Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 43: Locked Out

June – POV

I knew he’d make it last longer.

He always did when I angered him.

When I cried too soon. When I didn’t moan the way he liked. When my eyes stayed shut, or worse, when they didn’t.

So I lay there.

Still.

Counting the seconds in my head like it might make it go faster. Like if I hit a certain number, it would end.

But it didn’t.

Not for a long time.

By the time he groaned and stilled, the nausea had crept all the way up my throat. I turned my face into the pillow so I wouldn’t scream.

When he left, I didn’t move.

Not right away.

I stared at the ceiling, the slow whir of the fan, the shadow it cast like a blade spinning round and round. My arms were heavy. My legs felt like they didn’t belong to me.

I peeled myself off the bed.

My skin felt wrong—crawling. Every inch of it coated in filth I couldn’t name.

I walked to the bathroom, legs stiff like I was made of glass.

This time I didn’t stand in the shower.

This time I filled the bathtub.

Made sure the water was scalding. So hot it bit through my skin and turned it red.

I slid in anyway.

Let it hurt.

Because it meant feeling something else—something other than the memory of his hands on me. Other than the echo of his breath against my neck. His voice. His weight.

I scrubbed.

Hard.

Again and again until my skin burned and peeled under my fingernails. Until the water was cloudy from the soap and the blood and the shame.

But I still didn’t feel clean.

No matter how hot the water was.

No matter how many layers I shed.

I could still feel him.

Inside me.

All over me.

And worse... inside my head.

I needed out.

Out of this house. Out of my skin. Out of this life.

And if I couldn’t escape it completely, maybe I could at least forget for a while. Just a few hours.

The Red Wolf Club.

Bad Wolf.

He always made me forget.

Not with words. Never with comfort. But with the kind of rough, reckless distraction that carved everything else out of me.

But first—I had to survive dinner.

The table always felt like a stage. A place where he played the role of "Dad" too well, too charming. A fork in one hand, a knife in the other, and the devil behind his smile. My mother sitting at the end of the table pretending not to notice the bruises that didn’t match her décor.

I forced myself to eat.

Every bite tasted like ash, like poison, but I swallowed it down. I didn’t speak. I didn’t look at him. Not even when his knee touched mine under the table and I flinched so hard my fork clattered to the plate.

His chuckle was low.

Pleased.

He thinks he’s still in control.

But I had a plan.

I needed an excuse—anything that would let me sleep somewhere else tonight. Because if I stayed here... if he came to my room again... I didn’t think I could survive it this time.

No, I knew I wouldn’t.

I pushed the food around my plate, voice soft. Calculated. "I’ve got a project due tomorrow. Late group session at Carla’s. We’re pulling an all-nighter."

I didn’t wait for permission.

I stood. Took my half-full plate to the sink and dumped the food in the trash. I could feel his eyes on my back. I could feel him thinking. Weighing whether he’d allow it or remind me who was in charge.

But for once, he didn’t say anything.

Just hummed like he didn’t believe me, but didn’t care enough to stop me.

Maybe he thought I’d come back after. Maybe he thought he had all the time in the world.

But I was already halfway out the door.

Already texting the Club for Bad Wolf.

Already begging silently: Please be there. Please ruin me enough to make me forget.

They never argued when it came to studies.

Not when the Matthews name was on the line.

Reputation was everything to them—our house was spotless, our smiles practiced, and our secrets buried beneath layers of polished lies.

So when I said I was pulling an all-nighter for a project, they didn’t question it.

Of course they didn’t.

The Matthews daughter was brilliant. Responsible.

What kind of perfect student didn’t work late to maintain her GPA?

They didn’t ask where I was really going.

They didn’t ask what kind of project I had.

They didn’t even look up when I grabbed my bag and walked out the door.

Not a single "be safe."

Not a "text me when you get there."

Not even a "don’t be out too late."

And just like that, I was gone.

Out the door.

Down the street.

Leaving my perfect little prison behind me.

The cool air bit at my skin like judgment, but I didn’t care.

I was already texting the only person who could help me forget.

I reached the club with my hoodie pulled low and my black mask snug over my face. Anonymity was the rule here—no names, no questions, no judgments. Just bodies, shadows, release.

