Dr. Perfect: A Contemporary Romance Bundle

by Oliver, J. P.

“You just gotta trust me, Frederic. I’m only looking out for you.” There was a long pause. “He’s there. Isn’t he?”

  “No.” I was quick to answer.

  “Is he listening?”

  “It’s just you and I.” I wanted to soothe him. He made an agitated sound on the other end of the line. “I swear.”

  “You’re—that’s a lie, Frederic. I’m very disappointed—lying is the worst thing you can do to someone you love.”

  “What about you?” I asked carefully. “If lying’s so bad, why haven’t you told me who you are?”

  The silence extended for an uncomfortable amount of time. “I’ll always be here for you, Fred,” the voice promised, grave and final, before the line went dead.

  I hung up the phone, staring at it a moment in my hands before slamming it down on the nightstand. Hassan peeled the headphones off and set all his things on the nightstand as well. The air felt like it had been sucked out of the room.

  “I didn’t recognize the voice,” I said slowly, just to say something.

  “It was digitally altered. Obscured.” Hassan shook his head, shoulders hunching as he leaned his forearms on his thighs. He turned his gaze up to mine. “So we couldn’t trace it by sound alone.”

  Frustration flowed through me. I wanted to help this person. Didn’t they get that? Apparently not. It was infuriating; I didn’t want to continue but I had advocated for this man in the past. Hearing him speak, however, made him so much realer than any note or box in the mail ever could. He was out there, he was waiting, he was watching.

  “It isn’t Abella.”

  Hassan said it so matter-of-factly—it pissed me off. My fingers rubbed into my temples. “We don’t know that—you said the voice was digitally obscured, so it could be anyone—”

  “Fred.” His voice was as stern as the look he was shooting me. “It’s not her.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It’s my job to know—

  This argument was like a broken record. I was through with having it. “I direct people for a living. People who are paid to act—to lie and make it convincing. You say everything with such certainty.” Maybe my anger was being misdirected. In the moment, I didn’t care. I wanted the truth. “What makes you sure? You know something, Hassan, I’m not blind. I’m not an idiot—”

  “Because,” he snapped. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Because I might know him. The stalker.”

  The admission felt like a slap to the back of the head. I expected my anger to be evident in my voice. Instead it came out coldly: “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Hassan’s throat bobbed. The truth. It was lodged there. He took a long breath, head tilting up to look me square in the eye. I held it. “It was before you hired me,” he exhaled. “Al Stevens had already been in some kind of contact with me. He wasn’t specific about you, but he had asked me to assist in a few things. Monitoring persons of interest. I had no idea it was your case until you contacted me, and I took a look at the records Stevens had put together.”

  “What does that have to do with you knowing the stalker?”

  “It isn’t definitive.” Hassan held up a hand. “I don’t know for sure. It’s unlikely.” His hand fell away and he sighed. “There were people on the persons on interest list I knew or had heard of. No one I was close with at any point, but… the names were familiar. I’d heard them before. Met a few of them.”

  It felt like a betrayal of some sort. I stood before where he was hunched on the edge of the bed, arms crossing over my chest. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I could have punched him.

  He could see the fire in my eyes; I wasn’t bothering to hide it.

  “It would have been distracting.” He was frustrated, too. “It would have been useless to say something without being sure. My relationship with any of them has nothing to do with the case—”

  “It does—

  “It doesn’t.” His hand came to rest on my hip. I was torn between pushing it away or letting it stay. “There was no proof for any of the persons of interest, so it would have been useless to jump the gun. And, even if it was someone I do know, that wouldn’t matter. They’ve hurt people. Put lives at risk. Uprooted your life. I wouldn't let them get away with that. No matter who it was.”

  I wanted to believe him. I did believe him. Slowly—very slowly—my irritation began to subside.

  Hassan licked his lips, traitorously. “You wouldn’t have trusted me,” he added. “A relationship like this without trust is useless.”

