Page 15 of The Good Boys Club

I’d never bought extraneous apparatus because the uni’s stuff was more than adequate, and I hadn’t been working on a paper, so I had no research notes. In fact, since Sonny left, I’d wondered whether I would ever write another article. Most of my academic contribution had been spurred on by him. He’d been my tutor, and my mentor, and well, if it wasn’t for Sonny, I wouldn’t have had any success in this field at all.

He was the one who’d wanted to co-author our book,Woodwide Network. He was the one who’d wanted to work on the second edition. I was always happy to go along with it. To coast.

Happy to do whatever, so long as it kept me away from Howling Pines, I guessed.

As a result, there was almost nothing left for me to pack into my single sad cardboard box, just like the ones they used inthe movies. Only I didn’t have a luscious green plant spilling over the side of the box like they did in my rom coms, or a photo frame containing pictures of my loved ones. I had next to nothing. A few bark samples which I used to illustrate the evolution of different trees’ survival, my stick collection—because could I really call myself a werewolf without a decent stick collection?—a couple of handwritten notes from students, and my special “at work” coffee mug. MyGood Boys Clubmug that Cian had had specially made for me. We’d had a whole cupboard of these at uni, but along the way, all but one had smashed. This one.

I clutched the box to my chest and left the premises without saying goodbye to anyone else. I would email those I’d miss . . . when I finally wrapped my head around it.

Fired.

Technically not fired. But notnotfired.

I was jobless—incomeless—after August. Ishouldprobably start looking for a new position somewhere or I’d end up missing payments on my flat and my car. My car.Noooo,my Sleipnir.Shouldprobably concentrate on my future career, but all I could think about was how I no longer had an excuse to skip my pack’s Harvest Fest celebration.

I took the U-Rail back to my apartment, threw my pathetic box onto the sofa, and headed to the gym. Not the closest one to me, but the closest men-only gym, because I could do without the temptation or distraction.

That’s what got me into this pickle in the first place.

Well, okay, it wasn’t. It was my inability to say no to said temptation—my flimsy as fuck willpower. Cian predicted it would be my downfall. Cian was always right.

I needed to speak to him. But for the first time in fifteen years, I didn’t call him straight away, and I didn’t know why. He couldtalk me through anything. Explain what to do next. Guide me. Tell me exactly what I wanted to hear. So why didn’t I call him?

Was I ashamed of myself or was it something else? He had his own work dramas to solve. He’d sent me a text last night telling me his boss was selling Howl and he had to decide whether to stay and risk the new CEOs, or apply for his dream job with some fancy-pants inner-city tech moguls. I’d told him I would call him today after my appointment, but here I was decidedly not calling him.

After the gym, I went to the kebab shop on the corner. Never understood the phrase sick with worry; whenever I’d panic about something, whenever I was stressed, I’d eat.

I ordered two gyros—one chicken, one lamb—with extra everything and a side of cheesy chips, and headed home. Kicked my uni crap off the sofa, snarfed down my food, and flopped down onto the couch. Then I spent the rest of the day and evening staring up at the ceiling.

The sun moved over my building, bathing the living room in an orange glow. The shadows bulged and stretched across the walls, and then eventually dissolved as nighttime consumed my apartment. Despite this, it was never dark in Remy . . . never quiet. City sounds filtered through my open bathroom window. Sirens wailed, people yelled, pedestrian crossings bleated, horns honked, bus hydraulics hissed, music played from one of the ground-floor restaurants—the buzzing too indistinct to make out the songs—and a neighbour negotiated a business deal on his phone from his balcony.

Hard to feel alone when you were so deeply immersed in the hubbub of a metropolis.

And yet . . .

On the floor, because I’d left it there, my phone buzzed with a text.

Ci:

You busy? Shall I call now?

I sent a paw-print emoji in reply. It had become our code for “raincheck.” Usually I’d send it when I was about to get laid, but if Cian ever texted that symbol, it meant tomorrow he’d have some very juicy gossip for me.

He sent me a thumbs up back, and my stomach roiled with guilt.

I should be there for him, as he’d always been there for me. Listening to his problems might help distract me from my own, but I couldn’t bring myself to call him.

They fired me.

Fired.

And I’d have to tell Cian. Admit he’d been right all along. Admit I was nothing but a big furry slut and a failure. Beg him to help me clean up yet another of my messes.

Maybe it had all happened for a reason. Nana had said it was nearly time, and it wasn’t as though I could ignore that problem forever. But . . . I wasn’t ready for it.

Dee-Dee was hot and funny and successful and ordinarily exactly my type, but I couldn’t picture settling down with her. The same woman for the rest of my life. No variation. And then came the responsibility of reproduction.

How the fuck was I supposed to care for cubs when I couldn’t even take care of my damn self?

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