Page 8 of The Good Boys Club

“I love it. Dunno, I just feel so . . . relaxed around food.”

“You never wanted to be a chef?”

“Oh, gods, my parents would pitch a fit. They’re both barristers and they wanted me to go into law. It was a fight just to get them to agree to computer science. I had to give them a fucking presentation—with slides!—about how the future wealth of the Eight and a Half Kingdoms lies within tech start-ups.”

Mash pulled a face. “Yeesh.”

“Yeah.” I shrugged. It was what it was. “What about you? How come bioscience?” He was the last person on the planet I’d imagine studying science of any kind.

“I love trees.” Right, he’d already said that. Pay attention, Ci. Stop fucking staring at his forearms. “Thinking of maybe becoming a tree surgeon one day. You know, if I can get out of my . . .” He trailed off. I didn’t press for more. “For a guy who loves to cook, you sure are skinny.”

“Shifter metabolism,” I said. Mash didn’t need to know how self-conscious I was about my body. “And you’re pretty hench for an eighteen-year-old . . . unless you skipped a year or seven?”

Mash flexed his biceps in a mini gun-show style. Don’t gawp, Ci. “Nineteen, actually, it was my birthday last week.”

“No way! It was my birthday last week too. On the sixteenth.”

“Mine was the fifteenth. I’m a day older than you. That’s bananas. Did you do anything nice for your birthday? I had bangers and mash for my birthday tea, and then we went to the cinema to watchRuff and Tumble. It’s my second—no, third favourite movie. The projectionist put it on especially for me.”

“It’s a romantic comedy?” I said, slightly taken aback that this six-foot-six giant muscular werewolf guy had admitted his third favourite movie was one whose target demographic was humanwomen. Most guys I knew wouldn’t even confess to watching it, let alone claiming it as a third favourite.

Mash hefted a shoulder, apparently not remotely concerned at the implications for his masculinity. Though it was different, wasn’t it? For a guy like Mash—who was essentially action-figure perfect—to like rom coms, compared with a skinny, pale, nerdy guy like me. Not that I liked rom coms anyway, but it would be nice to have the freedom to.

“For my birthday, we went to this restaurant my parents like in Bordalis, and then to a preview at an art gallery their friend owns. It was okay . . . the art was nice, and I got off with the gallery owner’s son. But that was in July because they both had separate trials last week.”

“Oh,” Mash said. The expression on his face and his deliverance of the word let me know he didn’t approve. “What did you do on your actual birthday?”

“Nothing really.” Watched porn, had a wank, played on my FaeStation. “Mum and Dad were both working late. I hardly saw them.”

“Well, tomorrow we’re gonna pretend like it’s your birthday again, and we’ll eat bangers and mash, and you have to wear the birthday crown.”

“The birthday crown?”

“Yep, it’s like fabric or something. Everyone in my pack has to wear the birthday crown on their birthday, all day, even my alpha.”

I shook my head. “No, that’s not necess—”

“Tough shit, Bangers. You’re gonna wear the fucking crown, and we’re gonna do all the crap you wanna do all day. So, whatdoyou wanna do?”

I thought about it for a second. I didn’t like fuss, and I really didn’t want to wear a crown, especially in public, but this man—whose body more closely resembled that of a classical marblesculpture than a living, breathing person—wanted to treat me like a king all day. Yeah, I could be on board with that.

I could be so fucking on board with that.

“Go to The Market and get supplies, and then come back here and hang out with you.” For the rest of eternity.

“Done!” Mash held his hand out for me to shake. I took it, and ignored the lightning heat now coursing through my veins. “Right, I’m gonna find some shit to make a crown from.” He pushed to his feet and looked around the open-plan space. “Tin foil and card?”

He didn’t wait for me to answer.

Every Dog Has its Day

Present Day

Cian

Despite spending fewer than three hours per month in the Howl Ya Doing building, James was the only person here with his own office. It was a typical, if slightly impersonal, corporate four-metre by four-metre box. Framed photos of some werewolfkids—presumably his own—rested on the desk, and a vintage starburst clock was fixed to the only portion of wall not made from glass.

“Cian, great to see you again. How have you been?” James said, pulling the lid of his laptop closed.

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