  Relationship. Was he talking about us as an employee and protector? Or something more? My gut told me it was a little of both.

  “I would have trusted you if you were honest with me.”

  The corner of Hassan’s mouth turned up slightly; imperceptibly. The hand at my hip turned to trace the loose line of my boxers—a poor excuse for pajama pants. I realized just how dressed he was compared to me and willed myself not to dwell on it, which was becoming increasingly difficult as his finger hooked in the front of the band. “You don’t trust me anymore then.” It was a question, phrased like a statement.

  “I don’t know.” I was just being difficult. My voice was unconvincing.

  His finger hooked a little tighter, the tension of it pulling the front of my boxers down just slightly. A peek of skin was open to the chill of my room; he made sure it didn’t stay that way, his lips pressing a searing kiss to my abdomen. I shivered against it. “Then, stop me,” he murmured. “If you don’t trust me.”

  Without my permission, my fingers thread themselves into his short, fair hair. Stop it, I wanted to say to them. We’re supposed to be mad at him.

  Hassan was looking up at me, the position precarious. I bit my lip, hesitation infecting my brain. “What’s it going to mean if we do this?” I wasn’t an idiot, and neither was Hassan. He was sitting in my bed. This wasn’t going to just end in a makeout. “You’re my employee. My bodyguard.”

  His finger unhooked from the waistband. His lips and the warmth that came from them drew back—but my hand stayed in his hair.

  “You don’t want to be unprofessional,” Hassan said. “I understand.” He paused, as if evaluating whatever grave thing he was about to say. “I want this. I can understand wanting to keep that separation, but it won’t affect how I do my job. I’m going to keep you safe, regardless.”

  Normally, I had decent judgement. This time, a decision felt impossible.

  “I’ll do whatever you want, Fred. Even if you don’t want this with me… I’ll still do my best to make sure no one hurts you.” He was giving me a way out. An exit, if I wanted it.

  “What is it you want out of this?” I asked slowly. “Just sex? More?”

  Hassan thought a moment. “I’ve only been with one other person in a serious way.” He grimaced slightly. “It didn’t end well. I don’t want to make the same mistakes I did then. Not to you.”

  Not to you, as if I was something different. Special.

  “I don’t think you would hurt me.”

  “Not intentionally. Never intentionally.” Hassan swallowed. “Fred, I’ve seen… a lot. Overseas and here. People are shitty to each other, without meaning to be sometimes. I don’t want to project that shit onto you—”

  “You haven’t so far.” I was right and he knew it. He’d been annoying, argumentative and secretive, but he had never hurt me with it. I suddenly cared very little about being professional. “I haven’t… tried for a real relationship in awhile.” I’d had many before, only a few that were truly serious, but… could I picture what it would be like with Hassan? What would it be outside of work? What would a domestic, serious relationship look like between us? “I don’t want to lose you,” I told him slowly. “When this is all over….”

  “Being physical doesn’t make me nervous,” he said.

  “Me neither.” I couldn’t imagine him not in my life. I had lived my whole life without him, but…. “When there’s not a reason for you to
stay,” I asked, feeling stripped of any armor as I did, “...will you?”

  I wanted to try. I wanted him to try. Waiting for an answer was going to kill me.

  Slowly, he nodded and the hope burst in my chest like a wellspring, giddy and nervous. I smiled slowly. “I will.”

  14

  Hassan

  Fred wanted me.

  The idea of it was surreal and dizzying. I could remember how he’d asked it of me the night before, the slow purr of his voice….

  “Boss. Ay, boss.” Snap snap—I flinched, and it took me a minute to realize I had been watching one of the security monitors for way too long now and shit, when was the last time I had even blinked? I tested it out and my eyes burned with the sweet relief of finally closing. “Boss, you good?”

  It was Jackson, leaning over from his own chair and he snapped in my face again. I swatted it away. “I’m good, I’m good.”

