Page 12 of Don't Watch Alone
Andy’s cool slips for just a second. “I haven’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
But his eyes dart, his stance shifts, and the party noise fades beneath the sound of my own pulse. This isn’t just awkward anymore. It’s about to get dangerous.
That’s when Tony fucking snaps.
The sound of his fist slamming into Andy’s face cuts through the noise of the party. Andy stumbles back, his hands flying to his nose. Now blood is dripping fast and dark down the front of his white shirt.
“You better stay the fuck away from my girl!” Tony shouts. “Don’t even fucking think about going near that store she works at. Hell, don’t even step foot in that damn mall!”
Derrick shoves through the crowd, trying to mediate. “Hey! Hey, man, that’s enough! Chill the fuck out!” He throws an arm across Tony’s chest and points toward Andy. “You need to go. Now.” His voice breaks.
Andy doesn’t say a word. He just stares at Tony, his hand is still cupped over his nose, blood is leaking between his fingers. But then his eyes shift to me.
And it isn’t anger. It isn’t shock or hurt or embarrassment. It’s something colder. A look that slips under my skin. Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s promising something. Not today. But eventually.
I push myself to get to Tony. I grab his hand, turning it over, examining his knuckles, that are already red and swelling. “Shit, are you okay? Did you break anything?”
He finally looks at me, and the rage in his face starts to fade, until I see a hint of something milder—concern, maybe, or guilt.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I just... couldn’t stand knowing he’s been watching you like that. He’s done now. He won’t be creeping around anymore.”
Relief hits me, but it crashes into a whole mess of other shit—fear, unease, that fucking stare Andy gave me. I should feelsafe. I should be grateful. And I am. I really am. But I’m also scared of what might come next.
“You’re my hero,” I say, and I kiss his hand, right over his busted knuckles.
The party doesn’t feel like a party anymore. It feels like the first move in something I don’t want to play.
Chapter seven
Blaiz
ThefluorescentglarefromElectric Avenue hits me square in the face the moment I step through the door, wiping away the rest of the mall like static on a broken screen. At the register, Mary’s already knee-deep in conversation with a customer, her fingers flying across the keys while her mouth moves even faster. I toss her a quick grin as I pass, appreciating the speed she works—but I don’t stop. I head straight for the back room and clock in.
The time clock punches out that loud click, and a strange surge of calm washes over me—like I’ve stepped out of my real life and into something easier, where the rules are simple, where time ticks forward and all I have to do is keep up.
But the moment I step back onto the sales floor, that peace unravelsunder the harsh brightness of the storefront lights. Mary’s finished with her customer and leans over the counter, a crooked smirk tugging at her mouth.
“So,” she says, stretching the word like gum, “how was the party last night?”
I laugh, leaning against the cluttered earring display, half the pieces missing their backings or price tags. “It was a party, alright. But oh my god, I’ve got something to tell you.”
Her eyes light up like she’s a kid waiting for a ghost story.
“You remember that guy that keeps coming in here? Watching me?”
“Yes,” she blurts. “The creepy fucker. The one that pretends to care about the watches, but he never actually looks at them.”
“Exactly,” I say, and I can’t stop the grin from spreading. “Well, guess who showed up at the party last night? That same asshole. And guess who else was there? Tony. One punch and he knocked the guy on his ass.”
Mary’s jaw drops. “Shit. For real? Go Tony! That’s fucking radical.” She laughs so hard she snorts, then covers her mouth. “Told you that guy was bad news. Creepy son of a bitch. Good fucking riddance.”
We’re still laughing when a couple wanders in, wide-eyed and blinking against the chaos of color and glitter. Instinct kicks in. We straighten up fast, pretending we’re not just gossiping like teenagers at a sleepover.
“Greg wants us to redo the far corner,” Mary mutters, nodding toward the racks where clothes are barely clinging to hangers. “It’s a war zone.”
I follow her gaze and sigh. Folding clothes. Great. The eternal punishment.
“Awesome,” I mutter, peeling myself off the counter. “Let’s just get it over with.”
