Fake Dating The Bad Boy

Justin

I knew today was going to be hell the second she walked in.

June Matthews. Late. Again.

She struts into the classroom twenty minutes past the bell, her blonde ponytail swinging, her lips slightly smudged—because of course, she was off somewhere making out with him. Bart Andreason.

My jaw tightens. Typical.

She doesn't even look guilty. She just slides into her seat like she owns the place, flashing a smile at the teacher, who barely even scolds her before marking her present. No consequences. Because girls like her never face consequences.

I would've ignored her. I wanted to ignore her. But then the teacher just had to ruin my day.

"Alright, class, for this assignment, you'll be working in pairs."

I already hate this.

Names start getting called, and I keep my head down, silently daring the universe to test me.

Then I hear it.

"June and Justin."

I go still.

There's a beat of silence. Then a loud, exaggerated groan.

"Wait, what? No way," June protests, flipping her hair as she whirls toward the teacher. "Can I switch? Literally anyone else would be—"

"No," the teacher interrupts, adjusting her glasses. "You two will work together."

I smirk, just a little. Not because I want to work with her, but because it's satisfying to watch June Matthews not get her way for once.

She slumps back in her chair with a dramatic sigh, muttering, "This is the worst day of my life."

Yeah. Try being me.

Later – The Library

I hate waiting.

I hate it even more when I'm waiting for her.

I sit at a back table in the library, fingers tapping against the wood, staring at the clock as the minutes tick by.

She's late.

Again.

And I already know why.

When June finally arrives, she looks the same as she did this morning—too perfect, too put-together, like she wasn't rushing to get here. Which means she wasn't. She was probably with Bart. Again.

I exhale sharply, forcing my irritation down. "You're late."

She plops into the seat across from me, looking completely unbothered. "Relax. I'm here now."

I clench my jaw. "Yeah, well, you could've saved us both some time by telling the teacher you weren't going to do the work."

She frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," I say, flipping open my notebook, "that I don't need your help. Just give me your full name, registration number, and sign the assignment when I'm done. That way, you can go back to whatever important things you have to do."

I expect her to agree. Maybe even thank me. But instead, she leans forward, resting her arms on the table.

"That's cute," she says. "But I'm not dumb. I'm doing my part."

I stare at her. "You are dumb if you think I need your help."

She rolls her eyes. "You can act all broody and mysterious if you want, but I'm not letting you do everything while my name just sits there. I actually care about my grades."

I resist the urge to groan. Of course, she cares. She's one of those students who probably enjoys projects.

I rub my temple. "Fine. Whatever. Let's just divide the work so we can—"

"Oh, shoot," she interrupts, checking the time on her smartwatch. "I forgot, I have cheer practice."

I freeze.

"What."

She stands up, already gathering her things. "We'll figure out another time later."

My fingers curl into fists. "You're joking."

"Nope," she says, popping the "p" as she slings her bag over her shoulder.

I grit my teeth. Unbelievable. I knew she wasn't serious about this.

She reaches for her phone, then suddenly pauses. Her eyes flicker to something on the table.

My phone.

Before I can react, she grabs it.

My body tenses. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

She clicks it open. No password.

I don't need one. I live alone. No one ever touches my stuff. No one ever has a reason to.

June's eyes widen slightly, surprised. But instead of commenting on it, she just types something in.

She calls her own number from my phone, then hands it back, looking way too pleased with herself.

I snatch it back the second she's done. "Don't touch my phone."

She smirks. "Relax. I just put my number in. Now we can actually schedule a time instead of you brooding in silence."

I want to throw my phone at the wall.

"There. Now you have my number, and I have yours. You're welcome."

Then, without another word, she turns and walks away.

I watch her go, my jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

June Matthews is the single most frustrating person I have ever met.

I look down at my phone, at the new contact she just added.

June Matthews.

I exhale through my nose, shoving my phone in my pocket.

I need to punch something.

I need to get out of here.

The second June Matthews disappears through the library doors, I push back my chair with so much force that it scrapes loudly against the floor. The librarian glares, but I don't care. My pulse is hammering in my skull, my fingers twitching with the need to hit something, break something—anything.

I storm out of the library, my steps hard and fast, barely registering the people I pass. They move out of my way instinctively. They always do.

I don't stop walking. I don't slow down.

My breathing is shallow, my muscles coiled so tightly I feel like I might snap.

She really took my phone. She really walked in here late, wasted my time, refused to let me handle the project, then left because she had something more important to do.

I should've seen it coming. I should've known she'd piss me off.

But I wasn't prepared for this—this feeling clawing inside my chest, burning through my veins, making my fingers curl into fists.

I need to do something.

I need to blow off steam.

I take a sharp turn, heading toward the one place I always go when I feel like this. The one place no one ever follows.

My heart is pounding now, adrenaline coursing through my limbs.