Dr. Perfect: An MM Contemporary Romance Bundle

by J. P. Oliver

  “Yes—We set this up the first day, Fred. Doc had you put into our system—or did you forget?”

  I had forgotten. I turned my head sharply away, mentally scolding myself for forgetting something so simple. “Don’t talk to me like I’m some child.” I ran a hand through my hair, clearly caught. “How did you find out I got out of work early?”

  “Fred, what the hell are you here for?” I could tell Hassan meant business by his stern tone. Shit. I couldn’t distract him or divert the conversation this time.

  “It’s Abella,” I told him. He sighed openly, pocketing his phone. “She was last sighted here, Hassan—and I know you don’t think she’s the one stalking me, but I’m positive—”

  “Fred.” Hassan’s hands grabbed at both my shoulders, steadying me. It made me have to look him square in the eye. Hassan was angry, but there was a small part of him that I think relaxed. “I told you already. It isn’t Abella.”

  He was so sure he was right. It was written clear across his face. It kind of pissed me off. I shrugged out of his grasp. “And, somehow, you’re sure of it. You know it for a fact.” We stared at each other a moment; eventually, I shook my head, and turned to lock my car. “You still haven’t told me how you know. You’re still keeping information to yourself, Hassan.”

  It infuriated me. This was my life. He wasn’t allowed to keep secrets, when it pertained to me and my life and my safety, not to mention the well-being of those around me. I could feel his eyes on my back, and the temptation to look at him was high.

  I didn’t look at him. “I need to talk to Abella. I don’t care if you don’t think it’s her. I need to see for myself, Hassan.”

  I wanted him to understand. Instead he asked, “Why?”

  Turning back to him, he crossed his arms. I leaned my weight against my car, mirroring the action. “I owe her.” I didn’t feel like getting into the details. “I fired her, which was a mistake, and that needs to be righted. I can’t change what happened in the past, but the most I can do it rise to it. Try to fix it.”

  Hassan begrudgingly considered it. “You’re so….” He shook his head, leaving me hanging on what exactly I was. It was a sentence he never finished, though his tone was softer when he spoke again. “Mistakes… they sometimes need to stay how they are. In the past. Sometimes going back and trying to dig them up only makes things worse.”

  I bit my lip and his eyes followed the motion. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

  He nodded. “Maybe. We’ve all made mistakes. Some we can fix, some we can’t.” His words felt weighted, like again, there was more to it. More he wasn’t telling me.

  “I can’t listen to you when you’re leaving things out.” I stepped around my car, pausing only when I heard Hassan speak, his boots scraping against the pavement as he caught up with me.

  “Fuck, Fred—wait.”

  I looked at him, having to tilt my head slightly. He rubbed the back of his neck; usually so stoic and hard to read, it was clear he was struggling with himself. What to say and what not to say.

  “I’ll tell you,” he finally breathed. His face twisted despite himself, like he thought it wasn’t the best idea. “I’ll tell you everything—but, first I need a little more time.”

  I clicked my tongue. It was almost enough. “How much time—?”

  “I don’t know.” Hassan shook his head. “I don’t know. Not much.”

  I considered it; it was better than nothing. Better than this conversation we kept having, all of it feeling like bad deja vu. It was either accept, of stay stuck in this rut of secrets we were in. “Okay,” I told him. When I started across the parking lot again, this time Hassan was in step with me. “But, you can’t keep me in the dark much longer.”

  “I won’t.”

  The shelter wasn’t necessarily a pleasant place, but it was nicer than the outside made it seem. The pavement had been cracked and uncared for, the lot surrounded by gnarled wire fences. The inside was clean, at least, the walls a dingy blue and without much natural light. It was hard to see what the quarters were like, but if it was anything like the front desk, it was probably utilitarian and basic.

  “How can I help you folks today?” the woman at the desk asked. She’d only spared Hassan and I a glance before returning to her pen and paper.

