The Boyfriend Collector, Two Read online

  He leans in close to my ear. “I’m thinking I’d like to fuck my hot virgin wife. I’m thinking I’d like to make her come so hard she’ll never lie to me again about sleeping with other men.” He brushes his rough whiskers along my jaw. “I’m thinking she has no idea how selfish and greedy I can be when it comes to her.”

  My breath sticks inside my lungs. He’s just let that wall down and given me a glimpse of what’s really on the other side. And I want more. Because it turns out, when it comes to him, I’m greedy too.

  I nod. “I’m sorry for the lies. I only did it so—”

  “See you tomorrow night. Same time. We’ll begin again.”

  I really don’t understand what he wants, but I’m so goddamned willing to do it.

  I step out into the waiting area.

  “And, Rose?” he adds.

  “Yes?”

  “Next time, be ready to tell the truth.” He shuts the door to his office, leaving me there to think and think hard, which isn’t easy. There’s an orchestra of needs playing inside me. And they’re loud.

  And clearly, until I’m one hundred percent truthful with Bex, I’m not getting dick. Or dick.

  “God.” I whoosh out a breath. I don’t know if I’m ready or able to do what Bex wants. I can’t even think straight right now.

  I step out into the hallway and find my guards standing like two sentinels. As I shut the door behind me, I swear I hear a muted groan in Bex’s office. I try not to react, but it’s difficult not to think about him on the other side of that door, giving his cock and my orgasm to a box of fucking tissues. That was supposed to be for me.

  I clear my throat and look at the two men who, if they heard a thing, aren’t giving it away. “I have a really bad neck ache. I’m going to stop at Target on the way home.” I read in a magazine once that a massager thing can have multiple purposes.

  “Of course, Ms. Hale,” says the taller one.

  I turn and head for the stairwell, hitting my Uber app. Bex’s office is literally seven blocks from my apartment while the Target is four and a half miles. I’m too desperate for release to care.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I spend the next day trying not to think about tonight’s session with Bex, but it’s no use. Plus, thinking about him is much better than the other options: thinking about them. Right now, Gertie and Hal are somewhere out there in the world. Free. Likely planning how they’re going to hurt me.

  Don’t think about it.

  I decide to put my nervous sexual energy toward getting ready for tonight—a meticulous leg shave and a session with this incredible invention called a flat iron (another Target find). I also bought a purple satin bra-and-panty set and a neck massager, which I was too intimidated to use once I got it home and out of the box. I seriously wish I had some girl friends because I’m fairly sure that big microphone-looking thing would leave me bruised down there. I must’ve gotten the wrong one. It looks like it will do the job on my neck, though.

  Not that I’m going to need any sort of “tools” tonight. I slept on the matter, and I’m ready. I want to tell Bex why I lied. I hope he will understand how much his rejection hurt, and that I didn’t want him pitying me. Part of me thought that if I pretended to be the boyfriend collector, I would eventually believe the fantasies and become her. A fictional character from my mother’s last book? Pretty stupid. Especially since that character dies alone.

  The thing is, though, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to dissect the story. Somehow, it makes me feel closer to my mother at a time in my life when I really need her. The point is, I need to stop reading stories and pretending they mean more than they do. It’s time for me to put myself out in the world, for real, and to pursue my dreams. My story.

  So whatever is happening inside that head of Bex’s, I know two things: One, he hasn’t been so honest with me either. And, two, he does feel something for me: desire, a sense of duty, the need to be my protector. I think this is what I spent the bulk of last night sorting through. Maybe we aren’t on the same page with regards to our relationship, but this thing I feel for him is not one way. I guess what I’m saying is that my hurt feelings made me jump to conclusions. I assumed he was stronger, wiser, and more prepared to handle relationships than me. I never considered that maybe he does want me and that he’s the one who needs the damned therapy.

  If anything, my lies are no better or worse than his from when we first met and he told me he was married. To Sophie. His golden retriever.

  I’d say we’re pretty even Steven in the lie department. Now I need to knock down that wall of his, because if yesterday is any indication of the truth, then that man wants me. He’s just not ready to accept how much.

