Good Boy by Megan Lowe

Chapter 1

It’s a fact universally acknowledged that teenage boys are horny fucks. It’s also a fact that when you take away a teenage boy’s regular piece of ass, they’re going to want a new one. And soon. I’ve heard a build-up of semen fucks with your brain. I’ve also heard it can drive you crazy. And since I really don’t want that to happen to me, I go back to swiping.

Too fat. Too old. Too geeky. Too hairy.

I throw my phone down.

“There are zero datable men in this city,” I lament to my younger brother, Jase.

“It’s Chicago,” he answers, not even bothering to look up.

“Exactly! That means there should be a ton more eligible men here than in Triple Falls.” Triple Falls, our former hometown. The hometown we left two weeks ago.

“Please tell me you two have done more than sit on the couch all day?” Amy, our older sister, says as she breezes in.

“Yup,” I reply. “We got up, made food, showered—you know, essential stuff.”

She sighs as she dumps her purse on the kitchen counter. “I suppose I should be grateful you’re at least doing that.”

“Mmm,” I agree, picking up my phone again and continuing to swipe left.

She huffs and moves around the kitchen, doing whatever it is she’s doing.

I love my sister, I do, but I’m a seventeen-year-old guy—I don’t like anyone on principal. But when my twenty-three-year-old sister suddenly became guardian to me and our fifteen-year-old brother? It was never going to end well. And it’s not like it’s Amy’s fault. It’s not anyone’s fault, unless you want to blame God or whoever invented cancer. To watch one parent be ravaged by that fucking disease is gut-wrenching. To watch both? It does things to a guy. And then, mercifully, when their suffering is over, you find your older sister is handed guardianship and your life is uprooted and transplanted here, to Chicago, a few weeks short of starting your senior year. Fun times.

“Dinner’s ready, you guys,” she calls.

Jase jumps up with the enthusiasm only a fifteen-year-old going through a growth spurt can muster.

I follow at a more sedate pace, earning myself a glare when I finally sit down.

“What?” I say as I help myself to kung pao chicken and rice.

“You start school soon,” Amy says.

“I know.”

“It’s your senior year.”

“I know.”

“How are you feeling about it?”

I shrug. “It’s school.”

“It’s important. If you do well, that could mean a scholarship.”

“Aims….”

“Con….”

I sigh.

“I know this isn’t how you pictured your senior year—”

I snort.

“—and you know I’d give anything for things to go back to how they were—”

“How they were?” I ask. “How they were was me at fourteen trying to hold the house together because Mom was too busy looking after Dad to worry about me, about Jase. It was watching him slowly waste away and knowing there was nothing I could do. It was trying to reassure Jase everything would be all right when I knew that was the furthest thing from the truth. It was feeling relieved, so fucking relieved when he finally died because it meant he wasn’t in pain anymore. And then, if that weren’t enough, it was being fucking gutted when Mom’s diagnosis came through. And where were you, huh? Here, going to your fancy school, living your fabulous life while we had to watch them die.” I shove away from the table. “But I guess everything’s fine now because you’re here and you know this isn’t how I saw my senior year playing out.”

I stomp to my room and slam the door. I know I should feel grateful Amy took us in. She didn’t have to, but all I can think of is how she wasn’t there when it mattered. That I had to shoulder everything Mom and Dad went through because she couldn’t leave her life here.

I flop onto my bed, ignoring the creaking it makes. I pull out my phone, logging into Poundr again.

Too fat. Too old. Too hairy. Too pretty. The next image on the screen stops me in my tracks. Usually the profile pics are selfies, maybe even a group shot or photos taken in front of a generic landmark. This one is just this guy’s hand. That’s it. One hand. Five fingers and a tiny star-shaped scar in between his thumb and index finger. Ordinarily I would say there’s nothing special about a hand, but…. There’s something about this one. Throwing caution to the wind, I swipe right and am pleasantly surprised when the match is confirmed. Almost immediately, a message pops up from “James.”

James: Hey.

That’s it. One word. Three little letters.

So I reply how any sane seventeen-year-old guy replies.

Connor: Hey.

Now, it’s totally my imagination—because how could it be anything other than that? I don’t know this guy from Adam—but I swear I can feel a wry chuckle coming from the other end of our chat.

James: What’s up?

Now, if I were a different type of guy, I’d reply “me,” but I was raised with manners, so I go with:

Connor: Not much. Hiding from my family, no big deal.

James: Literally or figuratively?

Well, isn’t “James” pulling out the big words?

Connor: Literally. My sister…. My life’s just a mess right now.

I don’t know why I’m telling a complete stranger this, but just as I don’t know why I swiped right on just a hand, there’s something… compelling about him.

James: Join the club.

Connor: Families blow.

James: Agreed.

Connor: So tell me, James, what sort of stuff are you into?

James: Besides matching with cute guys who apparently have similarly screwed up family lives?

My heart does a flip when he says I’m cute.

Connor: Yeah, besides that.

James: The usual. Baseball, blowjobs, and Bentleys.

Connor: Ah, the three B’s, essential for life. Sox or Cubs?

James: Please, Cubs.

Connor: I thought most Chicagoans were Sox people?

James: Only losers root for the Sox. You’re new to town, right?

Connor: Just moved here last week from Michigan.

James: You liking it?

Connor: The city’s fine, it’s just….

James: Your sister.

He catches on quick. I like that.

Connor: Yeah. Plus, I’m about to start my senior year and a move, it’s not ideal.

James: High school senior?

Connor: Yeah. Is that a problem?

I quickly flick to his profile and see he’s eighteen. Technically, my profile says I am too, but only because that’s how old you have to be in order to use the app. I’ll be eighteen in a month.

James: Nope. I might be one myself.

Connor: Nice. Have you heard of Windswept Academy? That’s where I’m starting.

James: I know a few guys who go there.

Connor: What’s it like? Do you know?

According to Amy, Windswept is one of Chicago’s best schools, and Jase and my attendance was mandated in our parents’ wills should Amy move us to Chicago.

James: It’s fine. I hear there’s a major prick there who practically runs the school.

Connor: Sounds like trouble.

James: I think it’s fine if you stay out of his way.

Connor: Thanks for the tip.

Staying out of this guy’s way won’t be a problem. Causing problems and bringing attention to myself is the last thing I want to do. All I want to do is get this year over and done with.

James: No problems. A guy on the baseball team died last summer. Rumor has it Cav was involved.

Connor: Holy shit.

James: Yeah.

Connor: Did the police investigate him?

James: His mom’s one of the senators for Illinois, and his dad owns like, half of the city.

Connor: So that’s a no. Aren’t people afraid of him?

James: I think he likes it, you know, he gets off on it. The fear, the power.

Connor: That’s fucked up.

James: That’s Cavanaugh McLaughlin for you.