The music hit me like a wall the moment I stepped into the club—heavy bass vibrating in my ribs, strobe lights painting sharp slices of color across the crowd.

I kept my hoodie pulled low over my forehead, the black cotton masking my shape, and my face hidden beneath a plain black mask. Nothing flashy. No glitter. No attention. Just another shadow in the sea of lost souls. That’s all I needed to be. That’s all I ever wanted to be.

Anonymous.

Forgettable.

Safe.

I moved through the crowd like smoke—silent, slipping between bodies, my eyes scanning for one person. The only one who could quiet the screaming in my head.

Bad Wolf.

But he wasn’t in.

Bad Wolf wasn’t here.

They said they’d messaged him. Called him.

But nothing. No response. No red receipts. No ghost of his usual arrival.

Just like that, the floor seemed to tilt under me.No Bad Wolf tonight.

So, it was official: no Bad Wolf tonight.

I felt the panic ripple through me before I could stop it. I wasn’t supposed to need him. I wasn’t supposed to rely on anyone. But tonight, I’d come here for one reason—to forget. To lose myself in the way he always made everything else disappear.He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t gentle. But he was distraction. And sometimes distraction was the only way I could survive.

I drank instead.

I staggered back to the bar. Ordered something strong. Didn’t ask what it was.

It didn’t matter.

Shot after shot, hoping to drown the filth crawling on my skin, the ache lodged in my chest like a splinter of bone.

But the liquor only burned. It didn’t numb.

Didn’t make me forget.

Didn’t make me clean.

I didn’t remember walking out. Didn’t remember pushing through the doors, my hood still pulled up like armor. All I knew was that suddenly I was outside in the cold, the night air sharp in my lungs, my feet moving with a mind of their own.

I walked. And walked.

Past the empty streets. The closed stores. The neon buzz of the city that never cared if you lived or died.

I didn’t know where I was going.

I didn’t want to know.

But my body did.

Nowhere in mind—just one foot in front of the other, hoodie drawn tight, the city’s night air breathing fog over my skin.

At some point, my feet must’ve made the choice for me.

Because when I looked up...

I was standing in front of Justin’s building.

Justin.

Why didn’t I think of him before?

He always made things...quieter. Even when we didn’t talk. Just being around him steadied me. Like I wasn’t unraveling entirely.

Justin, with his guarded eyes and bruised soul. The only person who saw through my silence. Who didn’t flinch when I didn’t speak. Who didn’t ask questions I wasn’t ready to answer. Justin, who let me be soft when the world demanded I be steel.

I rushed up the stairs, heart hammering in some strange mix of hope and panic.

I reached his door.

Locked.

I knocked. Waited.

No answer.

I knocked again. Harder.

Still nothing.

I rested my forehead against the door, my hand curled into a useless fist, teeth clenching to keep in the sob threatening to tear from me.

"Justin..." I whispered. "Please... I can’t go back tonight."

But silence answered. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

Not even the creak of floorboards. Not a single breath behind that door.

He wasn’t home.

Or worse... he was and didn’t want to be found.

And that’s when I broke.

The sob hit me before I could stop it, sharp and violent. I crumpled to my knees at his door, my hands pressed to the wood like prayer. My forehead dropped against it. The tears came hot and fast, slipping past the mask still clinging to my face.

I didn’t care who saw me now.

Not the cameras in the hall.

Not the neighbors.

Not even the universe.

I just wanted him.

"Please," I choked. "Please open the door..."

My voice was raw, hoarse, ugly.

But there was no answer.

Only silence. Thick and suffocating.

I curled into myself right there on the cold hallway floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. My mask was soaked. My chest hurt with every breath. I wanted to scream, to rip my skin off, to scrape his touch from my flesh until nothing was left but bone.

The bath hadn’t worked.

The drinks hadn’t worked.

Bad Wolf hadn’t come.

And now Justin wasn’t here either.

I was alone.

Again.

And I hated it.

I hated how I still hoped he’d open that door. That maybe he’d pull me in without asking questions, just like he always did. That maybe—for once—someone would just know that I needed saving without me having to say a goddamn word.

But the door stayed shut.

And I stayed broken on the floor, drowning in the one thing I could never outrun.

Memory.