Page 43 of Shift Change

“That’s what you get for staring at your inspiration in the bathroom,” Richie Mason said. “Is it still three inches or has it grown?”

The room erupted.

Packy fired back over the laughter. “My wife never complains. Unlike your girlfriend, if she even exists.”

The howling grew louder.

When the noise died down, Packy got serious. “I’m telling you, this is gold. We’ve all had enough alcohol to make a game of truth or dare very interesting.”

Mason scoffed. “What is this, sophomore year of high school?”

“Fuck that,” Packy said. “This is the grown-up version. And to make it interesting, we’ll play in pairs. One question or dare per duo.”

Harpy raised an eyebrow. “Ground rules?”

“No limits,” Gabe said before anyone else could jump in. His grin was a little too wide when he added, “We’re brothers. What happens here stays here.”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, an alarm bell started going off, but I’d had one too many IPAs to figure out why. I glanced at Dog, and he was already looking at me. It was quick—a second, maybe less—but something passed between us. He looked away, and I swallowed hard.

“I’m in,” Brody said.

Logan gave Abby a look of terror. “Looks like we’re partners. God help me.”

Abby put an arm around Logan’s shoulders and squeezed. “Is okay, honey. I make it good for you.”

After more laughter, Harpy made the couple assignments, and I was glad he put Dog and me together.

The game kicked off with pure chaos when Björk and Jackson asked for a dare. No surprise there since they were two of the team’s biggest showboats.

The captains—Harpy, Packy, and Blunt—were asking the questions and handing out dares. After the group huddled for a second, Harpy gave Björk and Jackson an evil grin. “Lose the shirts and lick beer off each other’s chests.”

“That all you got?” Jackson grinned as he peeled off his shirt.

Björk pulled his sweater and undershirt over his head, then smirked at Jackson. “I’ll go first.”

He dropped to the floor, hands behind his head like he was sunbathing, and Jackson poured a thimbleful of beer onto his chest. Jackson proceeded to lick it off with theatrical flair before wagging his eyebrows at the room.

We roared while they switched places. Björk poured a generous stream onto Jackson’s chest and started licking. When the beer trickled down Jackson’s stomach, Björk followed it all the way south. He then sat up and pounded his chest like a caveman.

The room lost it.

And so it went. One by one, each pair stepped up to take their turn. Mason and Davis picked “truth” and confessed to a recent four-way with puck bunnies that sounded more chaotic than hot. Gabe and Brody asked for a dare and were told they had to go to “second base” while we all watched. When they tried to convince us that moving from kissing lips to kissing necks qualified, we all booed while a few guys threw popcorn from the snack table.

Abby and Logan wisely went with a dare, which turned into a full-body comedy sketch when Abby had to hoist Logan onto his shoulders and carry him around the room. Logan flailed like a man in a wind tunnel, and Abby looked like he was training for an Olympic strongman competition.

We were all doubled over from Abby’s piggyback lap, but as soon as Packy called out, “Next—Holky and Dog,” my pulse tripped over itself and kicked into overdrive.

There was no way in hell we’d do a truth round. I could already feel the team circling like sharks, waiting to ask what we’d really been doing upstairs, so I said, “Dare.”

Dog’s head snapped toward me, and he was wearing the biggestwhat-the-fuckexpression I’d seen in a while, but I nodded. We could handle licking beer off each other or barking like dogs. No sweat.

Packy raised an eyebrow and looked at Harpy, whose grin was a little too smug. When he didn’t confer with the alternate captains, I realized we’d been set up. They’d planned this while they were waiting for us to come downstairs.

“Since you’re both straight,” Harpy said, dragging out the word like it had quotation marks around it, “you have to play chicken.”

Dog’s brows pinched together so tightly it looked painful. “Like the pool kind? Because I’m not getting on his shoulders.”

“Nope,” Packy said. “The chicken you’re going to play involves kissing.”

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