  A tiny nagging twitch of insecurity rears its head. It’s telling me I’m wrong to assert myself like this, that I’m in over my head because men, relationships, and sex are all new territories for me.

  I strip off my clothes, put on a plastic cap, and start running a hot shower. I want to be ready for tonight, come what may… Or who?

  I slide my long red coat over my bra and panties, mentally preparing to push myself outside my comfort zone. Tonight is all about putting Bex and me on equal footing.

  Some women say they want equality, but really, what they want is power over others, especially men. But I think equal means something else. It means equal stakes in a relationship, equal vulnerability, and very unequal roles when it comes down to things like intimacy.

  I know, I know. I have zero experience when it comes to sex or men, but in the pages of all those books that millions have loved are pieces of my mother. Her advice, her views, her morals. And not once did she say that men and women were equal when it comes to sex.

  Women have different needs. Sure, we lust like men, but we are not men. We can’t so easily separate our emotions from sex. We crave a deeper connection, but most of all, we require respect. And not just for ourselves but for him, too. In other words, women don’t often sleep with a person they look down on. Men—many, not all—have no problem fucking a hot chick who they think is dumb or trashy. She’s got big tits and a smokin’ bod, they’re game. I think for women, though, we can look at a sexy man with ripped abs and bulging biceps and appreciate his beauty, but if he came up to us in a bar and said, “Hey, babe. Wanna bang one out? My mom’s out of town, and I can buy a twelver if you got money.” Well, let’s just say not many of us would take up that offer, no matter how hot the abs. Sure, I think it happens, but once a man loses a woman’s respect, she’s not likely to go anywhere with him.

  For me, equality doesn’t mean identical traits, abilities, or even tastes and needs. Equality in a relationship means each person brings something different and of value to the table.

  Tonight, I’m hoping to test that theory. I believe Bex needs someone to teach him how to let go of being the protector and hero. He needs to be shown that I won’t lose respect if he tells me how he feels. But if he can’t let his guard down and allow us to be equal in our need for each other, we’ll end up broken.

  I enter his office suite and knock on the frosted glass door to his private space.

  “Come in.”

  I turn the handle and look inside. This time Bex is sitting in his leather armchair, waiting for me.

  “You’re late,” he says.

  I close the door behind me, and walk over, stopping right in front of him. “Sorry. Had some things to take care of.”

  “Such as?” He looks up, eyes hooded.

  “Well,” I toggle my head, “I figured you’ve been overworked and stressed out.” I lift my black heel and rest it right between his legs on the edge of his chair. “Tonight, you need my kind of therapy.”

  He stares for a long moment, and I know I’ve got him. He’s intrigued. He hasn’t seen this side of me. I untie my coat and let him see my purple satin underwear and bra.

  “What is this?” he growls.

  “What do you think?”

  He stands, dislodging my foo
t, and marches over to the door. He jerks it open. “Leave.”

  I stare and drop my mouth. “You’re kicking me out again?”

  “I ask you for honesty, and you come here dressed for more of your fantasies? This isn’t a game, Rose. I’m not your toy.”

  Wow. Just…fucking wow. “What the hell, Bex? Do you have any idea what it took to show up like this? Especially after you rejected me the first time in the harshest, most fucked up of ways? I mean,” I shake my head, “you’re the first person I’ve ever loved, truly loved, and you gave me the ‘Awww…aren’t you so cute’ speech. And now you’re upset because I wanted to try one more time to see what’s really between us?” I poke his chest. “Well, just…fuck you, then. I mean, really. You say I need help. No! You need help.” He pushed me away, came to my rescue, pushed me away, and then put his dick in my mouth. Yet I’ve wronged him, somehow? “You want honest? Then let’s start with you. Stop with the bullshit games. Stop hiding behind your degrees and doctor title and just admit that you have no clue what to do with me because you’re a giant pussy and just as bad at relationships as I am.”

  He stares down at me, his walls up and on high alert. “I’m a giant pussy and just as bad at relationships as you,” he says dryly.

