The Boyfriend Collector, Two

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “Keeping you safe—really safe—is not a waste of money,” he replies, speaking with a tender voice that actually shocks the irritation right out of me. “And you were supposed to stay out of the country until we know how things shake out. So now you have bodyguards.”

  “But I don’t wan—”

  He jerks the door a bit wider. “Good. Bye. Rose,” he says, sounding genuinely upset or wound up or, well, something other than anger I can’t quite pinpoint.

  Mentally, I stumble. I’ve never seen him like this, so intense. It goes beyond disappointment or anger. It’s like…well, I’m not sure, actually.

  I stare up at him for a moment, trying to figure it out, but all I see is this guy, big and strong, who doesn’t let anything get to him—except my choice of men—who suddenly looks like he’s losing his mind. Like he’s at the end of his rope.

  But that can’t be. I mean, I know he cares about me, but this is different. His jaw is locked, he’s swallowing hard, and his hands are shaking. Whatever’s going on with him isn’t the Bex I know.

  I reach out and squeeze his arm. “Um…bye?” I don’t know what else to do, because it’s unclear if it’s me who should be worrying about him now.

  “We’ll talk later.” He doesn’t look at me.

  “O-okay.” I step into the waiting room.

  “And, Rose?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I missed you.”

  My brain swirls for a moment, unsure if I heard him correctly. But I did. And he sounded sincere. “I-I missed you, too.”

  He shuts his office door, and I stand there for a moment, my mouth just sort of hanging open.

  I suddenly notice a set of eyes on me. Hailey, his assistant, is staring with a wide smirk.

  “Have a good afternoon, Mrs. Hughes,” she says with a chuckle.

  Mrs. Hughes. Why does that sound so right, like I could just step into the name and live a new life? A happy life.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Bex

  Rose leaves my office, and I have to take a moment before my next patient. Thank God he’s late. Because listening to Rose talk about having her naked body—that soft, silky skin—rubbed down with oil before being finger fucked and left wet and wanting almost made me lose my mind. Because while she might have been telling me these things to prove that she’s free to do as she pleases and I have no right to stop her, my male brain blocked out all that crap of another man and offered up a salacious buffet of images—sliding my fingers inside her wet pussy and making her come, shoving my hard dick inside her mouth as she moans, taking her from behind, and fucking my cum into her.

  Dirty. Dirty shit.

  My head was spinning so fast, and I could hardly breathe because all that blood wanted to go somewhere else. I came this close to getting hard. In the middle of the day. In my place of work. Not professional.

  Thank God I was able to keep control. The trick was thinking about Rose’s grandmother. I’ve never seen a more unattractive woman. Knocked the fuck right out of me.

  Jesus. I scrub my hands over my face. I’m such a dirty bastard. But I can’t help wanting her. I haven’t stopped since she first walked into my office, wearing those tight jeans that showed off the curve of her hips. But I can’t tell her these things. I can’t tell her that I’ve jerked off to the image from her coming-out party. The red dress. The way her breasts swelled. Her plump lips. The curve of her ass. The rest of that party was a fucking nightmare, but that one moment when she walked into the room is forever seared in my mind.

  And now she’s sitting in my office, married to me, talking about her wet pussy and sucking a hard cock, while I think of her and she thinks of someone else? I want to punch a hole in the fucking wall.

  I don’t know how much more I can take. I’m getting really tired of being the good guy. And since she seems to have a thing for low-life bastards with “good hearts,” maybe I’ll fit right in with her fucking collection of boyfriends.

  My phone rings, and the flashing ID tells me it’s my assistant. Hailey usually knocks if she knows I’m alone, but I’m guessing she heard me kicking Rose out and knows I needed a moment.

  I pick up the phone. “Yes?”

  “Your next appointment is here. Mr. Roth. He’s new and didn’t want to fill out a questionnaire, so his file is empty. Just didn’t want you to wonder.”

  It’s not unusual for first-time patients to want to talk through their reasons for seeking therapy. The forms are a bit impersonal. Really, all that’s required is insurance or a form of payment. “Send him in.”

