The Gangleader's Obsessed with Me

Lorelei "You need to pick up eggs and spinach." "Mom, you sent me the list. I'm a grown adult who can handle remembering two things." I roll my eyes, snapping my seatbelt. "Yeah, but you always forget." Classic Mom, delivering her signature guilt trip. I sigh. "Leaving work now, headed to the grocery store." "Great, so maybe you'll actually make it home for dinner this time." "Yes, Mother, I'll be there." I hang up, releasing a breath like it had been held hostage. It's been such a slow day I'd swear my boss is keeping the shop open out of sheer pity for me. Flowers just don't bring people in like they used to. The grocery store is a quick trip, only ten minutes away, and I'm in and out in record time. Eggs, spinach, and that's it. As I walk back to my car, I hear a faint popping sound in the distance. I pause, listening, but shrug it off. Fireworks? Car backfiring? It's probably nothing. Bag in one hand, keys in the other, I go to unlock the door when something—or rather, someone—slams into it. "Ah! What the—" My eyes widen, heart stuttering as I step back. There, leaning heavily against my door, is a man. Blood is seeping through his shirt, slowly darkening the fabric and dripping onto the ground. He's clutching his side, his face pale, grimacing. I glance around, half-expecting a SWAT team to storm the parking lot, but there's no one else. Just me, my car, and this bleeding, semi-conscious stranger. "A-are you... okay?" It's a dumb question. Obviously, he's not okay. But it's the first thing that slips out. Suddenly, the popping sounds burst out again, louder this time, and my brain catches up. Gunshots. Real, terrifying gunshots. I'm not ready for this. My heart's racing, my hands are trembling, and for some insane reason, instead of running, I pull open the back door. "Are you...in trouble?" I ask, trying to keep him alert. His gaze is unfocused, but he manages a weak nod. "O-okay...um...then let's get you into the back before the bad guys show up." He lifts his head, lets out a laugh that sounds more like a painful cough, and mutters, "I...am the bad guy." "Yeah, well, you're bleeding out on my car, so come on." I somehow wrestle him into the back seat, grunting with the effort. He's surprisingly heavy, and his blood is everywhere. My poor car. Once he's in, I slide into the driver's seat, glancing at him through the rearview mirror. He's watching me, his gaze sharp, determined. "You need to drive," he says, voice rough. "Where? Where do I take you?" "Not to a hospital," he says, shutting his eyes briefly as if he's holding himself together by sheer willpower. I bite back a sigh. "Not a hospital" isn't a destination, buddy. My fingers grip the wheel, and I glance back again. "Listen, sir, you're bleeding out. I need a place—a specific place." He doesn't answer. He's out cold, slumped in my back seat, leaving me with nothing but a slowly growing pool of blood and a vague sense of dread. "If you die on my seats, I swear—" His eyes flutter open slightly, and he mutters, "What...kill me?" I huff, exasperated. "Just tell me where to go, please?" He doesn't answer at first, and I'm left gripping the wheel, staring at his pale face in the rearview mirror. His eyes flutter again, just enough to give me a glimpse of something sharp and calculating—then they soften, almost as if he's realized something. "I don't...have anywhere to go," he rasps, his voice as thin as the line he's walking between life and death. "Not anywhere safe...right now." Panic flares through me, my heart racing even faster than before. "That's not helpful, you know?" I say, though I'm starting to feel like I'm talking more to myself than to him. He's barely holding on, blood still soaking into my backseat, staining everything. Think, Lorelei, think. James. I press my lips together, nerves tingling. James had just gotten his certification and probably doesn't want his first post-residency patient to be a half-dead...what, mobster? But I have no choice. "Okay, okay, we'll figure this out." I say it more for my own reassurance than his; he's too far gone to care. I press the gas and make a sharp turn down a side street, gripping the wheel so hard my knuckles are white. My mind is spinning with questions I can't answer: Who is this guy? As I pull into James's driveway, I glance back to see the man's eyes barely open, his breathing shallow. Great. I grab my phone and call James, praying he'll answer. "Lorelei," he answers, a suspicious tone to his voice already. "Why are you calling me so randomly? You hate calls. I swear, this better not be another animal you found—" "It's not!" I cut him off, already feeling the tension in my shoulders. "Look, James, I need a favor. A really...complicated one." There's a beat of silence. "I don't like where this is going." "Yeah, you won't like it any more in a second," I admit, cringing. "There's this guy. He's...um, injured. And it's pretty bad. I didn't know what to do—he said a hospital wasn't safe for him." "Lorelei, what did you get yourself into?" "I don't know!" The words rush out, and I feel my voice hitch as I open my door. "Just—can you help him? Please?" I hear a long sigh, and then a reluctant, "Fine. But only because you owe me." I hang up, barely having time to help the man out of the car and stagger him up to James's front door. James is already standing there, arms crossed, his face a mask of disapproval that only cracks slightly as he takes in the blood. "Unbelievable." He steps aside to let us in, muttering under his