Fake Dating The Bad Boy Chapter 1: Ghost in the Backseat

Justin POV:

I don't belong here.

Not in this school. Not in this classroom. Not in this world filled with people who talk too much, laugh too loud, and think that GPA determines intelligence. They all follow the sa predictable routine—wake up, show up, and pretend their lives an sothing.

I watch them from my seat at the back of the class, hood up, arms crossed, drowning in the noise of their pointless conversations. I blend into the shadows, unnoticed but never unfelt. They know I'm here. Even if they don't look at , they feel my presence, like a storm waiting to break.

The teacher drones on, her voice an irritating hum in the background. I already know everything she's saying—read ahead weeks ago, aced every test without trying. But I sit here anyway, because attendance matters, and I don't feel like dealing with the hassle of being called out for skipping. Not today.

I glance at the clock. Five minutes until the end of class. Five minutes until I can disappear again.

People think I don't care about anything. Maybe they're right. I don't care about school, don't care about parties, don't care about fitting in. I don't care that the football team, with their overinflated egos, step aside when I walk past. I don't care that girls whisper about , their voices dripping with curiosity and sothing else—sothing that makes them bite their lips when they think I'm not looking.

I don't care about them.

I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out in front of , fingers tapping idly on the desk. My hoodie shields from wandering eyes, a barrier between and them. The less they know, the better.

A sharp buzz in my pocket. My phone. A ssage. Probably from soone who shouldn't have my number. I don't check it.

The teacher calls my na, her tone cautious, like she's afraid to provoke sothing lurking beneath my silence. I lift my gaze just enough to et hers. Her breath hitches. I don't answer. She moves on.

One minute left.

I love the idea of Justin having a hated obsession—his so-called enemy, June Matthews. That adds tension and intrigue. Here's a continuation of the Chapter with that included:

Today, she wasn't in class.

June Matthews.

The golden girl. The one everyone adored. The one who never shut up, never stopped smiling, never stopped existing so loudly it was impossible to ignore. Even when I wanted to. Especially when I wanted to.

She wasn't in her usual seat, three rows ahead of , twirling a pen between her fingers, flipping her hair just to remind everyone she was her—June Matthews, cheer captain, queen of fake kindness, and a living, breathing annoyance.

I bet she's off sowhere with Bart Andreason, her football-playing, oxygen-wasting boyfriend. Probably sneaking into so empty classroom to make out, because that's what people like them do. They don't think. They don't care. They just exist in their perfect little worlds, blind to everything outside their bubble.

Bart Andreason.

I feel my jaw clench at the na. The guy has everything handed to him—popularity, talent, respect. Even fear. People actually fear him. They shouldn't. Because if there's one person they should be afraid of, it's not the grinning, muscle-headed jock.

It's .

I shake my head, forcing my thoughts back. What do I care if June Matthews is skipping class to suck face with Bart? I don't. I shouldn't.

But for so reason, my hands tighten into fists.

The mont the bell rings, I'm gone. I move through the halls like a shadow, unseen but always noticed. People step out of my way without thinking, like it's instinct. Maybe it is.

Outside, the air is crisp, the sky a dull shade of gray. Perfect. I pull my hoodie lower, shove my hands into my pockets, and take my usual route out of school—past the side exit, where the caras don't reach, where the teachers don't bother looking.

Because Justin Black doesn't ask for permission. He doesn't follow the rules.

He disappears.

And that's exactly what I do.

The school disappears behind as I step onto the cracked pavent, the cold air biting at my skin. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, head down, hood up. The world around blurs—just background noise.

The sidewalk stretches ahead, empty, just how I like it. No one calls after . No one follows. They never do.

I live alone.

No mom waiting at the door, asking how my day was. No dad sitting at the table, pretending to care. No siblings running around, annoying the hell out of . Just , a half-empty fridge, and a place quiet enough to suffocate in.

And I prefer it that way.

I take the long way ho, cutting through backstreets and alleyways where no one looks twice at a guy dressed in black with shadows clinging to him like second skin. The streetlights flicker as I pass, the dull hum of the city filling the silence. A siren wails in the distance.

I reach my apartnt building—a worn-out complex where the elevator barely works and the walls are too thin. The kind of place where people mind their business, where no one asks questions. That's why I picked it.

Climbing the stairs, I pull out my keys and push the door open. The space inside is small—barely furnished, barely lived in. A couch, a bed, a desk covered in books I don't need to study. The kitchen? Useless. I survive on takeout and whatever I bother throwing into the microwave.

I drop my bag on the floor and sit on the couch, running a hand through my hair. The silence settles around , thick and unmoving.

So people hate being alone.

I don't.

It's better this way. No expectations. No disappointnts. No one to leave. No one to stay.

Still, for so reason, my mind drifts back to today.

To June Matthews' empty seat.

To the way my gut twisted when I realized she wasn't there.

I scowl at myself. Stupid. Who cares where she is? Probably off playing the perfect girlfriend to her perfect boyfriend.

I lean back, closing my eyes, willing my thoughts away.

Justin Black doesn't care.

He never does.

And if that's a lie, no one has to know.