Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 19: College Party

Justin's POV:

I'm at a stupid party, surrounded by a sweaty, drunken mass of bodies grinding against each other like mindless animals. The music is so loud, you can't even hear the damn lyrics—just a brain-numbing bass shaking the walls. The air reeks of cheap booze, sweat, and vomit, a sickening combination that makes my skin crawl.

This is definitely not my scene.

I like clubs, sure. I like booze. But college parties? They're a whole different kind of hell. Picture the worst downtown club—the ones packed with desperate bodies, deafening music, and watered-down drinks. Now triple it. That's a college party.

Even when I go clubbing, I stick to the VIP section—far away from unwanted human interaction, far from all the mindless touching. I hate being touched. Despise it. So why the hell am I here, drowning in everything I hate?

Simple. June.

My fake girlfriend thought it would be fun to drag me into this mess. When I told her to go alone, she pouted and threw out some bullshit about how that's not what a good boyfriend would do. Something about showing Bart exactly what he lost.

Like I give a shit about Bart.

That excuse wasn't enough to convince me. No, the real reason I agreed to this stupidity was because I didn't trust leaving her alone with him.

Who knows? Maybe they'd end up talking, maybe they'd even hook up—and I'd be the idiot standing in the middle of campus tomorrow, watching the world laugh at me for being her temporary plaything.

I don't trust that she's over him. Not yet.

**********

So yeah, here I was, standing in a damn corner, waiting for her.

June had run off, saying she was going to find something to "liven my mood." As if anything could make this dump of a party tolerable. The air was thick with sweat and alcohol, the bass rattled in my skull, and I was already pissed off.

And then there was her dress.

Tight. Short. Perfectly hugging her curves. It should've been a good thing, but it wasn't. Because I knew she didn't dress up for me.

No.

She did it for him.

That bastard Bart. And that knowledge was making my mood even worse than it already was. It shouldn't have bothered me, but it did. Fucking shit.

Today had been... tolerable, at least. I'd picked her up in my car—something that made her happy, not that I cared. She'd been carrying a large bag, and when I asked her what was inside, she'd casually said, clothes.

Liar.

She had fed her parents some bullshit story about a study session and a sleepover at a friend's place. Reality? She was sneaking off to this stupid, pointless party because, according to her, all the cheerleaders would be here, and as captain, she had to keep up appearances.

Did I tell you how much I hate it when she does this? When she bends over backward to fit into the mold people expect of her? The perfect queen bee. The flawless cheer captain. The golden girl.

I hate it.

But of course, I went along with it. We went through the usual routine—class together, lunch together, then back to my place so she could get ready for this damn party. Those so-called "sleepover clothes" were actually this outfit—the one that was currently making me want to punch something.

I had no idea how long she'd been gone, but when she finally came back to me, she had a bottle in hand. Three-quarters full, meaning she'd definitely started without me.

And her eyes?

They looked different.

Like she'd cried.

She'd reapplied her makeup, covering the evidence, but I saw it.

And that—that pissed me off more than anything else.

She swung another mouthful of the bottle, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim, and then—just as I was about to tell her to slow the fuck down—she staggered toward me.

Yep.

Drunk.

I could tell before she even reached me. The way she moved, the unfocused look in her eyes, the way she was barely holding herself together.

What I didn't expect—what threw me completely off guard—was for her to straddle me.

She sank onto my lap without hesitation, her thighs pressing against mine, the heat of her body seeping through my clothes. Both arms wrapped around my neck, the one still clutching the bottle dangerously loose in her grip. Her dress slid up, exposing even more of her smooth thighs, but my attention wasn't on that.

It was on her words.

"Am I that damaged?"

I stiffened, my hands instinctively going to her waist, not pushing her off, but steadying her before she tipped over. What the hell was she talking about?

The question punched through me, sharp and unexpected.

I took the bottle from her hand before she spilled it all over me, setting it aside as she slumped against me, her forehead brushing mine, half-expecting her to protest, but she didn't. Probably too caught up in whatever was happening inside that fucked-up head of hers.

"I... I saw them."

Her voice was a whisper, broken and drunkenly slurred, but I knew exactly who she meant.

Bart and that snake of a best friend.

My jaw clenched. I should've fucking known.

A muscle in my jaw ticked, but I stayed quiet.

"Why do I get the monsters all the time?"

Her voice was softer now, almost detached, as if she was sinking into a place I couldn't reach.

Then she said something that made my blood run cold.

"I thought he would help me escape the monster, but he's also a monster."

Something dark slithered through my chest at her words.

Who was she talking about? Bart? Someone else?

I didn't get the chance to ask.

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Because then she whispered, "I'll be good... just make me forget."

And before I could process what the hell that meant—before I could stop her—she crashed her lips against mine.

Rough.

Desperate.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer as she ground against me, making my body react instantly.

And fuck—

Did she just say make me forget?

That sounded too familiar.

She moved—grinding down on me, making me forget what the hell I was supposed to be thinking about. All thoughts fled my mind.

A strangled groan escaped my throat, my hands tightening on her hips.

Fuck thinking.

I was gone.

I grabbed the back of her neck, yanking her deeper into the kiss. If she wanted to forget, I'd fucking make her forget.