  Mr. Roth enters, and I immediately notice two things. He’s young, maybe in his early to mid-twenties, and he’s dressed like, well, a preppy from one of those back-to-school ads you always see shoved in the Sunday paper. Yes. I still read the paper. Used to do it more before my father passed, when I had fewer patients.

  “Mr. Roth, good to meet you.” I shake his hand, surprised by his extremely firm grip. Usually, men who oversqueeze have something to prove or grew up in households with very assertive fathers.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.” He takes a seat on my lumpy piece-of-crap couch.

  I don’t do the scheduling, so I had no idea he was a last-minute appointment. There must’ve been a cancellation from one of my regulars, and Hailey worked him in. I’m fairly booked up these days, especially since I’ve been getting so much press. Therapist comes to the rescue of Peachtree Cinderella, aka PTC. Therapist madly in love with patient. Therapist marries patient. State board calls for license of PTC’s husband. All true. That last part was a risk I knowingly took, and my lawyer is working on it, but I am facing very severe repercussions. I hope Rose doesn’t hear, though. She’ll only feel like it’s her fault, and it’s not.

  I grab a pen and pad of paper, noting Mr. Roth’s name at the top.

  “So,” I say, “I like to start out with my new patients by laying down a few rules. I feel it helps set expectations, and in doing so, with time, you’ll learn to trust the process I use—”

  “I had something else in mind,” he says, his tone sharp and unexpectedly abrasive.

  I immediately sense that this man is not what he seems—i.e., not good mannered or clean cut. “I’m all ears.”

  He leans forward, planting his elbows on his knees. “See. I’m not the kinda guy who likes to fuck around. Straight to the point. No bullshit. Makes the world an easier place to live in, if you ask me.”

  I nod but wait to see where this is going. I’m not threatened by him, but his agitated demeanor means I shouldn’t let my guard down.

  “So, let’s say you’re me. And you meet this really nice girl. I’m talking a perfect ten, you know? Nice body. Sexy lips. Long blonde silky hair. But the way she looks at you, it—” he throws his hands in the air “—hits you. Hard. And you think to yourself, now this is a girl I could marry. You don’t know why. You don’t even fucking care. You might even think you’re outta your fucking head for feeling this way about a woman you don’t know, but that isn’t gonna change a thing. What do you do?”

  Okay. So this guy saw me on the news and thinks I’m some romance expert.

  “Mr. Roth, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not a relationship expert. I’m a personal therapist. I help people work through issues and develop the tools to manage their lives or aspects of their—”

  “Yeah, so about that. Now say this woman tells you she’s married. Married. And that she’s not really with him, but you know,” he pokes a finger at me, “you know she’s in love with him. There’s this look in her eyes when she says his name.”

  The conversation suddenly becomes much clearer. He’s not here for therapy. At least, not in the traditional sense. This guy is in love with Rose. “You’re the thief.”

  He nods with a bitter twitch in his eyes. “Yeah, and you stole my girl.”

  Waylon

  Here’s the thing, I’m not dumb, but when it comes to this girl Rose, I keep doing stupid shit. My fi
rst mistake was delivering flowers to her house for Gustavo because I figured it would come in handy if he owed me a favor. Plus, he’s a good customer—has me steal stuff for him all the time, usually information. And he pays well. But I could’ve made up some excuse, like I was on a job or out of the country, and that would have been that. Just like if I’d walked away after I gave Rose that bouquet.

  Here’s the other thing. I’d never seen a woman like her. Gorgeous, sexy, girl-next-door look about her, but she doesn’t have a clue how hot she is. She’s just…real. And that’s what led to my third mistake: asking her to take a trip. What kind of guy does that? Hey, babe. Wanna go to Italy with me?

  Yeah, I was going for work anyway, but I know better than to ask a woman on a job. That goes to show you just how much I like this woman. I didn’t even care that Gustavo was into her—at least I assumed he was. Guys like him don’t send flowers unless it’s your funeral. And he killed you. Otherwise, he’s gotta be into her.

