeze. He’s got a gun.

  In that moment, my focus turns into a blur of images, noises, and thoughts. I don’t know what to do, and apparently I’m the only one because Gustavo takes off.

  What the…? Words cannot describe how shocked I am—even more so than the fact there’s a huge fucking man pointing a gun at me as I stand alone on a dark side street at two in the morning.

  I look at the guy and hold up both hands while he stares with a predatory gleam in his eyes. Shit. I can’t believe this is happening. It doesn’t feel real.

  “I don’t have any money on me,” I say. “Not even a credit card.” It’s a lie. I brought a twenty and a debit card. They’re both inside my bra because I didn’t want them to fall from my pocket and I didn’t bring a purse. But the last thing I want is for him to touch me or to draw attention to that part of my body.

  “Then it’s your lucky day,” he says, his voice gravelly and menacing. “I don’t want your money.”

  Oh, shit. Oh, shit. I blink rapidly and feel my heart knocking against my chest wall. Because if he doesn’t want money, then there are only two other things left for him to take. My body or my life. Yes, it occurs to me that he might want both.

  Okay, think fast. He’s a big man, definitely overweight, so there’s a chance I could outrun—

  A loud boom cracks through the air and thunders through my eardrums. The man drops to the ground, his hands limp to his sides. Blood spills from his chest, discoloring his light gray shirt.

  “Ohmygod.” I step back and cup my hands over my ringing eardrums. He’s been shot, and I’m not the one who did it, so…

  I whip my head over my left shoulder, seeing nothing, and then look to my right. There, on the second floor of the garage, is a silhouette pulling back a rifle. It’s dark, but I’m close enough to see the man removing some sort of headgear. I can also see the familiar outline of the two shoulders I’ve been watching for the last four hours.

  “Gustavo?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bex

  As a man, I feel it’s my obligation to be a protector. As a therapist, it’s my job to instill confidence and keep a level head. But when Rose storms in before my first patient of the day and tells me about her date, I don’t know how to react other than to feel a sense of rage. Whatthefuck? “Did you just say that your date shot someone?”

  “Everything I tell you is protected under patient-doctor confidentiality, right?”

  “I…I…yes?” Honestly, I’d have to look it up. It’s been years since I’ve read the rules of exclusions. For the purpose of my patient’s safety however, I nod. “Sure.”

  “Then, yes. I watched him take a guy out. With a rifle. In the dark of night from like, shit, I don’t know, a hundred yards away.”

  “Rose, if this is a joke, I’m not laugh—”

  “Look at my face, Bex. I’m being one hundred percent serious.” Her face is flushed and her breathing rapid.

  I don’t know what to say, because I somehow feel like this is my fault. I should have insisted Rose give up on this speed dating/marriage idea. “Please tell me you went to the police.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Not only was her life threatened, but someone was killed. Leaving the scene puts her at risk with the police.

  “Because when a man saves your life and asks you never to tell a soul, you do it.”

  “So Gustavo asked you not to tell anyone?” That has fishy written all over it.

  “He can’t get mixed up in any kind of legal issues or scandals. The state of Florida is doing a background check, and if they see his name in the papers or find out he shot someone, they won’t give him the permit for his nightclub in Miami.” She runs her hands through her hair. “That club is his dream, and I can’t take it away from him.”

  “Maybe you should, Rose. Legitimate businessmen don’t drive around with rifles.”

  “He said he forgot to put it away in his safe. He’s been taking lessons—just a precaution because of all the nightclub shootings. He said he wants to be prepared to protect his staff and patrons in case anything ever happens.”

  “Fucking hell, Rose, that sounds too convenient. And what about the man? Who was he?”

  “Gustavo said he was some guy who used to be friends with his older brother. Got involved with drugs or something. But why am I getting the impression you want to blame Gustavo? He saved my life.”

  He might have killed someone for you, but that doesn’t make him a hero. What kind of man has a weapon and night-vision goggles ready to go? A psycho, that’s who. “Did it occur to you that maybe the man who was shot was really there for Gustavo and that you wouldn’t have needed saving if he weren’t involved in unlawful activities to begin with? You need to stay away from him.”

  “I thought you were my therapist who didn’t believe in interfering with my life.”

  “Rose, listen to yourself. He’s likely the one who’s caught up in drugs. Or maybe something worse. And here you are trying to…” I see the judgmental look in her eyes. “All right. Fine. I’m interfering because—and correct me if I’m wrong—it sounds like you want to keep seeing him.” And I’m pretty sure the guy’s a bad apple.

  She throws her hands in the air. “I don’t know! Okay? I’m still a fucking mess because I just saw some guy die. Side note, this would be a sweet-ass time for you to do your job and help me calm the fuck down.”

  She’s right. I am supposed to be here for her, but instead, I’m thinking about how I don’t want her going on any more dates. Especially with this guy. She’d be better off here with me.

