Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 85: Something Shaddy

Justin’s POV:

I didn’t go far.

Just stepped out of the janitor closet, trying to put space between me and the danger I almost became.

And boom—there he was.

Him.

A familiar face I’d only seen in photos.

Photos of him and June—at the bar, smiling like they belonged in each other’s worlds. Him with his hand on the small of her back, leading her to his car. Him at his apartment door, opening it for her like he was some safe fucking haven.

Nate.

What the fuck was he doing here?

Rico told me he was a psychiatrist. Lived in the next town. Nothing to worry about, just some guy June knew after everything went sideways.

But now?

Now he was standing in the hallway with a staff badge from our university hanging around his neck like a loaded weapon.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Before I could even decide whether to confront or gut him, something bumped into my back.

June.

Her head popped out from behind my shoulder like a guilty little rabbit and, yeah, the situation looked bad. Real bad. Two people stepping out of a janitor closet together? Not subtle.

But I didn’t care.

Let him see it.

Let him wonder.

Because if he thought he could just slither his way back into June’s life—play the nice guy, the savior, the "therapist" or whatever bullshit he was selling—he needed a hard wake-up call.

And I was more than happy to deliver.

His eyes widened like he’d just seen a ghost. "Ah... June. Didn’t know you were a student here."

Liar.

I’ve been around liars all my life—hell, I was raised by them, trained by them. You learn to hear it. Feel it in your bones.

And this guy?

He stank of it.

He wasn’t just surprised.

He was acting surprised.

There was something off about him. I just couldn’t pin it down yet. But my gut knew. It knew.

Something about him didn’t sit right. Too polished. Too perfect. Too calculated.

There was something off. Something I couldn’t pin down yet.

Some people might say it was jealousy talking.

And yeah, maybe I wanted to knock the smug off his face and loosen a few teeth while I was at it—for touching June, for smiling at her, for thinking he could. But the guy was a staff member, and I wasn’t about to get expelled and leave June alone with this fucker.

If anything shady was going on—and my gut screamed that it was—then all the more reason to stay close.

Protect her.

Even if she didn’t know she needed protecting.

So I did the next best thing.

I turned to her, took her hand, and laced our fingers together. Let him see it.

Let him know.

She’s mine.

And no, I didn’t give a single fuck if it made me look like a possessive bastard.

I was a possessive bastard.

"Come on, love," I said, low and deliberate. "You’ve still got to prepare for the exams."

Her hand twitched in mine. She didn’t pull away.

Nate blinked. "Oh. You two are... together?"

What, was he blind? Two people tumble out of a janitor closet holding hands and he needed a full diagram?

"Isn’t it obvious?" I shot back with a sarcastic smirk.

June looked like she wanted to dig a hole through the floor and disappear. Her face was somewhere between horror and mortification. Honestly? Kinda cute.

Nate gave us both this weird, awkward smile. "Right. Cool. Um. Good luck... with the studying. Both of you."

Then he left.

And I didn’t let go of her hand.

Not yet.

Because I knew her. I knew the exact moment when the fog would clear, and she’d snap out of the shock and whip her sass back on like armor.

Three...

Two...

One—

"You did not just boyfriend me in front of Nate," she hissed, voice sharp and furious.

There it is.

I almost laughed.

What did she expect?

She was the one who took my arm earlier before class started, acting like we were still together, like nothing ever changed. Still playing house. Still pretending.

She started it.

I just finished it.

June’s POV:

"You did not just boyfriend me in front of Nate," I snapped, yanking my hand away like it was coated in acid.

Justin didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t anything.

Just stood there with that smug, panty-melting smirk that made me want to kick him in the teeth and kiss him stupid—all at once.

God, I hated him.

No.

Worse.

I hated that I didn’t hate him.

Justin looked down at our now-separated hands, like I’d just ripped the wings off a dove.

"Oh, I’m sorry," he said, all fake politeness and smirking sarcasm. "Did I ruin your little romantic tension reunion with Dr. Douchebag?"

I stopped walking. Planted my feet.

"Don’t—don’t—call him that. He was just being civil."

"Civil?" Justin barked a laugh. "Civil, my ass. He looked like he’d swallowed a cactus when he saw you with me. He’s hiding something."

"Oh, my God, are you serious right now?" I hissed, voice sharp. "You’re literally the last person who gets to lecture me about secrets."

That shut him up for a millisecond.

Just a millisecond.

Then he stepped closer, too close again, like he was incapable of respecting anything with the word boundary.

"Tell me something, June," he said, voice low and bitter, "Did you let him touch you the way I did?"

I slapped him.

Right across the face.

The sound cracked in the empty hallway like a gunshot, echoing off the tile, bouncing off my self-control and shattering it into a million little shards.

His jaw flexed.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t retaliate.

Didn’t apologize, either.

Of course he didn’t.

Because this was Justin. The hurricane I should’ve evacuated from months ago, the red flag in leather and chaos and sin.

"I’m not yours," I whispered. Not shouted. Not screamed. Whispered. Because that hurt more. "You don’t get to act like I belong to you when you were the one who destroyed everything."

He leaned in again, jaw tight, breath hot with fury and something else—something darker.

"You still feel like mine," he said.

My heart skipped. Then tried to jump off a cliff.

"No," I snapped. "What I feel is nauseous. From your ego."

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"You keep saying you hate me," he murmured, stepping even closer—because of course he did— "but you still got that look in your eye. The one you had when you were under me."

I shoved him.

Hard. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

He didn’t move. Of course he didn’t. The man was made of concrete arrogance and sexual tension.

"You are such a bastard," I seethed.

"Yeah," he said. "But I’m your bastard, remember?"

"You’re unbelievable," I hissed, whirling around to storm off, but of course he followed—like a shadow. A smug, sexy, pain-in-the-ass shadow.

"Oh, come on, June. You didn’t see his face? It was priceless."

"I don’t care about his face, Justin! I care that you dragged me into your testosterone pissing match like I’m some kind of—some kind of—trophy!"

"You mean girlfriend?"

My brain short-circuited. My legs actually stopped moving. The nerve of this man.

"I am not your girlfriend!" I spun on him. "We are not together. We are not a couple. We are not anything, okay?"

"Then stop acting like we are."

Oh.

Oh, no he didn’t.

My jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He stepped in closer, and I swear the hallway shrank three sizes. "You were the one who clung to me like a koala before the last lecture. You were the one who kissed me at the party and let me fuck you in my car. And you were the one who moaned my name last week like it was your personal prayer."

Heat flushed up my neck so fast I almost blacked out.

"I—I hate you."

"Liar."

His voice was low.

Smug.

Dangerous.

And way too close.

I shoved at his chest. "I’m not your possession, Justin. I’m not some damsel you can just throw over your shoulder and claim like it’s the freaking medieval era."

He raised a brow, amused. "Did you want me to throw you over my shoulder? Because I could."

"Don’t you dare—"

Before I could finish, he leaned in, lips brushing so close to mine it short-circuited every remaining brain cell I had left.

"I meant what I said in that closet," he murmured, voice like sin soaked in gasoline. "You tell me you want me... and I’ll make you forget everything."

I stared at him, trembling, furious, dangerously tempted.

"No," I said, breathless.

"Yes," he said, certain.

The worst part?

He was right.

Because deep down, in that stupid, hormonal, masochistic part of me, I did want him. Still. Always.

And that made me want to scream.

So I did the only thing that made sense.

I shoved him again, harder this time, turned on my heel, and marched off like my life depended on it.

Which it did.

Because if I stayed?

I wouldn’t be able to say no a second time.

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