Page 7 of The Good Boys Club

I’d discovered I could shift part way when I was a kid, but keeping it in the in-between stages like this—so I resembled a werewolf—was super uncomfortable. Like trying to stop your pee mid-flow. It wanted to be all or nothing, not halfway.

“Mine’s the exact same shade as my hair,” he said.

So . . . beautiful, then. The colour of the sun-warmed sand.

“Tell me about your farm—uh, reserve. Where is it?” I asked.

“Howling Pines? East Mythic Realms, between Winterlands and Gwindur. In Lykos. Werewolf country.”

Of course.

“What do you do there?”

Mash laughed. “Mostly we just run around the forests reinforcing the boundaries because the neighbouring packs can get a little overzealous with their marking. We keep the deer population under control, and we go to the market and sell the meat. My sister’s been talking about setting up a farm shop on site, but there’s not much foot traffic out that way, so there’s no point. I look after the trees too. Fell the dying ones before they fall and damage the others . . . make sure the diseases are kept at bay. I’m actually really good at that. I’ve got like tree sixth sense or some shit.”

“A stick sense?”

“Fucking hell, that’s bad.” Mash polished off the last bite of his pizza and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I’m stealing that. Stick sense.”

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Anything for you, roomie.”

“Is Mash your actual name, or is it a nickname, or short for anything?” It was one of the oddest names I’d ever heard, but then, I grew up in a gated community with predominantly human neighbours.

“It’s short for Mashew.” He looked at me and fake-grimaced through his smile. “Not joking. It was meant to be Mathew, but my dad screwed up and spelled it wrong on my birth certificate. My full name is Mashew Keyland Cassidy.” He did a double thumbs up.

“So, Mash? Not Mas or M or I dunno, literally anything else?”

He laughed, his face pulling into a wide, mesmeric grin. “When I was a baby, I really loved mash potatoes, apparently. It just kinda stuck.”

I’d always been envious of people who were so freely able to poke fun at themselves. It wasn’t how I’d been brought up—it wasn’t proper—and it usually made me uncomfortable. Like sitting against the wall at a party watching everyone else have fun but not knowing how to join in myself.

That wasn’t the way with Mash. I didn’t feel excluded from his fun. It was more like being sucked in by his force field. He made it easy to feel included in his joy.

“What’s your middle name?” he asked.

“Michael James,” I replied.

“Wow, that’s really fucking boring.”

I snorted out my laughter. “Yes.”

“Better just stick with Cian or—wait, I’m gonna call you Bangers.”

“What? Why?” I said, schooling my features into something a little less disgusted.

“Bangers and Mash! Ultimate pairing! Absolute peak culinary . . . awesomeness. Just add gravy. Can’t go wrong, mate.”

I hated it—my new nickname—but I kept that part to myself.

“I’ve never eaten bangers and mash.” My parents would probably have had coronaries if Portman, the chef they paid over a hundred thousand silvers a year for, served something as everyday as sausages and mashed potato.

“It’s my favourite. I’ll cook it for you tomorrow,” he said.

“We’ll cook it together. I love cooking, and I want to check out all the food shops. I saw this place online near here; it’s called The Market. Looks like this huge undercover marketplace that sells fish and meat and fruit and veg and spices and all sorts. You can teach me how to make it.”

Mash watched me with a curious expression on his face, his head tilted gently to the side. “I think it might be you teaching me. So, you enjoy cooking?”

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