  Hassan and I looked at each other before I cleared my throat. “Yes, hi—I was looking for an Abella Orozco?” In my hand, I had a photo of her waiting; it was old, but the only one I had, from my staff files. I slid it under the barrier.

  “Hm.” She shut her notebook, finally sparing us a real look. “Let me check.”

  The receptionist left, shuffling into the back room a moment. Hassan tapped the glass that separated her from us lightly. “Bulletproof,” he hummed, almost amused.

  “Here.” She returned promptly, thumping down a binder, which she flipped through with practiced haste. The silence in the meantime was slightly uncomfortable. Eventually, she leafed through the whole thing, shutting it loudly. “No one here by that name, sir.”

  I frowned. “That can’t be right—is there a file on her here?”

  “I’m not allowed to give that information out, sir. There’s a policy of confidentiality here, and—”

  “I know,” I told her, even though I didn’t, the lie forming quickly in my mouth. “I used to work here. Back, about—oh, what’s it been now?” I asked Hassan. His face was even, but his eyes were narrowed at the nurse, playing his part perfectly and cooly; I felt a flicker of surprise, not expecting him to go along with all of this craziness, but I didn’t let it show. I reminded myself to expect nothing less from my loyal bodyguard I smiled apologetically at the woman. “It’s been a while. Probably nine years now?”

  She eyeballed me up and down. “You used to work here?”

  “I was a case manager.” I fished around in my wallet, catching a glimpse of something I could use. I pulled out a little plastic card with my photo on it, flashing it quickly. “I still am. Abella was a patient of mine, and I’m afraid I’ve heard from another patient that she isn’t doing well, so I was hoping to check up on her.”

  The front desk woman seemed to be thinking about it. I’d been an actor for years now; hopefully that skill was as believable in real life as it was on screen. I tried not to look like I was sweating, until eventually she nodded. “Okay. What was the name again?”

  “Ab—”

  Hassan’s phone suddenly went off in his pocket. He reached for it to silence it, offering a half-apology before stuffing it away.

  “Abella Orozco,” I repeated, taking care to spell it for her as well. She scribbled it down on a sticky note before reaching into a filing cabinet next to her desk.

  “We don’t keep records of where people go after they leave us,” she told me. “We wouldn’t have enough space, and we don’t have the manpower to keep up with each patient or family.” Flipping through the manilla tabs, she shook her head slowly. “If you leave your number, I can call you if we hear from her. There are stacks out back, too, but it’ll take hours and the person who maintains the records isn’t here today.” She slid me her sticky notes.

  “Here.” I scribbled it down, along with Hassan’s name. “Please call if you hear anything.”

  “Hassan Reyes?” she read aloud, and immediately I could feel Hassan stiffen beside me. “We’ll give you a call.”

  “Hassan Reyes?”

  Hassan had barely waited for the front doors to shut behind us before choking it out.

  “I couldn’t give her my name,” I huffed. “Frederic Reyes the actor isn’t exactly low-profile. And I wasn’t about to give your full name away, so….” I shrugged. “Hassan Reyes.”

  Hassan ran a hand over his face, exhausted, and it made me laugh. He tried to be stern with me. “This isn’t funny,” he told me without any bite.

  “You’re getting to worked up about a dumb name,” I retorted, not bothering to hide how amusing it was, or how admittedly ni
ce it sounded.

  “Excuse me.” It was a woman’s voice coming from behind. We both turned in time to see it was the receptionist, and in her hand was a thin folder. “The picture. You left your picture.”

  I took it from her, surprised. “Oh—thank you.”

  “And, here.” She held out the folder. I took it and flipped it open. “It’s not much,” she huffed. “But, that name’s unique. And, I remembered that face. She didn’t check in as Abella Orozco.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “No. I thought it sounded funny.” The receptionist pointed with a finely manicured nail. “She checked in as Abella Reis. Said it was her maiden name.”

  I read over the records, the type pretty barebones. Not much information to work off of, but—

  “She has children?” I asked quietly, trying to remember that detail about her. She must have.

