Page 39 of The Good Boys Club

“No, I’m not,” I said, indignant, but lying. I was a fucking baby when it came to any kind of pain or illness. The last time I had a cold, I made Ci cook me soup and finger comb my hair. Luckily for both of us, werewolf immune systems dealt with most illnesses pretty swiftly.

“Fine, whatever,” he relented. “Not as if you’ll go through with it anyway. What should we get?”

I punched the air in victory. My birthday crown wobbled. “Dunno. Not any of your bad-boy tattoos. I don’t wanna be in your bad-boy-tattoo club. Something more us. Something wolfy.”

He laughed, held his left arm up to look at the ink. “Bad boy,” he repeated, shaking his head a little. “They’re not bad boy, they’re traditional.” But then he realised I was messing with him and rolled his eyes. “Anyway, we can’t have bad-boy tattoos, can we?” His eyes flashed with danger, and I regretted every single word. “You’re too much of a good boy. Aren’t you, Mash Cassidy?”

“No. No, you promised.” I screwed up my face, gripped my fork like an iron vice, and poured every ounce of willpower I could muster into overriding my innate canine instincts.

“Are you a good boy, Mash?”

“No, stop it.” But as much as I concentrated, I couldn’t force my body to obey me.

“Are you . . . a very good boy?”

“Fuck you! Fuck you!” I whined, as my tail began thump, thump, thumping against the chair leg.

We were three months into our first year when Cian discovered the power behind the words “good boy.” He’d brought a guy back to our halls—George, I think his name was, but there were a couple of Georges. Ci had been frying bacon in the morning, and the smell dragged me out of my hangover-fuelled pit of self-shame.

“You’re Ci’s werewolf roommate?” George had said. George was human. “He talks about you a lot.”

I was wearing nothing but a pair of Calvin K9 boxers, and my tail poked out the slit in the back. I saw his eyes sweep over my body. “Yeah, I’m Mash. You alright?”

“Is it true that if you tell a werewolf they’re a good boy or girl, their tail will wag?”

I’d frozen in horror. Cian turned his attention from the hob to look at me.

“No!” I said. But I’d said it too quickly, and I knew with undying certainty neither of them believed me. “Fuck,” I huffed.

Cian stopped his grin from forming all the way and turned back to the breakfast pan. “I promise not to call you, Mash Cassidy, a good boy in the future.” I heard the smile still in his voice.

“Go fuck yourself, Ci,” I’d replied, as my tail flicked itself upright over my back, and started swishing left and right. I understood then why some werefolk chose to tuck their tails.

George sucked his teeth like the smug little shit he was.

Later, after George had gone, Cian sat next to me on the sofa. “Sorry about earlier. I honestly had no idea.”

I’d laid my head in his lap so he could scratch behind my ears. Felt like decent compensation for the humiliation.

“You are a good boy, though,” he’d said.

I did nothing to stop my tail slapping the leather couch cushions, and I decided that outside of my pack, Ci and only Ci could call me a good boy.

Cian had mostly kept his promise, only wielding the mighty power of “good boy” if he knew I needed cheering up. Like when I didn’t get the grade I’d been hoping for on my first major assignment. Or when we went to the Witching Flour to buy elvish doughnuts but they’d sold out. Sometimes, like now, he also busted it out when the occasion presented itself so readily.

I couldn’t blame him for jumping on it. I’d have done the same to him if our roles were reversed.

“Who’s a good boy? Is it you?” Ci cooed.

My tail bypassed softly thumping the chair leg, and began a percussive—and slightly painful—rhythm against it.

I tried to stop it, but it was futile. Like trying to stop yourself from laughing when someone was tickling you. It hurt, an ungodly amount, but you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Okay, sorry, I’ll shut up now,” he said.

My tail slowed its thudding, and I straightened my crown again.

After dinner, we watched my favourite movie,Clawless,ate Cian’s kiwi and pineapple cake, and got high on our tiny three-metre-by-three-metre patio garden.

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