Dr. Perfect: An MM Contemporary Romance Bundle

by J. P. Oliver

  I laughed and sank into the bubbles, settling into Jeff. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

  Book 5

  In His Arms

  Peter Styles & J.P. Oliver

  © 2019

  Disclaimer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are all fictitious for the reader’s pleasure. Any similarities to real people, places, events, living or dead are all coincidental.

  This book contains sexually explicit content that is intended for ADULTS ONLY (+18).

  1

  Fred

  “And… cut!”

  The tension across the lot seemed to break instantly, everyone falling out of their held-breath spells and instantly diving into whatever tasks they needed to be doing. Assistants shuffled about with clipboards and radios, cameramen bickered quietly about shots, an intern hustled across the set with two coffees, handing one to the director and one to—

  “Fred.”

  I looked up from the script in my hands, taking the coffee with a nod of thanks to the assistant before she quickly disappeared. “Hank.”

  Hank, our director, looked at me, the dark eyes behind his glasses waiting impatiently.

  “It was good,” I told him. “More than good.” I eyed the two leads where they sat on set, receiving touch-ups from the makeup department: a little blush here and a little fake blood there, for good measure. Hank looked at me like he was waiting for more.

  I offered a kind shrug. “And… it could be a little more emotional. It’s the scene where our hero saves his girl, y’know, after finding out he’s lost his mother and the city’s about to collapse. She’s his whole world now.”

  Hank rubbed his forehead. “So more… romance?”

  “More emotion.”

  I watched Hank take a sip of his coffee, still scorching hot. “Fine. We try it again after lunch.”

  At the word lunch, I was already up and out of my seat. I took in a breath of pleasant spring air as I waved to Hank with my coffee-filled hand. “After lunch.”

  My trailer wasn’t fancy. It certainly wasn’t some tin can baking in the sun; it was about the same size as anyone else who had a trailer on-set, except Hank, who insisted on the largest model we could afford. He tried to convince me to get the same, as a symbol of status among the crew. I told him I didn’t need it; that status would come along in the form of respect.

  He’d laughed at me, then, and patted me on the shoulder like a proud father.

  I nodded to a few crew members as I threw my trailer door open, marked plainly with the words, ‘REYES, PRODUCER.’

  Inside, I felt instantly relaxed, the soft leather couch in the corner calling my name, begging me to take a nap. I turned away from it, dropping my script and coffee onto the adjacent desk; another time, I thought, a yawn creeping through me in protest.

  I went about the usual routine, tugging my shirt off and setting it aside in the tiny bathroom, and filling the sink with fresh water when there was a sudden knock at the door.

  “Come on in!” I shouted, just loud enough for whoever it was to hear. Probably Hank, wanting to hash out the other thousand things he was dissatisfied with. Oh, I could hear him already, grumbling, “It’s not enough of a blockbuster!” and “Stop being so hung up on the details!” I couldn’t help but smile at my own reflection; this was where he and I differed. He wanted it done quickly and for a film to be as marketable as possible (with the potential for a sequel or two). Said it made more money that way. I told him, quality over quantity. Art over money. The only thing we did agree on was never wasting time.

  The door squeaked lightly and I heard timid footsteps creep up into my trailer. “Mr. Reyes?” a younger voice called. Definitely not Hank.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve got your mail for today.” The delivery boy.

  I waved, though he couldn’t see me. “Just leave it on the desk.”

  As I shut off the sink, I could hear him sifting through the bag of mail, and pulling mine out. I dipped my head to splash my face with water, the chill of it shocking away any sleepiness. I dried my face in time to poke it out the bathroom door, fixing the delivery boy with a grateful smile.

  “Muchas gracias.” Thank you, I told him. I recognized him, remembered seeing him on the lot a few days ago, speaking Spanish rapidly to a few friends.

  Surprise lit up his face. “Th-thank—I mean, de nada, S-senior Reyes.” He disappeared hastily, off to other trailers. Something about it warmed my heart; he was hardworking, I could tell, and it reminded me of myself at that age.

  Immediately, I went to the desk, picking up the stack of mail to shuffle through: notes, invitations, bills for catering…. One letter in particular made me pause. It was plain and unmarked. I would think nothing of it, if I hadn’t seen it before.

  The ease of the day flickered, turning into something sour in my stomach. I practically threw the letter back onto my desk, my eyes never leaving it as I reached for my phone, dialing rapidly.

  “Hello? Yes, it’s Fred. Frederic Reyes.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Have they made contact again?”

  “Yes.” My mouth pulled into a thin, worried line as the envelope stared back at me. “Another letter.”

  Al Stevens was one of the best private investigators on the West Coast. I’d had him referred to me after exhausting several others, all of whom proved to be too inexperienced or too starstruck to work with me. It had been an actress’s referral at a benefit show; after maybe too many glasses of bourbon I had mentioned my little problem to her, and she had told me, “I’ve been dealing with stalkers for years, darling. No one weeds them out quite like Stevens.”

  And, so, Stevens came. Lunch was coming to a close, and the moment I heard a knock on my door, I was there, opening it for him and stepping aside to let him in.