  My final mistake was going to meet up with her. I’d already gone to the museum earlier that week to do my homework, so showing up again was a bad idea. They videotape everything in those places. Rule of thumb is you go once. Only once. Okay, then you go back and steal whatever’s on your shopping list, but that’s different. Still, I went anyway, because I wanted to see her. I thought, Hey, we’ll hook up, have a good time, and I’ll get her out of my system.

  Not how it went down.

  One smile, and I was hooked. Worse than the first time I saw her.

  “Yeah, I’m the thief,” I finally say to this fucker, Dr. Hughes. “And I’m the best.” I wouldn’t normally confess my profession to some guy I don’t know—or to anyone—but what’s he going to do? Call the police? He’s not allowed to say anything unless I’m a danger to myself or others. Yeah. I did my homework. Fine. I Googled it. So what? I was in a hurry after Rose split Florence without saying goodbye. I paid fifty American dollars to the hotel guy to tell me where she went. Home. Obviously to see this asshole. So I booked the first flight I could get to stop her, but that trip is a long one, and I got to thinking. If I really like this woman, I mean really like her, I have to do the right thing. If she wants him, so be it. If not, I’ll do everything I can to make her mine.

  Bex nods. “So what can I do for you, Waylon? Because I’m not at liberty to talk about my patients, and we both know I didn’t steal your girl. Rose was never yours.”

  “So whose is she? Yours?”

  “Rose doesn’t belong to anyone. She’s a person. Not a car.”

  “Don’t bullshit me with that PC crap, man. You know what I mean.”

  He nods. “I do. You’re asking if we’re in a relationship—if I love her.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How the hell is that any of your business?” he says calmly.

  This guy should play poker because I’ve never seen someone so unreadable, and I’m good at reading everyone.

  “Here’s the thing,” I say, “and call me fucking crazy, but I don’t want to see that girl hurt. She’s special, but I bet you know that.” Not a lot of women out there have her looks. I’m guessing one in a million. But that’s not what does it for me. Like I said, she doesn’t have a clue or care about any of that. She’s just there. With you. No agenda. No judging like other people do. It’s like she radiates some kind of purity you find in fucking fairytales. If there ever was a real-life Cinderella, Rose Marie Hale would be it.

  “I’m not going to hurt her,” Bexley says. “I’m the one who’s been protecting her.”

  “I read the papers, and I’m not just talking about keeping Gustavo or one of his friends from getting to her. I’m talking about all that other stuff, man.”

  “You’re talking about her heart. You don’t want me to break it.”

  “I’m saying if you don’t want her, let me take a crack. Because I sure as hell can keep her safe, and I’m not going to marry the girl and push her to the back burner like you did.”

  Bexley nods slowly, like he’s thinking carefully. He’s got all those fancy degrees on his wall, but let’s see how smart he really is.

  “So what do you say?” I press.

  He scratches his chin. The man needs a shave. And a haircut. Looks like he doesn’t take care of himself. I fucking hate that Rose wants him. I mean, I’m a damned criminal and even I make time for a damned haircut.

  “It’s not that simple,” he says.

  “Simple enough for me. I don’t want something, I leave it. I want something, I go get it.”

  “Yes, I think we’ve established that you’re all about taking things. Even if they don’t belong to you.”

  “I only steal for money. Never for personal fun.” I toggle my head. “Although, yeah, I do enjoy my work. Answer the damned question, would you?”

  “And if what I want or you want isn’t what Rose wants? What if she needs to experience being free for the first time in her life—run away for a romantic weekend in Florence with a thief, for example?”

  “Ha. Yeah. I wish.”

  “What do you mean? Didn’t you…and she…?”

  For a guy with the word doctor in front of his name, he doesn’t seem so smart after all. “Why the hell do you think I’m here? She told me she’s saving herself, and I’m pretty sure it’s for you.” I know Rose said he only married her to help her out, but I think she’s still hoping she’s got a chance. How do I know? Mostly, how her eyes got all glossy and her lips twitched every time her husband’s name came up, which she brought up a hell of a lot of times. “I’m telling you to cut her loose if you don’t want her because I do. So is she yours or what?”