  The receptionist nodded. “Yup. Always talking about them when she was here, I think. They’re in the system now, though. Real sad. Happens to a lot of moms who end up in our center.”

  10

  Hassan

  “Ay, Hassan, it’s Sal. Er—well, you told me to call ya if I saw something, and well I think I did see something. It’s Henry. He came in and made some purchases just this morning, and well, I think you better come on out here.”

  I listened to the voicemail as I sat in my car. It had been the phone call I’d ignored in the center just moment ago. I looked down the few spaces between our cars at Fred waiting in his. I rolled my window down, beeping the horn to get his attention.

  He jumped slightly, rolling his own and leaning out to shout, “What?”

  “I’m not headed home just yet. I’ve got to follow up on something minor Jackson just sent me.” I offered a wry smile. “Think you can get home by yourself, or are you going to cause more trouble.”

  Fred smirked. “I’m not gonna stop until your bald from stress, you know that, right?”

  We shared a knowing look—and the familiarity of it was too much. I could still remember how his mouth tasted. I flipped him off.

  Laughingly, he waved his hand at me to go. “I’ll get home fine, Hassan.”

  I rolled up my window, the slight smile I wore fading easily as I remembered the voicemail. Henry had been spotted. And, not long ago either. I was close, and the prospect was both a relief and terrifying.

  Peeling out of the parking lot, I turned to merge onto the highway, letting it lead me to the quiet town with no name, hoping I would find an answer waiting for me.

  “Hassan,” Sal greeted. There were no pleasantries exchanged this time; my visit was strictly business.

  “Hey, Sal.”

  Sensing the seriousness I was probably radiating, Sal nodded, reaching for his inventory book. I was grateful he was such a particular guy. He always kept records of sales, who made them, and when. Today’s sales were already bookmarked and opened.

  “Here,” he said pointing with one calloused finger. “About noon he came in. Looked pretty rough, y’know, and I thought he maybe was coming in from a stint out in the woods. When I tried to ask him about it, he was real quiet. Kinda snappy. Told me it was none of my business, can ya believe that?”

  I shook my head, even though I could believe it. Sal didn’t know Henry like I did. Didn’t know the darkness that lingered under the seemingly put-together exterior.

  “He bought… cables, gloves, wire, ammunition….” My stomach sunk at the last word. Ammunition for what? For a day at the range, or for something far more sinister? What are you planning....? The purchases weren’t too suspicious, and I had been hoping for enough to lead me in any certain direction, but this…. Looking up at Sal, I asked, “Is this all he bought?”

  “Well, that, and he asked me to submit an order for a certain kind of hunting knife.”

  Sighing, I shut the sales book. He wasn’t far off, I told myself. There were maybe shops around town with security cameras—an ATM maybe—who could have caught which direction he was driving in. If I could just get access to those—

  “Ya didn’t let me finish, Hassan,” Sal said. The order sheet was right next to the register, out and waiting for me. He slid it up to me. “Y’know my policy. I always take a phone number or address for contacting people when the orders come in, since there’s no set shipping time. And, as you know—”

  “Henry doesn’t have a phone,” I murmured, picking up the sheet.

  Sal grinned, pointing to the space next to Henry’s name. “Nah. But, he’s sure as hell got an address.”

  It was a huge break. The address was like asking for an apple and getting a three-course meal instead, and I could have kissed Sal for calling me when he did. I was in risk of getting a speeding ticket with how fast I was driving back towards Los Angeles, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I needed to solve this—to get this weight off my chest—as soon as possible, and now I was closer than ever.

  The neighborhood the address led me to was outside Riverside, in the worst part of town I’m assuming. It was a wreck: knocked over trash cans, graffiti everywhere, windows boarded up and several buildings along the street had foreclosure signs in front of them. It was a pocket of urban decay.

