Page 6 of Don't Watch Alone
“Aren’t those so bitchin’?” Mary’s voice cuts through the music, and I find her already partially into one of the jumpsuits, her face displaying a crazed expression.
“I know, right? Like I totally need one.” I say it like I mean it, even though I’d rather die than be caught dead in that much pink. Still, humoring Mary is half the job sometimes, and she’s in a good mood, which I’m not trying to ruin.
She peels the outfit off and tosses it back onto the rack. “I’m about to go to lunch. You cool being stuck with Greg for an hour?”
“I guess I’ll survive,” I mutter, glancing over at our manager, who’s now pretending to straighten a display of leg warmers. “Did he seriously not schedule anyone else?”
“Nope. Just us.” She smirks, like this is somehow hilarious, then disappears, leaving me to the sound of ‘Purple Rain’ by Prince and Greg’s surrounding disapproval.
I sigh and grab a stack of graphic tees, plopping them onto the folding table. It’s busy work, something to keep my hands moving while my brain idles. The repetitiveness is almost calming—until someone bumps into me.
“Sorry,” a voice says.
“You’re okay,” I reply automatically, glancing up only briefly.
I go back to folding, realigning the stack and smoothing out the fabric. Line up the sleeves. Fold down once, then again.
“Blaiz, someone’s ready to check out,” Greg shouts from across the store like I’m deaf or something.
I abandon the t-shirts and head to the register, where a girl—maybe sixteen, seventeen tops—stands tapping her foot like she’s about to combust and popping her gum.
“That’ll be $10.86,” I say, forcing a polite smile.
She digs through her bag, muttering something under her breath, and that’s when I notice him.
The guy who bumped into me.
He’s still here, lingering near the clearance scarves like he’s deciding between polyester blends and death. But he’s not looking at the scarves. He’s looking straight at me.
Not in a flirty way. Not even curious. It’s detached. Like he’s studying me. Like he’s already decided something about me and he’s just verifying it.
He glances down at a scarf, touches it, then looks right back at me. Not discreet. Not casual. His stare feels violating, like I’m standing there naked and he’s the only one who notices. Every time his eyes shift away, they come right back at me. My skin prickles. My stomach clenches. I force the lump in my throat down, ignoring him, but the air in the store becomes strangely still. Too quiet, despite Madonna playing over the speakers.
Something’s not right.
Chapter four
Blaiz
Fallingontothecouch,my aching body sinks into the cushions, exhausted from the day. I’m fucking spent—my brain’s fried, my eyes sting, and every part of me begs for sleep. I let my head fall back, eyes slipping shut for just a second, soaking up the silence like it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
Then—three sharp knocks.
My eyes snap open, and I let out a low groan. Seriously? Now? I force myself to my feet and shuffle to the door, muttering under my breath. Part of me’s hoping for a pizza I don’t remember ordering, even though I know damn well I didn’t.
I press my eye to the peephole—nothing. Just the hallway, washed out in weak yellow light and empty ashell.
Great.
I sigh and swing the door open, half-expecting some dumb flyer or maybe a neighbor’s kid who wandered off.
But there’s no one there. Just air and quiet and that weird low sound the hallway lights always make when they’re about to burn out.
I start to close the door.
A hand stops it.
I gasp, my heart beats rapidly, and I step back without thinking.