  I must’ve pissed this guy off, surprised him or something, because Mr. Poker face looks like he’s about to shit himself or kill someone. Not sure which.

  He looks down at his shiny black shoes. They’re wingtips—the kind I wear when I’m pretending to be a pretentious fucker. In my line of work, you have to be able to act the different parts. I’m damned good at it. Once stole a horse from the Kentucky Derby. They thought I was some British guy who owned the animal. That was actually one of my pro bono jobs. The horse belonged to a single mother who raised the thoroughbred as a pet and only raced it once for some charity event. Turned out the filly was a natural runner. Broke all sorts of records. Along comes some dickwad with a wallet, takes the horse in the middle of the night, and then hides behind fake papers and his fancy lawyers. Yeah…no. Her brother—an acquaintance—asked for help, and I said, “Sure, I love a challenge.” That horse is now hanging out on a ranch in Montana, eating oats and enjoying the fresh air. You’re welcome, horse. Point is, rules are what set me apart from the common criminal. I don’t steal people. I don’t steal pets. But I will take them back and return them to their rightful homes. Otherwise, I stick to impersonal stuff.

  “So,” I say, “Rose says you’re all about honesty, and I came here for an honest answer. She yours or not?”

  “Yeah. She’s mine.”

  Fuck me. Because I still want to steal her. But I know I don’t have a chance unless this guy wants to cut her loose. Also, it’s against my rules.

  “Do me a favor, then.” I stand and slide a business card from my pocket. It’s blank except for a phone number. “You ever change your mind, she ever needs anything and you can’t help her, you call me. Got it?”

  The doctor stands and takes the card. He’s taller, and maybe he’s better looking, but I still don’t fucking like the thought of Rose picking him over me.

  “I got it.” He shakes my hand. Firmly this time. “Thank you for looking out for Rose. I guess…I don’t know her as well as I thought.”

  “She’s a woman. A complicated one, but aren’t they all?”

  “Yes. But some more than others.”

  “Just don’t get her killed, asshole,” I say and take off. I hope to God he never calls me, because if he does, I know it won’t be to swap professional tips.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Roser />
  I’m lying in my dark bedroom, staring at a rectangular stretch of light across my ceiling, coming from the streetlamp outside. It’s just after eight o’clock in the evening, and I’m too tired to move. Apparently, I’m also too tired to sleep.

  Dammit. I roll onto my side and opt for staring at my tiny black alarm clock instead. Tick. Tick. Tick.

  “Ugh!” I roll to my other side. I’ve read about jet lag, but this feels way worse. Maybe it’s a combination of good old-fashioned sleep deprivation and heartbreak. There isn’t one inch of my body that doesn’t feel some sort of ache. Or sexual frustration. That little visit to his office was intense, and I’d be lying if I said I’m not still feeling the effects. The weird part is, I’ve already taken care of myself, and it didn’t do a damned thing. It’s like he lit something deep inside me and it doesn’t want to go out.

  I need sex. Real sex. Of course, I want it with him. Yes, I know I’ve been making it seem like I’ve moved on, but it’s just one more fantasy I’m unable to fulfill.

  I chuckle bitterly. Me. The boyfriend collector? There’s no bigger joke. Trust me, I tried, but every time I got close—Markus, Chad, Waylon, and even when my neighbor hot Jor came by looking to hook up—all I could think about was how wrong it felt. I never went any further than a kiss with any of them. My fantasies, all of them, undeniably belong to one man.

  That’s why I went to see Bex today. It’s time to accept the fact that I only want him inside my body for the first time. And the last. My husband.

  Crap. I roll onto my back and revert to staring at the light beaming through the curtains. Listen to your sad, pining self. I’m so stuck on this guy. If I could go back in time, I would have picked a different therapist.

  Bullshit. You wouldn’t be alive if you’d picked anyone else.

  My cell rings on the nightstand, and I excitedly grab the thing, hoping it might be him. It is.

  My heart goes into gallop mode. “Hello?”

  “Hi. It’s me.” Bex’s voice is cold, instantly putting me on edge.