Claimed by the Pack

The stranger standing in my doorway was as tall as he was broad. His big shoulders ended where his sleeves did, revealing two very tan and well-developed arms that were holding a large box.

He glanced down curiously. “Why are you barefoot?’

I’d taken my shoes off to spare them the mess. Now I had paint all over my foot, my shorts, my shirt… my arms and legs… everywhere but the wall where it needed to be, apparently.

“Who the hell are you?”

He bent at the knees, setting the box on the floor without breaking his smile. “I’m Brandon,” he said, reaching out one hand. When I didn’t shake it right away, he lowered it to his side. “I’m here for my room.”

I was totally dumbfounded. “Your room?”

“Yes.”

I couldn’t help but snicker, even as I stepped out of the paint tray. “Well I think you’ve got the wrong house, Brandon.”

“You sure?”

“Look around. The real question is are you sure?”

Brandon’s eyes moved slowly around the interior of the old Victorian house. He reached behind him and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a very nice pocket, attached to a very nice ass. That part I tried not to notice, but it was a little difficult.

“430 Blydenburg,” he read. “That’s here, right?”

“Maybe.”

“The old Delta Delta Tau house?”

“Yeahhh…” I admitted slowly. “A long time ago maybe.” My eyes narrowed. “And?”

“Well that’s it then,” he said, holding out the piece of paper. “This is the place. I’ve been assigned here for the rest of the semester.”

I sighed and swiped the paper from his hand. Our fingers touched, and I left him unapologetically with a fresh line of blue paint.

“What is this?” I said, reading the document.

“Dean’s orders,” Brandon shrugged. “Our chapter got closed down over the break, and we were told to come here.”

Chapter. Closed down…

Mentally I snapped my fingers. Of course!

“Ah,” I said. “You’re from Omega Alpha.”

“Yup.”

“Shut down for alcohol hazing. Disbanded. Thrown off campus.”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” Brandon said. “But also, no. We got railroaded. We didn’t haze anyone.”

I reached for the towel I was using as a paint rag. “That’s not what I read.”

“That kid you read about got drunk at some other party,” he said defensively. “He passed out on our lawn and we called him an ambulance.”

“That kid was a freshman, with more alcohol in his system than the town drunk tank. He nearly died.”

“Again,” Brandon reiterated. “Not us.”

I sighed as I wiped my hands clean. I sure wasn’t there to argue with him. I wasn’t there to babysit him either.