Page 43 of The Good Boys Club

“I always knew there was something more than friendship there.” Kimmy’s voice was also a whisper. “I’m so happy for you.”

Mash paused before answering. “Me too.”

If my heart had tripped over itself hearing Kimmy say “my boys,” it was practically imploding at Mash’s words. What did he mean by “me too”? Had he always known there was more than friendship? Was he also happy for himself? Or was he still lying? All part of the long con?

My heart pounded so loudly in my ears that I missed the next thing Kimmy said. Mashsshedher sharply, snapping my attention back. He pulled the door almost completely closed. He must have been holding the breakfast tray because he used his foot.

“Ci doesn’t know,” he said, in that same near-silent whisper, only this time his words were laced with panic.

Kimmy sighed. I tried to steady my own breaths to listen. “I thought this might be the case. Knew there was a reason you hadn’t returned home in so long. But you can’t keep it from him forever, Mash. You can’t run the p—”

“Mam, I’ll ask him, okay? But not now. Let me decide when’s best. Can you tell the others?”

Kimmy didn’t respond verbally. I imagined she nodded. A few seconds later, Mash kicked the door open and walked into the bedroom holding a tray with a cafetière of coffee, two empty cups, a milk jug, a whole mini-mountain of sugar cubes, and two plates of syrupy waffles.

And I stared at him. My mind raced over everything I had heard—or, more specifically, not heard.

He placed the tray down on the bed near my feet.

Was he just not going to say anything? He cocked his head to the side, his tailed glued down the back of his thigh.

“Did you . . . hear any of that?”

I could be honest with him. Ask him what he was keeping from me. Was he outright lying about something or was he withholding the full truth?

But . . . I didn’t want to go down that rabbit hole. Happy Mash was my favourite, and I didn’t want to tip the balance in the wrong direction, especially if we were stuck here together for the next couple of months. “Heard what?”

He let out a breath. His tail began flicking. “Okay, so here’s the plan for the next ten weeks or whatever.”

Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing

Present Day

Cian

“This is a lot of shit to remember,” I said, brandishing the itinerary at Mash.

“That’s why they write it down for us,” he retorted, swiping the paper from my hand and stuffing it into the back pocket of my cords. “But we don’t need it.”

Once again I’d had to tear a hole in my expensive trousers for a tail to fit through, but as we were the only two people in the attic, I’d reverted to my more comfortable human form.

Mash handed me yet another box, and I dumped it near the entrance. This one hadLIGHTSscribbled on the cardboard flaps. In fact, ninety percent of the boxes so far indicated they containedLIGHTS.

“What does ‘pre-shift scran-up’ mean?” I asked, getting the paper out once again and peering at the looping calligraphy in the speckled attic light.

Mash was bent double, his head buried behind a stack of crates, ass pointing towards me, and tail gently swaying. “Have you never been on a shift before?”

“Well, one time at uni, remember? But you wouldn’t let me come to the shifting park again.” I said.

Mash straightened to his full height. “Because you threw the fucking stick! You had thirty werewolves playing fetch all fucking night.”

“In my defence, you all kept bringing it back to me. Anyway, you told me you don’t remember your shifts.”

“Well, not really,” he said. “But I remember you gloating about it the next day. And I remember Josie from the second floor telling me about it. Not all werefolk lose their memories while shifted. So fucking embarrassing.”

He handed me another box. This one readMARQUEE DECS. “The scran-up is basically a huge party with all the spoils from the hunt.”

“Do I have to join the hunt?” I asked. Not that I was opposed to eating meat—far from it—I just didn’t much fancy being the person who fired the gun and took the beast’s life.

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