Fake Dating The Bad Boy-Chapter 74: Therapy or Justin?

June’s POV

I woke up drowning.

Not in water. Not in blood.

In visions.

The men in white coats had reached for me again—gloved hands, the smell of antiseptic and ammonia choking me. My adopted father was calling me sweetly, the way he used to when he wanted to do something horrible. Then Justin appeared.

Only it wasn’t him anymore. His face peeled, stretched, turned—mutated. His eyes were obsidian pits, and from his mouth spilled laughter that didn’t belong to him. That laughter belonged to the gods of nightmare.

And then, as suddenly as it began, they let go.

I shot up in bed, gasping. My sheets were tangled around my legs like restraints. The clock on the nightstand read 12:02 a.m. Midnight.

I needed a fucking drink.

They had to have a bar somewhere in this damn town. Somewhere dark, loud, and mindless. Somewhere the voices wouldn’t follow.

But they always did.

Right on cue, the whispers started up like an old engine, sputtering into full throttle. Opinions, reminders, threats. Old friends.

You’re awake. We missed you.

Go back to sleep, June. We weren’t done.

You know what you need. You know who you want.

"Gods," I muttered, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eyes. "What does it take to get rid of you?"

I shoved my legs off the bed and grabbed the boots I’d cleaned earlier. My fingers trembled as I laced them up. I pulled on the jeans and tank top I’d bought from a consignment shop near the bus depot, threw on a leather jacket I wasn’t sure was even mine, and locked the door behind me.

The reception guy was still there, glued to his phone. Same position, same glow on his face, same dead-eyed boredom. I wondered briefly what the hell he found so interesting, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t care. I walked out.

The night was heavy with heat, the kind that clung to your skin like sweat and sin. Finding a bar didn’t take long. This place had its secrets, and liquor was one of the louder ones.

It was called The Hollow, with flickering neon and a cracked sign. The bass inside thrummed like a heartbeat. I walked in.

The place was dim, all deep reds and shadowed corners. Bodies pressed close at the bar and in booths, drinks sloshing, music pulsing. I slid onto a stool, ordered something strong and amber, and let the first sip burn a path to temporary silence.

He slid onto the stool next to mine maybe fifteen minutes later.

Dark hair, sharp jawline, easy smile. The kind of guy who belonged in a magazine ad for cologne that smelled like danger and well-paid lies.

"You always drink like the world’s ending, or is tonight special?" he asked, voice low, warm, and without judgment.

I gave him a sideways glance. "You always open with cliché lines, or are you just out of practice?"

That made him laugh. It was a good sound. Not too polished. Not too eager. It didn’t hurt to hear it.

"I’m Nate," he said, lifting his glass in a mock toast.

"June."

We clinked. Drank. Slipped into the kind of conversation where flirting came easy. He was witty. Sharp. Relaxed. The kind of guy who let you talk without pulling.

But I wasn’t here to talk. I was here to forget.

As the alcohol soaked into my bloodstream and the edges of the world blurred just enough, my body started doing what it always did—scanning. Measuring.

Could he fuck like Justin?

Could he shut the voices up the same way?

I looked at Nate’s hands. Strong, steady. Confident. Not grabby. Not scared either.

I thought of Justin. The way he used to touch me like I was the only real thing in the world. Before he let the voices win. Before he became something else. Something black and hollow-eyed.

I thought of Bad Wolf, the guy from that members-only club. Dangerous, unhinged—but at least he’d given me silence for a few hours. That was more than most men ever could.

Nate was different. Clean in a way that made me suspicious.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t sizing him up.

"Something on your mind?" he asked, catching me staring at him over the rim of my glass.

"I was wondering if you’re good in bed," I said, blunt from the whiskey. "Or just pretty."

He raised an eyebrow, smiling slowly. "That’s... direct."

"I don’t have time for subtle."

"I can respect that." He leaned a little closer. "I’m told I’m decent. Why? Looking for a distraction?"

I shrugged, playing cool, but my heart was pounding harder than the bass.

"I’m looking for silence," I said before I could stop myself.

The words slipped out like blood from a wound.

Nate’s smile faded slightly, his gaze sharpening. He didn’t flinch, didn’t mock. Just watched me.

"That hard to find?" he asked, voice softer now. Realer.

I didn’t answer. I reached for my drink again, only to find it gone. Empty. Just like me.

"You know," he said, studying me with a look that didn’t feel predatory, "sometimes silence comes from the right kind of talking."

I laughed, a rough, broken sound. "You sound like a therapist."

