Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 11: Hidden Past

Justin's POV

I didn't know when I fell asleep, but I did—with the thought of June curled up on my couch.

When I woke up, it was already late, like always. I dragged myself out of bed and walked into the living room, half-expecting to find her still there. I don't know why.

Of course, she was gone.

The sofa was clean, the duvet folded neatly like she had never even been here. No sign of her. No goodbye. No nothing.

She could've at least told me she was leaving. Or maybe... maybe she regretted it.

Maybe she was already rethinking her offer to fake-date me.

Good. That would be a relief, right?

Not wanting to think about it, I headed to the kitchen, only to stop when I saw what was on the counter.

A plate of pancakes.

And a note.

"Pick me up on Monday so we can go to campus together. Thanks for yesterday."

That was it. Short. Simple. Like nothing had changed.

So, she was still on board with the plan.

I exhaled sharply and ran a hand down my face. Damn. She made mean pancakes. But just as I was about to take a bite, my phone vibrated.

A notification.

Red Bull Club.

I frowned, unlocking my screen. It was a request for tonight.

I stared at the message.

9 PM. Someone had asked for a session with me.

I called Celeste. I already knew who it was.

"Pretty Cat wants another round with you tonight," she confirmed. "You in?"

I hesitated. I told her I would let her know that i was thinking about it before ending the call.

My thoughts drifted to my fake girlfriend. It wouldn't matter. The whole thing between us was fake. Right?

It's not like we were exclusive.

But then... why the hell did I feel so—

I am so stupid.

Here I was, thinking about June, the same girl who made it crystal fucking clear that she was using me. That she wanted her ex to come crawling back.

That all of this—me—was just a tool for her little game.

I am so fucking stupid.

And just like that, the anger I slept with last night came surging back. Full force.

The voices in my head, the ones that never shut the fuck up, were suddenly louder, feeding off my rage.

I looked at the pancakes.

Then I grabbed the plate and dumped them in the trash.

Fuck this.

I picked up my phone and called Celeste back.

"I'm in," I told her, my voice cold, detached.

Tonight, I was going to wreck her.

Even if she wasn't the one in my bed, I'd make sure I was the only thing in her mind.

I was going to fuck Pretty Cat like I was fucking June.

And when I was done, the only name she'd remember would be mine.

And that's why I loved the club.

There, I could vent.

There, I could lose myself.

There, I could fuck her out of my system.

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It didn't matter that June wasn't the one under me. It didn't matter that her silly ex was still living in her head, that she was still hoping he'd come crawling back.

None of that mattered here.

Because in that place, I could pretend.

I could imagine that it was her I was fucking. That it was her body pressed against mine. That it was her soft, breathless moans filling my ears, not some stranger's.

And most importantly—I could shut the voices up.

The ones that never stopped whispering, the ones that clawed at the back of my mind, growing louder every time I let my guard down.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I will be in control.

And tonight, I was going to fuck her out of my head.

I expected her to text me all day.

Expected her to change her mind.

To tell me this whole fake-dating bullshit was off, that she didn't need me anymore, that she and her ex had magically worked things out overnight.

I was waiting for it.

Waiting for that text. That call. That sign that she'd come to her senses and realized what a fucking mistake it was to get me involved.

And when my phone stayed silent, when no message came, no explanation, no regret—I hated it.

I hated the waiting.

Hated that a part of me wanted her to stick to the plan.

Hated that I cared even a little about what she would do next.

I wasn't supposed to care.

I wasn't supposed to give a fuck about her.

I was supposed to avoid her.

Hate her.

She had baited me into this. Used me as some fucking pawn in her twisted little revenge game. I should've said no. Should've ignored her when she begged like a desperate little fool for her piece of shit ex to take her back.

And yet, here I was.

Still in it.

Still agreeing to play along.

I cursed under my breath, running a hand through my hair in frustration. Why the fuck did I say yes?

I should've walked away.

Should've let her drown in her own mess.

But no—I had to be a fucking idiot.

And now, I was stuck.

Getting close to her is going to be dangerous.

Because she might remember.

But isn't that why I always hated her? Because she got to forget while I was the one stuck—stuck with the voices, the memories, the things that refused to stay buried?

Some things are meant to be left as they are—hidden, forgotten.

And yet, here I was, tangling with the one person who held the key to the past.

Night couldn't come fast enough.

By 9 PM, I was at the club—the only place I could escape my own head.

Celeste beamed when she saw me, her usual knowing smirk in place.

"Whatever you're giving that girl that keeps her coming back for more, I want some too," she teased, tossing me the key to the room.

I caught it without a word, my grip tightening around the cold metal.

I wasn't here to talk.

Tonight, I needed to forget.

I turned without answering, making my way through the dimly lit corridor. The bass of the music thrummed through the walls, a steady pulse that matched the storm brewing inside me. My jaw was tight, my body coiled, but this was why I came—to lose myself, to vent it all out.

To take control.

The key slid into the lock with a quiet click.

The room was just as I liked it—minimal lighting, dark walls, and a single bed in the center. A place where identities blurred and desires took over.

And she was already there.

Pretty Cat.

She sat on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, wearing nothing but a black lace bra and matching panties. The mask covered most of her face, but I could see the way her soft brown eyes flicked up at me, cautious yet inviting.

She wasn't her.

But she would be tonight.

I shut the door behind me, the final barrier sealing us inside, cutting out the rest of the world. No distractions. No reality.

Just this.

Just her.

Just the need to destroy and forget.

"You kept me waiting, Bad Wolf," she murmured, tilting her head as she dragged a finger along her thigh.

I exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders to loosen the tension gripping me.

"Not in the mood for games tonight, I want to forget everything." I said, my voice rougher than intended.

She smiled, slow and knowing. "Good. Me too."

She didn't flinch when I reached for her. Didn't hesitate when I pulled her into my lap.

I needed this.

Needed to lose myself in something, someone.

The moment she straddled my lap, I closed my eyes.

And I saw her.

Not Pretty Cat. June.

June, begging for another man.

June, lowering herself for that piece of shit Bart.

June, acting like he was the only one she could ever want.

My grip tightened on her waist, nails digging into her soft skin. She gasped, but it wasn't from pain—it was from how badly she wanted this. How badly she wanted me.

I'd make her forget.

Make her feel so wrecked, so used, that no one—especially not him—could ever satisfy her again.

With a rough motion, I flipped her onto her back, my body caging hers against the bed. My hands traced over her bare thighs, pushing them apart, claiming what wasn't mine but should have been.

"Eager tonight?" she purred, but I wasn't listening.

All I saw was June.

Her lips. Her moans. Her breath hitching when I slid my fingers against her soaked heat.

Her begging—not for Bart.

For me.

I didn't go slow. I didn't ease her into it. I took what I needed, what I craved, slamming into her with a force meant to erase any memory of him.

"You think of anyone else but me now?" I growled into her ear, thrusting harder, deeper.

She moaned beneath me, nails scratching down my back. But it wasn't enough.

I wanted to ruin her.

Wanted to punish her for wanting anyone but me.

My fingers curled around her throat, not tight enough to hurt—but enough to make her look at me.

"Say my name," I ordered.

She whimpered, back arching, but I wouldn't let up.

"Say it."

She gasped it out—"Bad Wolf."

Not my name.

Not his.

But tonight, it was enough.