Good Boy (The Boys of Apartment 13, #3)

Prologue

Baby

Four years ago…

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just… weird,” Zeke states with a very subtle sneer, and it’s exactly the hit I was bracing for.

It’s almost unnoticeable, that look. He keeps the way he feels—and so much more—very well hidden. He can hide it, make me feel crazy for even thinking I saw it, but I’m not crazy. I know I’m not.

And he’s not as nice as I once thought he was.

Those charming smiles that used to make butterflies erupt in my belly, I see through them now.

I used to think he was beautiful, but that was before he showed me pieces of the person he keeps hidden.

I believed him, thought he was nice and funny.

He still acts like that every once in a while, still flashes his toothy grin my way, but it’s not the same.

They make my stomach drop, make me beyond nervous.

Any little thing can make him flip—it’s impossible to keep up.

I always regret coming in here—following him in like a little puppy dog so we can hide in a literal closet. An actual closet. I must hate myself. Why else would I keep doing this?

“Honesty, it’s gross that you’d even ask—that you’d want to do that. I don’t. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I’m not fucking gay.”

“I—” My face heats up so quickly, the feel of all that blood rushing to my face so overwhelming, that I can’t even finish the thought.

I didn’t ask. I make it a point to never ask him for things—I’ve learned my lesson.

There’s only so much humiliation a boy can take.

But he demanded to know, used his sweet voice to trick me into thinking he really wanted an answer.

It’s my fault. I knew he was going to do this. Zeke always pulls stuff like this—tells me that we can try something new and then treats me like I’m the most vile thing there ever was just for suggesting something.

I’m not gay. He says it at least once every time we’re in here. Like he’s somehow straight for begging me—a boy—for blowjobs every chance he can.

“Just suck my dick. I have shit to do.”

“Zeke, I—”

“We don’t have time for this, Frankie. First bell is gonna ring soon.” He reaches for his button, and I… watch. I don’t stand up for myself. I just watch. It makes me feel gross. Dirty. Every bit as disgusting as he thinks I am.

And the nickname doesn’t help. It used to make me feel special. He’s the only one who calls me that—I’m either Francis, Francy, or Baby to everyone else. I used to think it was cute, but he ruined it. He’s turned it into something icky.

My stomach rolls as saliva fills my mouth, and it feels like I might throw up.

God, he’d never let me live that down. Use it as ammo every single time he laid eyes on me.

A demented part of me kind of wants to do it—vomit all over his school uniform.

Or his ridiculously expensive shoes. Might turn him off enough to leave me alone.

I need to say no. No. It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s one of the shortest words there is—one little syllable.

“Hurry up.” His hand pushes at my shoulder, and I flinch.

My entire body recoils, hitting the door behind me with a thud that has him instantly bothered.

“What the f—” The look on his face right now is exactly why saying no is so hard.

This one isn’t subtle—not at all. It’s full of hate.

He’s never hit me, but sometimes he looks at me, and I swear he’s going to.

“I don’t want to.” My lips part again as I get ready to give him an excuse, but…

I don’t have one. I have no idea where that bravery came from, but I’m grateful for it—that I finally told him.

I’ve been on my knees for him plenty of times, but I haven’t always wanted to be there.

Only I’ve never told him that. I never said otherwise, and so I can’t even blame him.

I’m the fucked up one here.

“You—” He grabs my wrist, his fingers gripping tightly, and I freeze—my fight or flight doing me absolutely no good. But it’s over just as quickly as it started, ends with a scoff and one more look of revulsion to top it off. “Whatever. Thanks for the blue balls.”

And then he’s shoving his way past me, the click of the door shutting letting me know when he’s gone. I blow out a big ol’ breath because it’s a relief. It is a huge relief… and yet I feel guilty. It feels like I did something wrong.

It always feels like that when he leaves me in here.

He’s trained me well enough that I know to stay put for a few minutes—five to be exact.

This closet isn’t in a busy part of the school, but on the off chance there’s someone lurking, he doesn’t want to be seen with me.

Not alone. Being caught anywhere with the only out gay kid in our private Catholic school is a more effective social suicide than joining the mathletes in two thousand four was.

High school isn’t exactly what Mean Girls made it out to be, but sometimes it can be.

In fact, sometimes it’s a lot worse. And this one happens to be literal Hell.

Ironic considering the many crosses all over the place.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket to remind me that not everybody at this school sucks. Audrey’s been my friend since the day we met. She’s the only reason anyone at all even talks to me—her closeted brother included.

It hasn’t been five minutes, but I figure Zeke is far enough away that he won’t know if I leave a minute or so early. And if he does, so what?

Well, not… I’m not feeling that blasé about it just yet, but I feel kind of like I disgust myself, and unless I want that bullshit to spread, I need someone who doesn’t treat me like I’m worthless. And that’s pretty much just Audrey—who has no idea her own brother likes boys.

And to his credit, I really believe him when he insists he doesn’t. Boys make his dick hard, but I’m positive that he hates them for it. Me especially.

“Francy!”

I glare at her when I spot her. Her inside voice doesn’t really exist. A group of guys—Zeke and his posh pals amongst them—start snickering like morons because the nickname is just that funny to them, and I kind of want to bite her.

But it’s not just that nickname, it’s all of the things people call me. The rare Frank makes them laugh because… well, I’m not a Frank. Teachers call me Francis, my name, and even that makes them laugh.

Francis, Fran, Francy, Frankie—it doesn’t matter.

I hate all of them. Really, the only thing I like being called is the nickname my mom has given me.

She named me after one of her favorite movie characters—my real name and the nickname she gave me both, and I’ve always adored it.

It wasn’t until I started kindergarten that I even learned Baby wasn’t my actual name.

I get that it’s usually a pet name, but my mom made it mine.

Mostly, I like it because it feels like me.

But no way would I ever let any of these shits hear it. People discovering my middle name almost ruined my life—a fact I’m only barely exaggerating. There was an actual announcement over the speakers that it was against the rules to even say it, and that wasn’t even a week after it was discovered.

It doesn’t really matter what they call me.

They all laugh at me, and it has very little to do with my many different names.

It’s everything about me. My lesbian moms and the pot—biggest sinners to exist, as far as they’re all concerned.

It’s no wonder he’s queer, he’s got two moms!

Ha ha ha. Who I am, what I am. My voice, my stature, my every atom is cause for hilarity.

And Audrey knows it, so why she’d yell so loudly is beyond me.

“Was that necessary?”

She’s finally close enough to touch, and I seriously consider sinking my teeth into her arm.

“Come on, Francy—we don’t care about what those guys think.

” She emphasizes how little she cares by flipping them all off before she grabs my arm and drags me to the table we always sit at.

Not that it does anything to stop their laughing.

Or their catcalls thrown her way. Or the insults thrown at me.

The only one I don’t hear saying anything is Zeke.

I can’t believe how much that little detail used to mean to me.