  Stevens grunted in response—he was an older man, always grunting, it seemed—walking past me while pulling white gloves onto his hands, the latex snapping. “So, this is it, then?”

  “Yes.”

  He picked up the letter and flipped it over to examine it. “I’ll call you,” he told me, after long period of silence, anxiety building in my stomach.

  I thanked him, and, before I could rise from the sofa to let him out, he was gone. The first time I had met Stevens, I truly thought he must hate me, or that he thought my case was benign or ludacris. Then, I met with him a second time, and a third time, and by our eighth meeting, it became clear to me that Al Stevens didn’t do affection, and, if he did, he showed it gruffly, like with a firm handshake or single nod of approval. When our meetings sometimes lasted all of two minutes, I didn’t take it personally.

  Hours passed, and I returned to set trying to keep up the energy I’d had before our break. I coached myself to pay closer attention to the actors, and busied myself with whoever on set possibly needed help—I needed a distraction. At one point, I caught Hank looking at me strangely, though he must have chalked it up to far too much coffee. I took a tally in my head, and, yeah, maybe six cups in one day was a little concerning.

  As the sun set, there was no use in trying to film any more, so Hank and I agreed that that was enough for one day, and we’d pick up again tomorrow, same time, same place. I meandered through set, stopping to discuss lines with the lead actor, and again to show an assistant the proper way to wrap up the wires, eventually finding my way back to my trailer. The tin structure suddenly seemed a little less safe.

  Outside the door, waiting for me, was Al Stevens.

  “I’ve got friends. In law enforcement. W
e go way back. Decades even.”

  I poured him a glass from a stash of brandy I kept in the trailer’s kitchenette. He took it graciously, knocking it back in one go; he hardly even blinked. I poured him another.

  “You showed them the letter?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Great.” I capped the bottle, lips pulling into a grin despite myself. “That’s great. What did they day?”

  “...Sit down, Mr. Reyes.” Stevens took his time with the drink this time, savoring the flavor. My glass sat empty on my desk, the bottle still in my hands as I watched him. I knew he could tell I was watching and waiting for whatever he had to say.

  “Mr. Reyes….” And then he sighed, and I felt the flicker of hope in my chest blow out like a candle. “Fred. I’m sorry, but this is where our contract ends.” When he looked at me, I could see the remorse hanging in those old eyes. “I’m at the end of what I can do for you.”

  I frowned, half-angry and half-confused. “You’re ending the contract?”

  “I’ve exhausted every avenue, every resource, Fred,” he told me, head shaking.

  “Everyone, everyone, recommended you,” I told him. “Two months ago, you shook my hand and told me we would find whoever’s stalking me and sending me these letters—” I cut myself off. I could see the disappointment in his face—not in me, but in himself. “...So, that’s it then? There’s nothing you can do.”

  Stevens set his glass down, and reached into the breast pocket of his old worn suit jacket. It was a nicer piece of clothing that I could imagine him picking out for himself. I wondered if he bought it, or maybe a wife or girlfriend had. From his pocket, he pulled out a slim white business card, and he offered it to me. “I can offer you this.”

  I took it from him. Embossed in neat black letters was the word, ‘SECURITY CONTRACTOR,’ with a phone number underneath. “What? A bodyguard?”

  “A bodyguard,” Stevens agreed. “A private investigator. A contractor. Whatever you need him to be.” He pointed to the card. “Name’s Hassan Mierez. He specializes in… cases like yours. High-profile targets—”

  I looked up from the card. “You think I’m a target?”

  Stevens fixed me with a knowing look. “If you weren’t a target, Mr. Reyes, I wouldn’t be here. And, I would not be offering you that number if I think you didn’t need it.”

  I waited for Stevens to say more, but he left it at that, draining the rest of his glass before grabbing his hat off of the sofa’s arm.

  “I should get going,” he grunted, standing slowly. I tucked the card into my pocket to worry about later, extending a hand.

  “Thank you.”

  Stevens looked at my outstretched hand, then at me. A small smile began to creep over his face. It wasn’t intimidating, like I had imagined it being, but rather unexpectedly soft. In his eyes, I could find the light of an apology. He shook my hand.

  “I wish you the best of luck, Mr. Reyes.”

  That evening, I paced about my office, staring down the card. For the moment, I was defenseless; I still had no idea who it was who was following me, sending me cryptic letters, who probably knew my address and a hundred other little things about my life….

  “This isn’t the usual case,” Stevens had once told me. “There’s a flavor here. Of obsession. Of addiction.” The word swam around in my head. Obsession and addiction. Glancing out the window, I stared past my reflection at the jet black California mountains, and the bustling city nestled between them, not far from my estate.

  Perhaps he or she—whoever it was who was stalking me—was out there now, waiting, watching me back.

  Would they know if I made the call? If I brought in the big guns, would it make things better or worse? Would the obsession escalate? Would whatever addiction this person had for me become more and more desperate? I thought of the actress I’d met at the benefit. She’d told me her friend had called for help when being stalked, and had paid a dear price because of it—blinded in one eye after an altercation with her stalker. I folded my hand around the card. Maybe it was too dangerous…. I touched my bare chest, wondering if it would be better to put a shirt on.