"Funny you say that." He pulled out a business card and slid it across the bar toward me.

"Nate Caldwell, Licensed Therapist," it read.

I blinked. "You’re kidding."

"Nope."

"And you’re in this bar because...?"

"Because therapists have nightmares too," he said. "And sometimes whiskey helps."

I stared at him. For too long. My vision swam slightly.

"Don’t shrink me, Caldwell."

"Wouldn’t dream of it," he said. Then added, gently, "Unless you wanted me to."

"Are you flirting with me or trying to fix me?"

"Why not both?" he said, grinning again.

I almost smiled back.

******

We drank more.

He talked, but not too much. Laughed at my sarcasm, matched my heat. Didn’t flinch when I said things that would’ve made most men uncomfortable. He watched me like I was a puzzle he wasn’t trying to solve, just... understand.

And I didn’t hate that.

We leaned in closer. Our knees brushed. My shoulder grazed his when I laughed at one of his dry jokes. He smelled like sandalwood and soap and something grounded. He asked questions I didn’t expect. Not the usual Where are you from? or What do you do? But the kind of questions that slid under the skin without breaking it.

Like:

"When did you first realize you didn’t trust quiet?"

"Do you always drink to mute things, or just on Thursdays?"

And I deflected, danced around the real answers, until the liquor started to melt the walls and something inside me cracked.

I laughed a little too hard. Let it fall into something brittle. My eyes burned.

"I just want them to shut up," I murmured, not meaning to say it out loud. "I just want one night where the voices don’t scream. Where I’m not drowning in memories that don’t belong to me anymore."

Nate turned his body fully toward me now. No smirk. No lean. Just... presence.

"What kind of voices?" he asked quietly.

I flinched, pulled back. "Not that kind of night, Caldwell."

But it was already out there. Floating between us like smoke.

I wasn’t supposed to say that. Not yet. Not to him.

Nate didn’t press. Instead, he laid his hand flat on the bar. Not reaching for me. Just there. Still. Steady. Solid.

"I’m not trying to fix you," he said, as if he could hear the protest I hadn’t said. "But I can listen."

My body buzzed. Not just from the alcohol, but from him.

And from the need.

The desperate, gnawing need.

Maybe it was his calm. Or the fact that he hadn’t tried to save me. Maybe it was the warmth of his gaze, the offer of silence in a different way.

Or maybe I just needed to be touched before I cracked wide open.

I reached for his hand, slid my fingers between his, and whispered, "Take me home."

His place was minimalist and warm — art on the walls, a record player in the corner, books everywhere. No signs of chaos. No demons in the dark. Just soft lighting and clean lines and the smell of cedar.

I half expected him to pour me water. He didn’t. He just kissed me.

Slow at first, then harder.

I let him. Let it all happen — our jackets dropping to the floor, our bodies pressing into the walls, the heat climbing with every breath. I wanted noise. Heat. Friction. Something loud enough to drown it all.

He touched me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just a body or a fix.

And that made it worse.

Because as he undressed me, piece by piece, with a reverence I didn’t recognize, the voices didn’t fade.

They watched. They whispered.

This isn’t Justin. He’s not dark enough. Not broken enough. He doesn’t know your scars. He won’t make you disappear.

I clawed at Nate’s back. Bit his lip. Pulled him into me like maybe, if I did it hard enough, I’d lose myself the way I used to with Justin.

But it didn’t happen.

Even as we moved together, skin against skin, breath ragged, bodies frantic — the silence never came.

I was still there.

Too present.

Too conscious.

Too... sober in my own head.

When it ended, I stared at the ceiling. Naked. Sweating. Empty.

Nate curled next to me, his hand tracing soft circles along my hip.

"You okay?" he asked gently.

I didn’t answer right away. My throat was tight.

"Usually," I whispered, "this helps."

He didn’t say anything. Just waited.

"It didn’t," I added, quieter.

And there was no judgment in his eyes. No shame. Just that stillness again. That quiet concern that wrapped around me like a blanket instead of a chain.

"Sometimes," he said, "what used to help... stops helping. That doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means your body’s asking for something different now."

I rolled onto my side, facing away from him.

"I don’t want something different. I want the voices gone."

"I know," he murmured. "I can help with that. Not as a fix. But as a guide. If you let me."

I closed my eyes.

Didn’t respond.

Couldn’t.

The ache wasn’t between my legs — it was in my chest. A slow, spreading burn of grief for a part of me I couldn’t kill.

But Nate didn’t push. He just stayed there. Breathing. Solid.

And for once, the voices didn’t yell.

They just... whispered.