Chandra
My brother dashes down the stairs, virtually flying into the living room, while I sit on the couch doing my homework. “Fuck fuck fuck, Chandra, I’m so fucked.” My heart is pounding out of my chest as I stare at my brother, who is pacing back and forth, wringing his hands and muttering something to himself. “What did you do this time?” He bursts into sobs, “Tommy?,” I panic. I’ve never seen my brother weep before, and it freaks me out, filling me with dread. I take a big breath to calm myself. “Look Tommy, whatever you did, we can fix it like we always do,” by which I simply mean myself because I always clean up his messes, but now is not the time to create a conflict by voicing the obvious. “We can’t fix it this time, Chandra,” my brother whispered softly. My stomach drops but before I can respond, the front door bursts open, spilling wood chips everywhere. “THE FUCK!!!” My school papers and notebook tumble to the floor as I spring up from the couch, surprised. Three men walk into my living room, and I am gripped in horror and disbelief as I assess each of them, trying to figure out who my brother screwed with this time and how hell I am going to get us out of this problem. My eyes freeze on the third man, and I feel the blood drain from my cheeks, dizzy as I realize who he is. Draven Donovan, six feet eleven inches tall, is currently taking up space in my home. I chew on my bottom lip and try to keep my voice steady as I turn to my brother, who is currently on his knees weeping, “Tommy, please tell me you did not borrow money from the alpha of the Irish claw.”
As if in response to my question, Draven snarls and marches deeper inside the house, a vein erupting from his skull. My brother crawls backwards, whimpering, and I understand the answer to my inquiry is a clear yes. Suddenly, I feel my nipples tighten and my clit bulge. What’s that odor? It has a sandalwood and cinnamon aroma.