breath. "This is your 'complicated favor,' Lorelei?" "Thank you," I whisper, relief washing over me as we settle the stranger onto James's couch. James kneels by the guy, inspecting his wounds, his jaw tight. "Just finished my residency, and you bring me a bleeding mobster. Typical." "Wait—you think he's a mobster too?" I say, glancing nervously at the man's unconscious form. James sighs, pulling out his gloves and first aid supplies. "I don't know who he is, but he's got three bullets in him, a knife holster, and a face that screams 'I don't do small talk.' You tell me." "Well... at least he uh... at least he's good looking." "Lorelei...are you out of your mind?" James mutters, giving me a look that could strip paint. "I know, I know." I clasp my hands together, offering a fake, innocent smile—anything to avoid the scalpel he's wielding like he just might use it on me. "And where exactly is he supposed to stay while he's unconscious?" I let out a nervous laugh. "Well...good thing you live alone, right?" "Good thing for who?" he snaps, rolling his eyes. I quickly drop my head, pressing my lips together to stifle a smile. "Thanks. Love you," I say, practically singing it. He just sighs, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves as he assesses the wounds. From his medical kit, he grabs gauze, antiseptic wipes, and a few ominous-looking metal tools that gleam under the room's dim light. As I watch, he's all precision. James swabs the blood from the wound on mystery man's leg, face set in concentration. His movements are quick and efficient as he cleans each bullet wound with practiced hands, layering gauze with a deftness that makes it clear he's done this kind of thing before—even if he's silently cursing me the entire time. Next, he reaches for a needle and surgical thread. My stomach flips a little as he begins stitching, his brow furrowed in determination. "Just out of residency," he mutters to himself, "and here I am, doing field trauma surgery on my couch." His hands work steadily, needle glinting as he pierces and pulls, his scowl deepening with each stitch. Finally, he grabs a small syringe and injects something into mystery man's shoulder. "Painkiller. Not that he'll thank me for it," he mutters. He applies the last bandage, his hands sure and steady, finishing off with strips of medical tape to keep everything in place. After what feels like an eternity, he's finally done. James peels off his gloves with a snap, straightens, and marches to the sink to wash his hands, turning to look at me with an expression so serious I almost squirm. "You're staying here too," he says flatly. "You're the only familiar face for him, and I don't need this guy waking up in the middle of the night and deciding to murder me." I nibble on the inside of my cheek. "But I was supposed to drop off eggs and spinach at my mom's..." James sighs, exasperated. "Is it in your car? I'll drop it off." I let out a long sigh. "Oh, no. She's going to think you bought it and that I'm irresponsible and don't care about her. And you know it." "Oh, I definitely know it," he says, a smirk playing at his lips. "Look, just stay. At least until he's up." I shift on my feet, already regretting everything about today. "Fine, fine. I'll stay." "Good girl. Because I'm not sleeping alone with a guy who has a Glock in his gun holster and a jackknife in his boot." "Wait...what?" My voice comes out as a squeak. James gives me a deadpan look. "And if you check out the tattoo on his wrist—the scorpion? Lorelei, your mystery man is definitely a gang member." "Oh..." I stare at the guy, my eyes wide. So much for mystery man—he's officially certified as gang member guy now, and he's all bandaged up on my best friend's couch. I place one hand on my hip, the other on my forehead, letting out a long sigh. Carefully, I sit down across from him, not daring to take my eyes off him. My gaze slides over his face, taking in the strong jawline, the dark stubble, the unmistakable hint of danger. Gang member guy actually looks...handsome when you look closely. Is that okay to notice right now? Probably not. This seems inappropriate. But I can't help it—I mean, he's got that rugged, I've-seen-things look going on. Gang member guy actually looks...handsome when you look closely. Is that okay to notice right now? Probably not. This seems wildly inappropriate. But I can't help it—I mean, he's got that rugged, I've-seen-things look going on. His face is all sharp angles—a strong jaw shadowed with stubble, cheekbones that could probably cut glass, and dark brows that arch slightly, giving him an air of permanent mystery. His dark hair falls in a mess of loose waves, just long enough to brush his forehead, framing his face with a roguish, unpolished charm. The kind of hair you could imagine pushing back out of his eyes, though I'd never dare. And his eyes—what little I caught before he slumped over—were a piercing, stormy gray. Even as they drooped, there was something sharp and unforgiving in them, a glint that hinted he's no stranger to trouble. His skin is olive-toned, faint scars scattered along his arms and torso, telling a silent story of past scrapes and fights. My gaze wanders, and I realize just how exposed his upper body is—muscles taut, defined, with that effortless strength that makes it clear he's no stranger to hard, physical work. Or fighting, maybe. God, Lorelei, get a grip. This is the absolute worst time to notice that the man bleeding out on my friend's couch could easily be a cover model for GQ: Underworld Edition.