  My eyes scream with rage. He’s making fun of me? “Goddammit, Bex.” I plunk down on his sofa and cover my face. “I can’t take this anymore. If you want me, just say so. If you don’t, then please drop the act, because I’ve been through all the soul-searching and growing I can possibly handle right now. I don’t need more of your heavy-handed therapy and Mr. Control bullshit.”

  The room is so quiet I think he’s left and taken his answer with him. Slowly, I lift my head and find those stunning blue eyes clawing at me.

  “I want you, but you have to go now,” he says, rubbing his hand over his mouth and jaw.

  I don’t get it. This. This is his answer? “Why?”

  His harsh gaze transforms into something that resembles affection and remorse. “Because, Rose, I do love you. And my father’s old couch is the last place you deserve to have a man make love to you for the first time.”

  I’m blown away. And if you need a detailed description of what that means, then imagine your heart swelling so big it could literally swallow the entire world whole before it becomes a speck of dust that settles in the dirt, ready to be walked on. It’s two opposing forces that can’t possibly live in the same place, yet they do. I hate, do not understand, crave, loathe, want, and wish for everything this man brings to the table.

  “Then see you tomorrow? My place? Eight o’clock,” I say with tenderness.

  “It’s a date.” There’s no smile on his lips, but there’s a warmth in his eyes.

  I bob my head, feeling my heart in complete and overwhelming surrender. I can’t believe it, but he wants me as much as I want him. Shockingly, it feels a thousand times better than getting my inheritance. This. Him. Us. It can’t be taken away by any lawyers or a court.

  I cross the room, stopping in front of him. I want to say something, but I can’t form any clear thoughts.

  He grabs my chin, tilts my head, and kisses me. His lips are soft and silky and move in a sensually slow pace. The kiss is passionate, but not overbearing. Equality.

  He pulls away and looks down at me. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” His blue eyes are fierce, but I see truth in them. He wants this just as much as I do.

  I leave, knowing that tonight we reached the last stepping-stone between us. We either cross this next one or it’s over.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bex

  All right, so I’m not perfect. And yes, I was acting like an asshole. But what Rose put me through—the anger, the jealousy—I was losing my mind, imagining her fucking her way through a long list of men. And maybe I deserve it for hurting her to begin with, but this almost broke me. Even if none of it was true.

  What was uncalled for on my part, however, was punishing her instead of trying to understand her motives. I still don’t know if I comprehend it all, but last night I saw Rose more clearly than ever. Strong. Brave. A fighter. She had no qualms about marching into my office and offering herself up in her sexy underwear, which I reacted poorly to. I thought she was bringing more of her head games, but she quickly set me straight.

  Bottom line, she proved what I realized weeks ago. She knows who she is. She knows she needs to work out her life, but she wants to do it with me by her side. And, frankly, since I can’t live without her, I want to be there. She’s smart and feisty. I should spend my time admiring how sexy that makes her, but all I’ve done is hold her back by trying to rein her in and push her away.

  Around eight o’clock, yellow daisies in hand—the color reminded me of her hair—I give a nod to the two bodyguards standing in the hallway, and knock on Rose’s door. I’m nervous. I can’t believe I’m nervous. But I want this woman with everything I’ve got, and tonight we’re finally on the same page. No more games. No more lies. Our life together starts now.

  “Rose?” I knock again, but she doesn’t answer. I reach for the handle just as my cell rings. It’s Frank. Why is he calling this late? “Hello?”

  “Bex? Where are you right now?” he says hurriedly.

  “Outside Rose’s apartment. Why?” My stomach lurches. Something’s wrong.

  “Gustavo escaped. I’m told he was in his cell this morning, but he missed the afternoon head count. There’s no video footage of him leaving. No signs of how he got out. Nothing. It’s like he just vanished into thin air.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. “And you only just found out?” I turn toward Rose’s door and pound on the thing. “Rose!” This time I try the handle, but it’s locked. “I’ll call you back, Frank.” I look at the two men standing there. “Did you hear anything strange. Did you leave this spot?”