  My own thoughts hit me like a shock wave. What am I saying? I don’t have feelings for her. I’m just concerned, that’s all. And it’s perfectly natural to want to protect those who are in your care. Especially Rose, who’s so eager to find love. I suppose that’s also what makes her so incredible. I’ve never met anyone who’s been through so much and still managed to keep an open heart. On the other hand, I am overstepping my bounds and trying to interfere when what I need to do is help her process the event, diffuse her emotions. Then she’ll be more rational about this Gustavo man.

  “All right,” I say, “let’s get your head in a better place and then we’ll talk more about last night. Why don’t you try one of the exercises I taught you?”

  She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, followed by a slow exhale. I showed her how to positively visualize herself responding to situations. “If you want to be calm, see yourself in the moment being calm. Step outside your body and watch it happening. If you want to be confident, see that,” I had said.

  Rose continues her slow breathing and, after a few minutes, opens those big stunning eyes.

  “Better?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. And I’m sorry. You were right. I am not here to tell you what to do. I’m here to help you. So
let’s talk about how you’re dealing with watching a man die in front of you.”

  “How am I?” she asks rhetorically. “Who the hell knows? I mean, there I was, having the best night of my life and then boom! Literally.” She makes a noncommittal shrug. “I guess I’m okay. Honestly, maybe that’s what bothers me most. The whole time, I just kept thinking that I wanted this man dead. I was looking for a brick or broken bottle—anything to defend myself, because I would rather die than allow one more person to steal something from me.”

  “And after he was shot?” I ask.

  “Relief. I didn’t have to kill him myself.”

  “And after that?”

  “All your usual shock-like responses, I guess. Disbelief. Worry that it could happen again. The man knew Gustavo, so what if it isn’t some over-and-done-with deal?” She shakes her head. “I should’ve asked him, but I was in too much shock. I just wanted to get as far away from that alley as possible, go home, and take a hot bath.” She looks at me and worries her lower lip. “A man dies, and all I want is to take a bubble bath. Does that make me a monster?”

  “I think the important thing to remember,” I say, “is not to beat yourself up for feeling one way or another. In situations like these, your emotions can swing from one end of the spectrum to the other. Fear, anger, guilt, mistrust. What I want you to do when you get home tonight is write down everything you recall about the incident and, while doing so, describe in detail how you were feeling.”

  “Easy enough…freaking out, freaking the fuck out, and freaking the holy fuck out.”

  “Then write that down and circle the words related to fear.”

  “Why those?” she asks.

  “Because while you may see this experience as a traumatic situation you want to forget, I see it as an opportunity for you to confront your fears—to take you one step closer to being the knight.”

  She crinkles her brows. “Are you saying I should use the incident to empower myself?”

  “Exactly. As for Gustavo, I don’t want you to see him again—”

  “That’s a hard no.”

  My eyes twitch with irritation, and my lips flatten into two lines. I know I’m angry and showing it, but I can’t help it. All I can think of is making sure she doesn’t see that guy again. He’s clearly dangerous. With her luck, he probably likes to chop up people into pieces or something.

  “You’re a grown woman,” I say with a tinge of anger. “And far be it from me to tell you how to run your life.”

  “But?” She crosses her arms over her ample chest, and I have to force my eyes to stay up.

  “But you said you want my help, which I’m now giving. And, moreover, we have an agreement. Honesty. Trust. Obedience to my process.”

  “I never agreed to that last one,” she snaps.

  “Yes, you did. Within the boundaries of our relationship and my process. And right now, I’m telling you to stay away from this man so I can do my job properly.” Fuck, what the hell am I doing? I know I’ve just lied to her, pretending that I have some mysterious, therapeutic reason for telling her to stay away from that man, when, really, the only thing I want is for her to be safe.

  “Okay. But I’m still going to call him. I have questions, and I’m not as convinced as you that he’s lying.”

  I don’t like it. Not even a bit, but I know I can’t stop her. “Fine, but no physical contact.”

  “For how long?”

  How’s forever sound? “Give it a week. Let your emotions settle and allow us time to discuss everything with a calmer frame of mind.”

  She stares with those hypnotic brown eyes, and I fear she sees through me. I don’t want to lose her trust. She needs me, and I can help her. But this? She wants to date, possibly marry fucking Dexter? Not on my watch.

  I stare with unwavering determination. She has to see how serious I am.

  “Fine.” She throws her hands in the air. “You win.”

  I don’t release the breath I’m holding because there’s no reason to tip my hand. She can’t know how pissed and worried I am about this.

  She adds, “Besides, I have some more dates this week, so that will keep me busy.”

  I flinch on the inside. Fucking great. More dates.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Waylon

  Man. Fucking man. The goddamned shit I do for my “friends.” I knock on the door of this chick’s apartment, holding a bouquet of roses in my hand. This is not the sort of crap I do. Girls. Flowers. Hand delivery. But Gustavo said he’d do me a favor if I did one for him, and this girl refuses to see him for some reason. Maybe because she’s smart?

  I hear light footsteps approach the closed door, the dead bolt clicks, and the door swings open.

