Page 3 of The Good Boys Club

“Gods,” Succubus whispered to Fae. “He can get it.”

“Right, folks!” I said, slapping my hands together. I checked my watch—ten thirty, way too early for lunch. “Break time! There’s a five-silver credit for each of you behind the cash register at the canteen, so go get a latte and a doughnut or whatever, and we’ll reconvene in twenty minutes. After I’ve called Animal Control.”

The interns nodded and turned in the direction of the canteen.

“Outta my seat,” I said to Mash the moment the last intern had vanished through the lift doors. I didn’t need to ask why he was here at my office on a Monday morning at half past ten. Again.

“Hey Bangers, I brought you coffee.” He held up a takeaway Ichor mug, which I accepted with a resigned huff.

I sat in Giddy’s empty chair, tested the temperature of my plain black double-shot coffee by placing my lip against the lid’s drink hole. It was still scalding. Perfect. I took a sip.

Mash noisily slurped his iced latte through a paper straw. The plastic cup was nearly as big as he was, and topped with cream. My shifter nose picked up every syrup variety in known existence. Ice cubes clinked against each other.

“Did you at least leave her a note? Do you know her name? I’ve got inductions all day so you can’t hang around here. Plus, James is in later.”

He slurped his drink again. “I wanna say Dara. Or Daria. Or . . . no, wait, was it Lara? Maybe Laura.”

“Laura was the last one,” I reminded him.

“Lots of girls are called Laura.”

“So why are you here and not at the uni?”

“Ah . . .” That one syllable said more than an entire speech.

Dr Mash Cassidy worked at Remy University. He was technically a research fellow and a lecturer of dendrology and environmental sciences, but I never really heard him talk about his work. He seemed to spend most of his time avoiding the place, though that may have more to do with avoiding his female colleagues, and a few of the students too.

I didn’t need Mash to tell me Dara-Daria-Lara-Laura was probably still asleep in his bed. I didn’t need to ask Mash where he found this one, or who she was, or what she did for work. No doubt he wouldn’t have any clue himself.

And I didn’t need to ask him how he’d managed to convince her to go back to his place. Mash didn’t need to convince any of them. Mash simply smiled, flashed his dimples, flipped his blonde hair, flexed his enormous biceps, and women would fall at his feet. Literally.

I’d seen it happen hundreds of times.

His favourite pick up line was,“You’re so clumsy for a supermodel.”

Also,“I’m sorry, I don’t do this very often, but I saw you from across the bar and . . . wow.”

Also,“Have we met in a previous life?”

Also,“Okay, this is going to sound really weird, but my cards said I’d meet someone special tonight.”

Also,“I’m just so fucking lonely. Will you hold me?”

Also,“Hi.”

I’d never seen him fail.

Which was fine, good for him, whatever. The man liked no-strings hook-ups. Fucking was his hobby, and according to all sources he was damn good at it. But it often meant I was forgotten about the moment a pretty face came along. I’d get left in the bar, club, wherever, by myself. Completely on my lonesome. A sad little gay hipster in a straight bar—all alone. Awesome.

He’d been my best friend for fifteen years, but sometimes Mash Cassidy could be such a selfish asshole.

“Fine, you can stay here until lunch, but then you have to leave. James is in the office this afternoon and I don’t want to get security in trouble for letting you in again.”

James Bradshaw, werewolf and Howl Ya Doing’s chief executive officer. He’d pop his head in once every few weeks, tell us we were all doing amazing, buy us a pool table for the rec room, then bugger off again not to be seen until the following month.

And besides, even though Mash was a pain in the ass, I’d never been great at saying no to him.

The werewolf slurped his coffee. “Deal. Oh, there’s a new Lucy Stirling movie out. Wanna go watch it with me?”

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