  “You’ve been rockin’ that thousand-yard-stare since you got back this morning.” There was a touch of real concern in Jackson’s voice. “First time the freak’s called, right?”

  “Uh… yeah, yeah.” I glanced at the bugging equipment on the desk, just to the left. “If we can set it up, I’d like to try and trace the call next time. If there’s a next time.”

  “There’ll be a next time,” Jackson assured, stretching in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head as he folded into a leisurely posture. “Freak’s getting bolder. Takes a lotta balls to call the guy’s landline.”

  “Mm.”

  My eyes glued themselves to the black and white of the CCTV again, watching the staff move through their daily routines—cleaning, cooking, polishing shelves and washing cars and scooping little beetles out of the pool—

  “When’s the last time you got any sleep?”

  “What?” I looked away from the peaceful static.

  Jackson examined me, before pointing at me with his foot. His shoes were off, which explained why it was starting to smell like ass in this tiny office. “How long you been awake, man?”

  “Uh….” I tried to count the hours. I hadn’t slept since yesterday. “Yesterday morning. When I woke up.”

  “Boss, that’s—” and Jackson counted quickly on his fingers, whistling. “Boy, you’ve been awake for like thirty-three hours at this point, right?”

  Had it been that long? A lot had happened—a week’s worth of shit, it felt like—but, he was right. In thirty-three hours, Fred had managed to bribe his way into fostering two kids, I’d gotten slightly blown up, and I think I had potentially started a relationship with my boss. The last part was still a little unclear.

  I ran a hand over my face. “Yeah. Thirty-three sounds about right.”

  “Jesus.” He waded up a piece of paper he’d been doodling on and tossed it at me. It bounced lamely off my head. “Get outta here. Get some sleep.”

  I had planned on it. Really. I got up out of my chair and the thought of sleep and maybe a hot shower had my muscles relaxing already.

  But it wasn’t meant to be, apparently.

  The phone rang, just to my right. Jackson reached for it, but I was quicker—as usual. I shot him a taunting grin as I pressed the phone to my ear while he flipped me off. “Hello?”

  “Hassan.” It was Fred on the other end of the line and his voice was tight. Serious. My grin disappeared.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s another package.”

  “What?”

  Fred huffed, and Hassan could imagine it—his hand running through his curls in his frustration. “Fuck—I don’t know, it wasn’t addressed to me, it was addressed to the kids, but I don’t know how the fuck he knows they’re here—”

  “Fred.” I stood from my seat. “Fred, just calm down a second. What package?”

  “I don’t know. It went through all the proper security measures or whatever, but they must’ve just glossed over it because it was for the kids, but no one knows they’re here except for Lovelie, and—the handwriting is familiar—”

  “Fred—”

  “It’s from him, Hassan.”

  A pit dug itself into my stomach. How closely was he watching us to know about the children? What had he sent? Was he trying to hurt them? The thought confirmed all my fears about having them here.

  At my side, Jackson waved for my attention mouthing, What’s going on?

  A package, I mouthed back before sighing into the phone. “I’ll be right there. Don’t touch it.”

  “Where are the kids?”

  It was the first thing out of my mouth. Hassan sat on the back porch in the sunlight, the package set delicately on the patio table. He didn’t look away from it. “With their nanny. I told them they could see their gift later.”

  I could see the tension drawn up in his shoulders. He sat a safe distance from it. I whipped out my pocket knife and stood before the package—another delicately wrapped present box, complete with a bow. The chicken scratch on the postal label was recognizable as the stalker’s; we both knew it well enough by now. “It just says ‘To the children of Mr. Reyes.’”

  Fred stood, drifting over to my side, looking troubled. “Yeah. He doesn’t know their names, I think. Which is good. I want to keep it that way.”

  “He shouldn’t know about them at all.”

  Fred shrugged. “He does, though.” He turned out to his backyard, staring beyond the fence and the carefully tended bushes that lined the edge of his property. Out into the hills and their many expensive houses. “He’s watching us. I can feel it, Hassan.”

