The Gangleader's Obsessed with Me

4. Everyone Thinks You're A Prost/itute

The low rumble of a passing car woke me, and I rolled over, face buried in my pillow, inhaling the faint scent of lavender laundry detergent—Mom’s favorite—before peeling my eyes open.

My gaze landed on the thing I’d been trying to ignore for weeks: the old military cap perched on my dresser. It was tilted, slightly askew, like even it wasn’t sure why it was here.

It wasn’t mine.

Mom must have dug it out of storage and placed it there, as if the sight of it would spark some dormant affection or anticipation. But all it did was make me want to light a match against it’s flap.

In three months, my father would be home for good. After fourteen years away, serving overseas.

Fourteen years. More than two-thirds of my life.

I couldn’t even picture him clearly anymore. His face had blurred into a composite of fragmented memories and grainy photos Mom kept in the album tucked away in the hall closet. My childhood memories of him felt distant, like stories someone else had told me—fuzzy and impersonal.

What I did remember wasn’t much. A few visits scattered across the years, like postcards from a place I’d never been. He’d bring small gifts—trinkets, mostly—and a polite smile that never reached his eyes. And then he’d disappear again, swallowed up by whatever classified work he never talked about.

Mom never stopped writing to him, though. And when he wrote back? It was like he barely remembered I existed.

"Tell Lorelei hi for me."

That was all he ever said about me. Not I miss you or I can’t wait to see her. Just hi. Like I was an afterthought in the margins of his life.

“Lorelei! Get up!”

Her voice was sharp enough to shave years off my life. I groaned, squinting at the ceiling like it was somehow responsible for my suffering. “What now?”

“There are more things arriving at my house!”

My house. Not our house. Because, apparently, the very roof over my head was hers too, which made my existence in it borderline trespassing. I swung out of bed, feet hitting the cold floor, and padded toward the living room. Maybe this time I’d catch the mystery delivery guy in the act.

“Hey! Young lady!”

Mom’s voice chased me as I made it to the door, already fumbling with the handle.

“Lorelei, get inside! You are not decent enough to be seen in public.”

I looked down at myself. Sports bra. Shorts. Pretty sure I wasn’t streaking, but to her, I might as well have been. “Mom, it’s, like, 6 a.m. Nobody’s even awake to see me.”

She planted herself between me and freedom, her hands on her hips, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. Mom was a petite wall of authority—dark skin gleaming in the morning light, greying locs pulled back into a messy bun that somehow still looked deliberate. Stumpy? Sure. But she had the presence of a drill sergeant with a megaphone.

“First of all, good morning,” she said, her voice sweet enough to hide the storm brewing behind it.

“Good morning,” I muttered, already regretting my life choices.

“Second of all,” she continued, her hand darting to the counter, “what did I tell you about this foolishness showing up at my door? Look at this!”

She lifted a Louis Vuitton bag like it was radioactive, shaking it for emphasis. My stomach dropped.

“Oh wow,” I mumbled.

“Wow?” She scoffed. “That’s all you have to say? Wow?”

I reached for it, but she held it just out of reach, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Explain,” she demanded. “Who is sending you chocolates at ungodly hours of the morning? And now this—this very expensive bag? And don’t lie to me, Lorelei, because you’re not good at it.”

“I don’t know who’s sending it, Mom!” I said, throwing my hands up. “I didn’t ask for it, okay?”

Her lips curled into a look that could set paper on fire. “You think things like this just fall out of the sky? You think this person doesn’t want something from you?”

“I’m a grown woman. I can handle myself.”

“Oh, so you’re a big woman now, eh?” Her voice climbed an octave, dripping with mockery. “A big woman living under my roof, eating my food, and walking around half-naked like you pay the bills here?”

I flinched, wishing I could shrink into the floorboards.

“Listen, so long as you’re under my wing, what’s mine is mine,” she continued, her words slow and deliberate, “and what’s yours…” Her eyes narrowed. “Is also mine.”

I groaned. “Mom, I—”

“Your father would never allow this foolishness in his presence,” she cut in, her voice sharp as ever. “Never.”

And just like that, she dropped the bag onto the counter with a thud, shot me one last glare, and disappeared into her room. Door slam included.

I stared at the bag, my frustration bubbling over, but I bit my tongue. Picking it up, I turned and marched back to my room, where the only person I had to answer to was me.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the paper bag in my hands like it might spontaneously combust.

My fingers trembled as I tipped it over, letting the contents spill onto my bed. Dozens of chocolates tumbled out, their glossy wrappers catching the light like tiny, edible jewels. My stomach tightened.

Tucked beneath the avalanche of sweets was a folded note in that same elegant, scrawling handwriting.

I hope you’re not allergic, and I hope you like chocolate. If you don’t, there’s a surprise for you in the bag. Buy anything you like. I pray to meet you soon, mon ange.

– S

I swallowed hard, my pulse quickening as I turned to the Louis Vuitton bag on my desk. My fingers brushed the sleek shopping bag, hesitant. This felt surreal, like I was about to open a portal to another dimension. When I finally pulled it out, my breath caught.