  “No,” says the shorter, stockier one.

  I drop the flowers. “Fucking hell.” I kick the door, and it springs open, the doorjamb splintering. I rush inside, screaming for Rose, only to find it empty. “No. No. No.”

  “Look.” One of the men points to the flowing white curtains flapping against the open window. Frigid winter air gusts through the room. She’s been taken. I know it. I want to rip off these two guys’ heads. They were supposed to protect her.

  No, I was supposed to protect her.

  “It’s like she vanished into thin air,” one guy says.

  “Or like someone just walked in and stole her,” the other man snarls.

  Waylon. A hard rage powers through me. Gustavo must’ve called in another favor. Who else could take Rose without anyone noticing, except a skilled thief? A favor for a favor. Isn’t that what Waylon told Rose? They do favors as a sort of seedy currency.

  “We’re wasting time!” I yell at Officer Harmon, who’s spent the last hour taking notes and asking deep probing questions such as, “Did Ms. Hale typically clear her schedule with you?”

  To which I answered, “No. And she generally doesn’t jump out second-story windows either.”

  “Sir,” he responds, “it’s possible she slid past her security during a shift change.” He looks at the two men in suits, who are sweating profusely. They know they’re losing their jobs over this. I don’t care. “I mean, you guys do use the bathroom and eat, right?”

  The older, taller of the two men responds with a stone-cold stare. “We never leave our clients unguarded. In fact, we usually have one man inside and one outside, but Miss Hale wanted her privacy. There is a mobile unit parked outside for our use. If we need a break, one man stays.”

  So if they never left her alone, she absolutely must’ve gone out the window. How? More importantly, why didn’t anyone notice?

  “Harmon, I grabbed the security footage from the gallery down the street.” An officer, I’m guessing this man’s partner, holds out his phone.

  I come around to watch what is a blurry video of a man placing
a ladder against the front of Rose’s building in broad daylight. It’s hard to see the details, because it looks like the officer made a quick copy of the video using just his phone, but the guy appears to be carrying a bucket and a squeegee. I just can’t tell if it’s Waylon or not. He then taps on Rose’s window and holds up a sign or sheet of paper or something. Rose opens the window, and the next thing I see is her coming down the ladder.

  Why would she leave with him? What was on that note? “He must’ve threatened her,” I conclude.

  A woman’s voice comes over the officer’s radio. Sounds garbled, but I think they have someone in custody.

  “Gustavo?” I ask, hoping to hell it is.

  “No. The man you said might be working with him. Waylon Jones.”

  “I want to talk to him,” I growl.

  “Not sure that’s going to be possible,” Officer Harmon responds.

  “I’m his doctor. The man is under my care. I can show the documents to prove it.” Only I suddenly realize that I don’t really have any. Waylon didn’t want to do the paperwork. He paid for his session, and that could’ve been with cash.

  The two policemen give me a look. They’re not buying it.

  “Did I ever mention that my aunts, Virginia and Eugenia Hughes, are extremely good friends with the mayor, the governor, and just about every law enforcement organization in the state?” I doubt this will work, but it can’t hurt. We’re losing valuable time, and I am losing my mind. None of these people were there the night Gustavo held a gun to Rose’s head and dragged her through my house by her hair. It’s a nightmare I’ve worked very hard to forget.

  “You’re Virginia’s nephew?” the officer asks.

  “Yeah. You know her?”

  “Do I know her? She’s been my captain’s date to the annual black tie every year. A good woman. I’ll see what I can do about Waylon.”

  Most of the time, I hate belonging to a very wealthy family that makes a point to know just about everyone worth knowing across the state. I could hardly go over the speed limit as a teenager without my parents hearing about it, and almost every major event in my life—birthdays, graduations, getting accepted to grad school, etc.—was marked with a black-tie party and photo in the society section of every major newspaper. As an adult, I’ve worked very hard to distance myself from the public life of the Hughes family of Georgia because I believe in getting things done on my own. This is not one of those times.