  The wind picked up slightly, it’s touch eery. I flicked open my knife. “Stand back.”

  I cut into the box slowly, not wanting to trigger any more potential bombs. Henry—it had to be Henry, I realized with a sickening and startling clarity—knew I would be the one to open it. He had already tried to kill me once. It was Henry and I knew it. I had known it for some time now, though I wasn’t totally sure—I hadn’t had time to think about it, with all that had occurred these past thirty-three hours, but his address had pointed me to the basement and the bomb that had been set there was set for me. I didn’t know another man capable of such a thing.

  It was him. I cut through the bow, knowing it to be true. The side of the box flopped open and then the other. I removed the top slowly, waiting for some kind of blast. It never came.

  “It’s a knife.”

  Fred peered over my shoulder as I tossed the top aside, picking up the knife in one hand and the neatly folded letter underneath it. Fred snatched it out of my hand, unfolding it quickly.

  “What does it say?”

  He read, his eyes narrowing. “My dearest Frederic,” he read. “This is a present for you and for our children. I know in truth they are not yours. But if you want them, they will be yours, just as you are mine. I will keep them safe like I will keep you safe. They will learn to fight as I have learned and it will keep them safe. This knife is where it will start. It maybe not protect them from the bombs that will drop, but it will protect them from the people that come after. I will keep you all safe. I will teach them to be safe. Give it to them and tell them I will teach them—” He crushed the note suddenly in his hand. “Jesus Christ. It goes on like that for a while.”

  I examined the knife. It was a rare sort of hunting knife. I knew of the make, the model, but I had never owned one myself. I did, however, know another person who had owned it in the past. Henry.

  “These are special knives,” I murmured, testing the weight of it.

  “So?”

  “So—they’re handcrafted. It’s specific to Los Angeles.” There was a flicker of hope and then doubt—it was too easy. Henry would know that I would remember it. Was he being careless? Or was it another trap? “There are only a couple of shops that make them around here.”

  It clicked for Fred. “So, I’m sure they’d remember someone ordering one of these then.”

  I nodded slowly. “I’ll check them out right away.”


  Concern crossed over Fred’s face. “When’s the last time you slept, Hassan?”

  “Thirty-three hours ago.” He grimaced and I slid my knife into my back pocket, keeping Henry’s firmly in my hand. “It’s fine. I’ll sleep after. This is more important.”

  Fred looked unconvinced, but he wasn’t about to stop me—and he knew it. His hand rested on my shoulder a moment. The touch was gentle. Gentler than I deserved. “Be quick,” he told me. He didn’t bother trying to talk me out of it.

  “I will be.”

  I wanted to kiss him. I could see the same desire on his face. But neither of us acted on it. There was still too much work to be done.

  Remembering that he was my employer and remembering Henry, his knife in my hand, I turned away and Fred’s hand fell from my shoulder.

  There were exactly seven shops in the area that created knives like these.

  I could recall it easily—the knife had been Henry’s knife of choice for years. He’d taken it to war with him and it had come back, just as he had. Lucky, he had called it wryly. And I had thought of it as lucky too. Henry had killed people with that knife, it had been his last defense in firefights gone wrong. It had done unspeakable things while in his hands.

  I remembered holding it, once he trusted me. He put his arm around my shoulder and told me stories about it, confided in me. I touched his back when that glassy look came over his face, when he was remembering things—secrets—he’d rather not remember.

  The Henry I remember from those quiet times, when we were tucked away in the woods someplace, fishing and drinking and fucking in a cabin far away from all the people who didn’t understand—whatever had happened in our time apart, he wasn’t the same Henry anymore.

  The first five shops had turned up no real leads. The last time anyone had purchased that kind of knife, they said, was months ago. The timeline in those cases didn’t fit; Henry bought the knife for the children specifically, because if they were under Fred’s care, he thought of them as his own. It brought a chill to my spine.

  How had he fallen so far?