The Good Boys Club (Mythical Mishaps #2)

5. Lone Wolf

Lone Wolf

Present Day

Mash

Dean Agnes Snow was not a particularly formidable woman—at least, not on the outside. In many ways, she reminded me of my nana, in that she was the exact opposite. Agnes was fae, with short silver-grey hair, and the most mismatched, brightly patterned clothes a person could imagine. She was visually loud, but a calmer, more collected person had never existed.

Two other people sat tucked against the dean’s desk. Uri George, the dean of sciences, and an unfamiliar woman who I had a feeling was from HR.

Not good. Not good at all.

“Take a seat, Dr Cassidy,” Agnes said, pointing to the only empty chair left, like I couldn’t work out on my own where to sit.

I sat down.

She sat down too. “It’s never pleasant doing this.”

“Ah, fuck.” I pushed the pads of my fingertips onto my eyelids. Maybe once I removed them, I wouldn’t be here in this office, facing down these people.

I knew what was coming—knew my actions would lead to precisely this consequence—but I’d be damned if I could’ve done a thing to stop myself.

I’d fucked around, literally, and now I was finding out.

Over twenty students and, I’d hazard a guess, nearly every woman from the university’s staff who considered herself both an active fan of the male form and single.

My bad.

Agnes continued with no constructive input from me. “I’ve asked Uri and Emma to sit in with us. For everyone’s benefit. If you would prefer, you may choose your own chaperone?”

“Yeah, no, I’m good. Let’s get this over and done with.”

“Very good. In that case, I am to be the bearer of bad news. We have received a complaint. More than one complaint, from more than one person. You’re not stupid, Dr Cassidy, I’m sure you know what these complaints are regarding,” Agnes said.

“Oh, I have a pretty good idea.”

“There’s no easy way to say this, and we’re all grownups here, so . . . the allegations pertain to sexual misconduct—”

“It’s not against the rules, though, is it?” I asked.

“Well, no, it’s not against the rules.” Agnes side-eyed Emma. “Not technically anyway.”

“Right, because they weren’t my students, they were like Sonny’s or Monty’s—”

“Good lord, you’ve slept with students as well?!”

Holy shit! “Gods no. No, never. Fuck no.” I was in so much trouble.

Agnes pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a breath. “It doesn’t matter now. In fact, the less I know about your activities, the easier this’ll be for everyone.” I had the feeling she was talking to me, but Emma nodded. And then she definitely turned to me. “As you know, the contracts here run in alignment with the academic year: September to July. The committee has unanimously decided that your last year with Remy University will be the year just gone.”

I nodded, having found nothing else of any importance to say.

“Do you understand what we’re saying, Dr Cassidy?”

I nodded again. “You’re firing me.”

“No, we’re not firing you. We’re simply not renewing your contract for September,” she said. I said nothing. Agnes kept speaking. “It’s better for everyone this way. There’ll be less paperwork for us, and you’ll find it a lot easier to get another job without the red marks against your name. You will still get paid for July and August.”

“Cool.” I got to my feet. “Uh, can I leave now? I have a desk to clear out.”

She sighed. “Yes, you may leave. Would you like some help with your things?”

I shook my head.

“We’ll miss you, Mash.” Mash, not Dr Cassidy. “The biosciences building is going to feel so quiet without you there.”

It took me less than two minutes to pack my belongings. My lab partner Sonny had cleared out his things last month, and in that time I’d realised all the stuff here was his. The non-university issued equipment, the paperwork, the personal touches like photos and books and trinkets —soooo many trinkets. He had entire mushroom farms and forests of houseplants. I had nothing.

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 in the 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. My Good Boys Club mug 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 not not fired.

I was jobless—incomeless—after August. I should probably 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. Should probably 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 could talk 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?

I’d return home for those ten weeks, just like Alpha wanted, but I wasn’t mating Dee-Dee . . . or anyone else they decided would make a suitable addition to their pack. I wished I could wave a wand and magic all this shit away, or at least distract them long enough to get them off my case. Then and only then could I figure out what the fuck I was going to do for work.

After all, that was what real magicians used, wasn’t it? Distraction. Sleight of hand.

Oh . . .

A plan accidentally started to form.

I needed to see Cian. I wouldn’t tell him I’d lost my job. But I needed his help.

Me:

Can I come over?

Besides, it wouldn’t be the first thing I’d kept secret from him.

I waited a few seconds for his response, but I knew I wouldn’t get one. It was just after ten, he’d be in bed, his phone on “do not disturb,” his lavender sleep mask on and his headphones playing whichever UFO podcast he drifted off to these days.

But the answer was always “yes” regardless.

I pulled my trainers on, scribbled a note onto a scrap of paper, stuffed that in my pocket, and left my apartment.

Cian lived a seven-minute U-Rail ride away, or a twenty-minute walk. I took the underground train. His one-bed flat was situated on the fifth floor of a former warehouse. The building complex once housed machines that made cloth, but after the industry died they converted the factories to luxury apartments. Cian lived in the Calico Building.

Since his doorbell was connected to his phone and there was no way he’d hear it, and I didn’t want to bother the doorman, I climbed the fire escape and threw myself into Cian’s bedroom through his open window.