  Outside my door, I heard footsteps coming softly and then fading. It was a sharp reminder that it wasn’t just my safety on the line.

  Running a hand through my hair, I snatched up the phone on my desk, dialing before I could regret my decision. It rang, and rang, until—

  “Mierez.” The voice was clipped and businesslike.

  “Hello, this is Frederic Reyes.” I waited for the other man to say something; he didn’t. “I’m calling because this number was referred to me by a man named Al Stevens—he said you did security.”

  “I do.”

  I paused, and nearly laughed in disbelief at how curt this man was. “I’m being stalked.” If he was going to be short, then I could be, too. “I’m a producer, and I don’t have time to deal with whoever’s harassing me like this. Stevens helped me as much as he could, but said that I would need security. A bodyguard.”

  Another pause. I was beginning to wonder if the man had hung up, when he finally spoke. “I’d like to assess the situation in-person. I’m open tomorrow.”

  I thought of the shoot tomorrow, and made a sour expression against the phone. Already this bodyguard business was interfering with work. “Early tomorrow morning, then? Eight in the morning. Sharp.”

  “Tomorrow at eight,” the man confirmed.

  “Have a good night—”

  The dial tone replaced whatever silence hung on his end. Rude. I followed suit, hanging up and dropping the phone into the receiver, falling into the cushy seat beside my desk. I needed a drink. Or a good night’s sleep. Whatever would help me best prepare for my meeting with Hassan Mierez.

  2

  Hassan

  Frederic Reyes. The name repeated itself in my head as my fist came down upon the large front doors.

  Overall, the mansion was… large. Of my prior clients, it wasn’t the most luxurious or opulent. The front of it was white and yellow, with dark wood accenting it here and there; the windows, I noted, were titanic. The front was made almost entirely of a thick glass, annoyingly; glass doors made for lack of privacy and were easily broken into. Halfway into making a mental note about whether or not a guard at the front would be a good idea, the door opened.

  A woman smiled up at me. Literally. I was a large man, but I always felt larger around women that size. All of her seemed sunkissed, from her skin to her hair to her eyes, and she greeted me radiating the same kind of warmth. “Mr. Meierz,” she hummed, her voice lightly accented.

  I nodded to her. She stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter. She shut the door behind me.

  “I’m guessing you’re not Mr. Reyes,” I said, taking in the foyer. I noted a corner where a security camera would maybe do some good. In another room, I caught sight of two more people, in the same clean pressed uniform as the housekeeper who had let me in. I grimaced. Shit, maybe I should’ve used the servant entrance, huh?

  Extending a hand, I introduced myself. “Hassan Meierz.”

  The housekeeper shook my hand, her fingers dainty in mine. “Lorna. I’m head of Mr. Reyes’ household.” She stepped past me, her footsteps airy and polite. She didn’t laugh at my joke, but smiled at me anyway. “Mr. Reyes is in his study.”

  She led me to the first of several doors on the open floor, the dark chocolate wood of the outside spilling in here, too. “This is his office.” She said it simply, and then she was gone, like a flicker of sunlight when it peeks through the clouds.

  I stared at the door, seeing the line drawn before me. Once I crossed it, there’d be no turning back. I’d be involving myself in another life, in another problem. I could feel my face twisting into another grimace and sighed; it had to be done. This was important.

  I knocked twice, waiting a moment before letting myself in, surprised by what I was met with.

  “No me importa; este es un asunto importante—Si, s
i, si, entiendo que tenemos una fecha límite, pero—”

  His head snapped up suddenly from where he was standing hunched over the paperwork at his desk, surprised by my intrusion. For a minute, I thought about leaving, giving him a moment to finish the call, but his surprise turned instantly into a warm smile.

  Frederic Reyes. He held up a finger to me, smile turning apologetic.

  I crossed my arms and nodded, turning my head away to give the illusion of privacy as he wrapped up the call: “Dile a Hank que me llame esta noche. Tengo que ir.”

  Frederic set his phone down with confidence, rounding his desk with a hand outstretched. “Mr. Meierz,” he greeted. I met his hand firmly, the shake stronger than I’d anticipated. “Thank you for coming out this way. Thought I’d be able to wrap up that call before you got here.”

  “That’s all right.” I kept myself even and professional. Actually, I was kind of annoyed since we’d discussed me showing up here at eight on the dot, but I wasn’t about to make a mountain out of a molehill. I fixed him with a wry grin. “I could’ve knocked a little louder.”

  Frederic huffed out a laugh, our eyes meeting as some unidentifiable thought flickering across his face before it was gone again.“You could’ve,” he agreed.

  His face was open and expressive; I got the feeling he was the kind of guy who couldn’t lie about what was on his mind. I also got the feeling he didn’t mind it about himself. All of him was dark and radiating the same warmth as his staff, though there was something else there. While the woman who’d let me in seemed very Californian, there was a different quality about Frederic. His eyes stood out the most, their blue a stark contrast to the rest of him.