  I parked the car, eyeing the building. Nothing too obvious. It seemed like a normal, cheap apartment, something you wouldn’t think twice about if you drove by it. It was the perfect hideout. My gun suddenly felt heavy where it sat tucked into the back of my jeans. Knowing Henry, it was entirely possible I’d have to use it.

  Crossing, the street was quiet. Either it was too void of people, or it wasn’t the kind of place parents would let their kids explore on their own. With every step I took on the porch, the wood sighed. I tried to keep as quiet as possible, one hand resting on the gun, ready to pull it out at a moment’s notice.

  Adrenaline was coursing through me already. There were two doors: one for apartment B and C. Henry’s address was apartment A. Backing slowly down the steps, I kept myself vigilant as I crossed the lawn, looking for—and eventually spotting—a side door. It was a rusty old thing, with the letter A bolted into the front.

  I grimaced, nudging the door quietly. It opened up to a set of crumbling concrete stairs as they descended into darkness. Great, I thought. A basement apartment. My gut told me something was wrong; off. My head and heart told me to carry on. Cowardice wouldn’t get me anywhere.

  Carefully, I took the first step.

  Then, the next.

  The descent was a slow one; I didn’t want to alert Henry that I was here. It would result in him running off or attacking, and neither was what I wanted. Henry was crafty. Taking him down wouldn’t be easy.

  I pulled my gun out, flipping the safety off, keeping it ready. Just in case.

  It was getting too dark to see into, the further down I went, and I eventually felt the cold thin mental of a chain brush my shoulder. I tugged gently, and a light bulb burst, illuminating a layered maze of hanging curtains and blankets. Slowly, I pushed through, past each of them, down further and further until there were no more steps, and hanging cloth seemed to surround me. It was impossible to tell where anything was; all I knew was that the staircase was at my back. I took another step—

  —and, that’s when I felt it. The delicate pull of wire against my boot.

  I noticed it too late. Light burst like the lightbulb around me, the boom of it Earth-shattering in how loud it was. Heat and fire filled the basement instantly, the trap Henry had set for me coming to life, the cloth igniting, the smoke engulfing me, the blast of it throwing me back harshly against the concrete steps.

  FRED

  Hassan had specifically instructed that I go home right away.

  With the folder—with the location of Abella’s children—in my possession, I waved goodbye to Hassan, turned off my phone, and drove in the direction opposite of home.

  They lived on the outskirts of the city—less than an hour’s drive from the family center—so there was no way I was going to pass up the le
ad I’d been so desperate for. I was finally going to have answers, or at least, was on track to. As I drove, I wondered what Hassan was investigating—what secret he was following, and keeping from me—before haughtily deciding I didn’t care. I would care when he came clean. Until then, he could do what he wanted. I had my own secret, now.

  The neighborhood was similar to the one the family center had been in, though it was much more residential. It wasn’t too far from Compton, I realized as I pulled up, parking a safe enough distance away from the house so as not be seen as creepy. I’d had a friend from Compton a long time ago and I remembered the dark stories of violence and police raids and crime he’d relay to me. Times had been different then, sure, but this place seemed not far off.

  Glimpsing the house, it was small and cramped. Dirty. The lawn outside was dead in the California heat, and things were strewn about in the yard, left for nature to take. I didn’t like it. It wasn’t the kind of place for a child to grow up. It reminded me of my own childhood.

  Even from across the street, the voices inside were audible. They were yelling, and something inside me twisted uncomfortably.

  Before I realized what I was doing, I crossed the street, the folder in my hand. I felt like I stood out again, which was a strange feeling. I’d come from a place like this; I’d gotten so far away from my roots, from the place that raised me. Remembering how much I couldn’t stand being in such a dark place, though, I was glad for it.

  The yelling didn’t cease when I knocked hard on the aluminum screen door; it only stopped when a gaunt-looking woman approached the door with a cigarette in her frowning mouth. “Who’re you?”

  “I’m Hassan Reyes,” I told her, trying to sound professional. She looked at me like a was an insect. “I’m a case manager; I’m here to see the children of Abella Orozco.”