  Jesus. I nearly dump the flowers in my hand. She’s drop-dead gorgeous and has intense brown eyes that make me feel like…I don’t fucking know. Like I’m watching the end of some sad-as-shit war movie, where the guy is dying and remembers all the people he loves—his mom and the girl back home. I don’t know. But looking into her eyes feels like that, until she notices the flowers in my hand and smiles. It’s a smile that feels like looking at the most fucking gorgeous painting in the world.

  “Those for me?” she asks.

  My heart slams against my ribs. This girl is hotter than any woman I’ve ever seen. Fuck. Who is she?

  “Uh, yeah.” I scratch the back of my head and look down, handing over the bouquet and a note.

  “Oh. Wow.” She takes them and inhales their scent with that perfect delicate nose.

  As I watch, all I can think of is how she should be on the cover of a magazine. No. Fuck that. She’s too beautiful. If she were mine, I wouldn’t want other guys jerking off to her picture.

  “Oh. Hold on. I’ll get my purse,” she says, leaving the door open.

  Purse. For a tip? I’m about to laugh, but that wouldn’t be cool. Babe, I’ve got a mansion on each coast, one in Paris, and millions in the bank. But I am not going to pass up an opportunity to look at her some more, so I wait in the doorway.

  “Thanks, but it’s not necessary,” I say, eyeing her as she bends over and shuffles through her purse, which is sitting on a chair by the dining room table.

  I’m not a fucked-up pervert who objectifies women. It’s not about that. The thing is, I love the hell out of art. Started out doing graffiti on highway overpasses when I was twelve. At sixteen, when my mother ran off with some drug dealer, I started stealing so I could feed my little sister, who was nine at the time. My dad is a mystery. Never met him. So we were on our own, but I did what I had to and kept my sister and me together. It’s amazing what a kid can get away with as long as he has money to pay the rent. In our neighborhood, no one noticed, let alone gave a shit that my mother hadn’t been seen around. The school didn’t care much either. Just as long as we didn’t get in trouble, which we didn’t, and they had no reason to believe we were fending for ourselves.

  By eighteen, I got a real job and filed for guardianship of my sister—some goody-goody free attorney helped me with that.

  At twenty-two I got a reputation, a good one, and now I make upwards of one mil per job. I love taking art, but I’ll steal anything for the right price, except shit from the US government. Hey, what can I say? I’m a fucking patriot. And I love my dollars, which I happen to have a lot of and wouldn’t dream of undermining. In God and the almighty dollar I trust.

  “I’m so sorry. All I’ve got is a five.” She walks back over to the doorway, hands me the bill, and smiles.

  I can’t explain it, but looking in her eyes feels good. Like she knows me, and I know her. Who the fuck you kidding, man? Look at that sweet face and body. She’s not the kind of woman to date a thief, even if I’m the best.

  I take the bill and dip my head. “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it.”

  She laughs. “Ma’am? Oh, God. Please don’t tell me I look that old?”

  Isn’t that just fucking like me? Foot in damned mouth. “No. Sorry.
You look great. Spectacular even.” I push my glasses up my nose. It’s a façade. Preppy, shy guy on the outside, down and dirty asshole on the inside. It’s a cover I’ve perfected over ten long years, hiding my true life—first my and my sister’s parentless situation. Now it hides my profession. But respectable pretty boy, I am not.

  “Ohmygod. You’re so cute.” She giggles.

  “Cute?” I raise a brow. That sure is hell isn’t how my acquaintances would describe me. Cunning. Efficient. Smart. Never fucking cute.

  “Sorry.” She holds out her hand, and I notice her long elegant fingers.

  “That’s it.” I point at her. “You remind me of a Botticelli, The Birth of Venus.” Yeah, that’s exactly it. And it explains why she looks so familiar. Venus has this lost look in her eyes, and you can’t tell if it’s love or sadness. But it’s one of my favorite paintings in the world. I plan to steal it soon. “Sorry. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, I just happen to love art. And you definitely remind me of that painting.”

  “Really?” She runs those long fingers over her collarbone. I greedily watch every second of it. “I think you’re just trying to get more money out of me, but you’ll be sorry to know that I’m fresh out of cash, so your compliments are wasted.”

  I like how her smile is warm and genuine as she tells me to fuck off. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I actually meant what I said. No hidden motives.” Except to see you smile again, baby.

  She delivers, and I’m fucking drilled—holes right through my damned heart. We’re vibing so hard that I forget I’m doing a favor for Gustavo. The fucking hit man. And when a dick like that asks you to do something because you just happen to be in town and he’s busy on a job, you don’t say no. Unless you want to be the next asshole on his trophy wall. Plus, I know his skills will come in handy someday. Like me, he’s the best at what he does.

  Which is why I’m walking away now.

  “Have a good day,” I say, ready to leave and ignore the amazing attraction I feel for this woman. For the record, I’ve never wanted a woman like this. Instant connection. But whoever she is to Gustavo, he doesn’t fuck around. So if he wants her, that makes her off-limits to me.