This was the real deal.

Never in my wildest, broke-girl fantasies did I think I’d hold a Louis Vuitton bag outside of a store, let alone in my own home. It was pastel, multi-colored, the kind of bag that screamed luxury and whispered, “You could never afford me.”

I placed it gently on my lap, like it might vanish if I blinked too hard. Slowly, I unzipped it, peeking inside—and froze. My heart stuttered.

Stacks. Of. Cash.

Crisp, neatly bundled bills, staring up at me like they knew how much trouble they were about to cause. My hands shook as I zipped it back up, as if closing the bag would erase what I’d just seen.

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.” My voice was barely a whisper.

This man—Mr. Gang Member Man S—was trying to buy me off. Again. And if my mother wasn’t so hell-bent on being her usual carrying-the-weight-of-the-Caribbean-matriarchy self, she would’ve cashed in and called it reparations.

That’s it. I would dump it all on someone who really needed it.

Cause I sure as hell wasn't keeping Mr. Gangmember man S's money.

###

Mr. Barry stared at me, his lips parted in disbelief, as I casually dumped the bag’s contents onto his desk. Bundles of cash tumbled out, bouncing like they belonged in a crime movie.

“L—Lorelei…” he finally croaked, leaning back in his chair as though the sight alone might give him a heart attack. “Where’d you get this?”

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. B,” I said with a wink, leaning one arm on his desk. “Just know that your girl’s got you.”

His gaze flicked between me and the money, his wrinkled hand sliding under his chin as his expression shifted to something far less innocent.

“You’re not… you know… right?”

I froze. “Not what?”

He lifted a hand, making vague circular motions over his crotch, and I let out a noise so loud and exaggerated it echoed off the office walls.

“Why does everyone think I’m prostituting myself?”

“So… you shaking ass?”

“Mr. Barry!” I gasped, scandalized but barely holding back a laugh. “No, I am not a stripper, thank you very much. Just take the money and buy us some flowers, will you?”

He sighed, leaning forward with that look he got when he was about to launch into some heartfelt wisdom I didn’t ask for but would probably appreciate later. “Oh, Lorelei,” he said, his voice softer now, “why didn’t you keep this money? You could travel, see the world, buy yourself something nice—”

I held up a hand to cut him off, stepping back from the desk. “I’m gonna stop you right there, Mr. B. You’ve been nothing but amazing to me these past three years. Honestly, it feels like more. You’ve helped me in ways I can’t even count—advice, knowledge, a paycheck when no one else would give me the time of day. And let’s not forget all the times you covered for me when I couldn’t make ends meet. If anyone deserves something good in life, it’s you.”

His lips trembled, and he dropped his head, staring down at his lap.

“Aww, don’t cry,” I said softly, though I could feel my own throat tightening.

“I’m not a p***y, Lorelei,” he shot back. “I’m just trying to count the cash.”

“Right,” I said, biting my lip to keep from laughing. “Order those flowers, will you? We’ve got plans to fulfill.”

I smiled at him one last time, turning to leave the office. Just as I reached the door, his voice stopped me.

“I appreciate you, Lorelei,” he said gruffly. “You’re… you’re the last of the good ones.”

I paused, swallowing hard as his words settled into my chest like a warm blanket. It translated to I love you, even if he’d rather swallow nails than say it outright. And I’d take it.

Back in the shop, I leaned against the counter, staring at the dusty shelves and thinking about the next problem on our list: selling these damn flowers. Ordering them was one thing. Getting people to buy them was another.

I chewed on my lip, brainstorming ways to drum up business. Maybe it was just the location. If we were closer to the city, businessmen could buy flowers for their mistresses, or hippies could attach them to their cars as they cruised through town. Anything to keep the lights on.

My thoughts were interrupted by a deliveryman stepping into the shop, his clipboard in one hand and a familiar paper bag in the other.

“Excuse me, are you Lorelei Madden?”

I sighed, already familiar with the drill. “Yeah, that’s me.”

He handed me the clipboard, and I scrawled my name without bothering to read the fine print. “Uh, can you tell whoever’s sending these that it’s okay? They’ve done more than enough.”

The deliveryman raised an eyebrow, clearly confused, but shrugged. “Okay. But tomorrow, I’m gonna need whatever’s in that paper bag back. He said to have it returned to him.”

I froze. “Wait… what? He wants it back?”

The deliveryman nodded once, then left without another word, leaving me staring at the bag like it might bite me.

My mind raced with possibilities, none of them good. What could he possibly want back? Did he expect me to… wear something? And then return it? My stomach churned. Was this some sick panty-sniffing thing?

“Damn,” I muttered to myself, gingerly untying the bag’s string. “That’s all kinds of sick and twisted.”

Inside was a single sheet of paper, neatly folded. I pulled it out, my brow furrowing as I smoothed it open.

It wasn’t what I expected. Not even close.

A detailed, personal form. And at the top, in that same elegant handwriting, was a note:

Getting to know you, getting to know all about you.

Getting to like you, getting to hope you like me.

– S