Page 18 of Don't Watch Alone
“Fine. I’ll come in,” I say with a sigh, already kicking myself for caving in. “But I’ve got errands to run, so it will be a bit.”
“Just get here as soon as you can.”
I hang up, roll my eyes, and stare at the ceiling for a long good minute. I should quit. I think this every damn day. Maybe I mean it this time.
I drag myself out of bed, I trip on the tangled sheets and curse under my breath. The cold floor nips at my feet as I walk to the bathroom. Just as I pass the front door, a heavy thump echoes from the other side. It’s muffled but clear. I stop dead in my tracks. I wait. Nothing. After a few seconds, I peek through the peephole—just the hallway, empty and still. I shrug it off. Probably someone being an asshole or dropping something on their way past my door.
I make my way to the bathroom. I brush my teeth, gargle, and stare at myself in the mirror. I look like hell. Whatever. I apply some makeup, just to hide the most noticeable flaws, and pull on jeans and a sweater that don’t require much thought. Greg doesn’t deserve anythingmore.
When I open the door, something small and pale catches my eye. A piece of paper, folded tight, taped dead center to the painted door. I glance down the hall—still empty. No sound, no shadows, just the quiet noise of a weekday morning. I rip the note off and shove it in my pocket without reading it, not willing to stand out here like bait.
Once I’m in my car, I start the engine and sit there, letting the car warm up. I think of the note, so I unfold it. The handwriting is too neat. Too careful.
Blaiz, I have been watching you. I just want to tell you that you are beautiful. Love, your secret admirer.
It feels like a blow to the chest. Not sweet. Not flattering. Just fucked up. My breath catches in my throat and I grip the paper tighter than I mean to. A secret admirer? Bullshit. This isn’t some high school note passed between friends. This is someone watching me. Someone close enough to know where I live. Someone who left thiswhile I slept.
And then it clicks. Andy. That freak said something almost like that word for word to me last night. I thought that would be the end of it. Apparently not. Apparently, he’s still lurking.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, my voice sharp in the closed air of the car. He’s watching me. This note proves it.
My fingers tremble, the heat from the vents doing nothing to calm the chill crawling up my spine. So now I have to go in, deal with Greg’s whining, fake a smile for customers, and all the while wonder if Andy’s going to show up again.
My day off is well and truly fucked.
***
I step into Electric Avenue, the familiar sound of the fluorescent lights above doing nothing to improve my mood. Greg doesn’t waste a second.
“Blaiz, I’m gonna need you to stay and close tonight,” he says, already halfway to his office, his voice trailing like it can’t be bothered tostick around. “Haven’t heard from Mary, and she’s all I had scheduled. We really need to hire more people. I’ll be in my office going through applications if you need me.”
Just like that, he vanishes.
I already know this shift’s going to be shit. If I’m lucky, maybe he’ll head home early. At least the floor looks dead, which gives me a little hope.
I wander over to a table stacked with shirts and start straightening them, bright fabrics practically glowing under the overhead lights. That’s when a couple of teenagers come bouncing in, their laughter a little too loud for the empty store.
I walk over to them, slipping into customer service mode. “Need help finding anything?”
“I’m looking for a bitchin’ outfit,” one of the girls says, grinning as she elbows her friend. “Bright colors. Shoulder pads are a must.”
A grin plays on my lips. “Oh, I’ve got a gnarly one for you.”
This is the part of the job I actually enjoy. I lead them to a mannequin—a neonpink blazer with shoulder pads that could double as armor, a blazing yellow crop top, and acid-wash jeans hugged by a thick studded belt.
The girl gasps. “This is totally radical. I’ll take it.”
I head over to the racks to grab the pieces, but the sizes are off. Not even close to hers. My gut drops, but then I remember—we dressed that mannequin using the last of the size runs. I spin back toward it.
“I’ll undress the mannequin and sell you these,” I say, already moving.
She hesitates. “I don’t want to make you go through all that.”
“It’s no trouble. It’s time this display got a new look, anyway.”
I start unbuttoning the blazer, folding each item carefully, making sure the shoulders don’t cave in. That’s when someone else enters and I glance up to see Janice walking in. I feel a surge of excitement—she’s supposed to tell me how her date went.
“I’ll be right with you, Janice,” I call, giving her a wave. She smiles, a little awkward, and waits by the counter.
