Page 11 of Don’t Watch Alone

Chapter nine

Blaiz

Finally, the backroom door creaks open, flooding the tiled floor with the intense glare of the store’s fluorescent lights.

And there he is—Greg, looking like he just experienced a powerful gust of wind.

His thinning hair sticks out in odd directions and the smirk he usually wears like a trademark is gone, replaced by that familiar look of annoyed disbelief.

“Did you sleep here last night?” he asks, his voice carrying that low, gravelly tone that always sounds like a hidden threat, even when he’s pretending to sound concerned.

“Not exactly a choice,” I say, rubbing at the soreness in my neck from spending the night curled up on a stack of jeans that still had security tags pressed into my spine.

“I got locked in. I was finishing up; sweeping, putting things back in order, when I remembered the mannequin needed to be redressed since someone bought the whole outfit last night. After I got it fixed up, I was going to take it back out to the storefront, but the door wouldn’t open.

I yelled for Gus, I figured he might still be making his rounds, but either he didn’t hear me or he just didn’t care. ”

Greg narrows his eyes and folds his arms. “Blaiz, the door wasn’t locked.”

I stare at him. “The fuck it wasn’t. I tried that handle at least five times. It wouldn’t budge.”

“I’m telling you, it was never locked.” His tone is sharp now, defensive. “Why the hell would I lie about that?”

Because you’re Greg. Because lying is as natural to you as breathing.

Because you’ve probably never once admitted when you’ve screwed something up, and you sure as hell don’t want to admit it now that you forgot to give me a key or broke the lock or god knows what.

My rent’s due in five days and my bank account is already empty.

Telling Greg to shove this job up his ass will have to wait until I find another one.

“Did you ever get a hold of Mary?” I ask instead, turning the conversation away from the locked door that apparently never existed.

Greg shakes his head. “Nope. She never answered or returned any of my calls. I’ve called her three times now and nothing.

I think she quit. I’ve got an interview scheduled with someone this morning.

” He glances around at the quiet store, then back at me.

“Can you hang around while I do it? It’s just me today, and I need someone to cover the floor while I am interviewing the guy. ”

I blink at him. If I hadn’t gotten stuck back there overnight, I wouldn’t even be here right now.

So how the hell was he planning to hold this interview if I hadn’t been, conveniently, locked inside?

That thought settles within me. Coincidence?

Maybe. But something about it doesn’t sit right.

Mary vanishing without notice doesn’t sit right either—she’s not the kind of person who just quits and you never hear from her again.

She shows up early. She answers calls. She’s not like Greg .

My eyes drift to the backroom door again. It’s open now. But I know what I felt last night. That door had been a barrier. A fucking prison. No broken lock, no damage. Nothing to prove I wasn’t just losing it.

“Yeah,” I say after a beat. “Sure. I’ll stay.” My voice is flat. I watch Greg head toward his office.

But deep inside me, something twists. This job, this place, even Greg—it’s all starting to feel off. Not just frustrating or exhausting. Something worse. Something I haven’t figured out yet.

I stand in front of the mirror, barely recognizing the reflection staring back at me.

My hair’s a tangled mess, no matter how many times I drag my fingers through it, and the scent of denim and stale air clings to my clothes.

I’ve been wearing the same damn outfit since yesterday morning—same jeans, same shirt, same mounting regret.

There’s a smudge of something dark on my cheek, probably from the boxes I used as a pillow in the backroom, and my eyes are sunken in with exhaustion that no amount of cold water could fix.

“Please, please, please,” I mutter, trying to persuade a strand of hair into behaving, though it keeps springing loose like it knows exactly how to piss me off.

“Let today be quiet. Let no one from yesterday walk in.” The idea of someone recognizing me, clocking the same clothes, making assumptions—that I rolled out of some stranger’s bed, too hungover to function—causes a rush of heat to crawl up my neck.

I’m almost satisfied with my half-salvaged appearance when I catch movement near the front entrance. I glance over and there he is.

Andy.

My stomach drops. No. No fucking way. What is he doing here?

My brain scrambles for a reason, any reason, but nothing sticks.

Is he here to buy something? Just passing by?

Or is this another one of his “coincidences”?

He walks in like he owns the place, like this is all normal, his eyes scanning the racks before locking on to me .

He smiles.

That same smooth, deliberate smile that’s all teeth and no humanity. Every nerve in my body goes on alert, screaming at me to move, to hide, to do something other than just stand there like prey.

“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to keep my tone neutral, like I haven’t imagined throwing a shoe at his face. My voice comes out thinner than I’d like, but I force myself to hold his gaze.

“Yes,” he says, eyes gleaming like he’s in on some inside joke. “I’m actually here for an interview. I think his name is Greg?”

The words hit harder than a punch. I feel it in my gut. My knees nearly buckle. An interview. Here. At my fucking job. I manage to nod, lips tightening as I choke back every scream rising within me.

“Of course,” I say through clenched teeth, turning away before my face betrays the panic welling up inside me. “Let me check.”

The walk to Greg’s office feels endless, like the floor is stretching out in front of me on purpose. I hear his off-key humming before I see him. The door’s half open, and I knock against the frame hard enough to shake it.

“Greg? The guy you’re interviewing is here.”

He looks up, powdered sugar is all over his keyboard, a half-eaten doughnut balanced on a napkin beside him. “Oh, great! Send him in.”

“Okay.” I turn before I say something I can’t take back. This is it. This is the start of a damn nightmare.

When I get back on the floor, Andy’s still hanging around, studying the store like it’s some display, and I’m the center of attention.

“Greg’s ready for you,” I tell him, pointing toward the hallway without looking him in the eye.

“Thanks,” he says, all charm, and walks off like he’s already succeeded.

I drop behind the counter, arms crossed tight across my chest, grinding my teeth.

My skin itches, my clothes cling to me uncomfortably, and I want nothing more than to strip every last stitch off, then crawl into the hottest shower possible, and erase this entire morning.

But instead, I stand here, rearranging flyers, wiping down the counter again, pretending I’m not counting every second until he walks out and I can breathe again.

And then the door opens.

Greg steps out first, glowing like he just accomplished something incredibly important, and there’s Andy right behind him, smug and shining with the glow of success.

“Great… great news!” Greg says, clapping Andy on the back. “This is Andy! Meet your new teammate, Blaiz! He starts tomorrow!”

I freeze. The words knock the air straight out of me. I stare, stunned, mouth slightly open, too shocked to fake enthusiasm yet. My body goes cold, then hot, like all my blood’s trying to leave at once.

“Welcome, Andy,” I manage, the smile on my face a poor imitation of anything genuine. It hurts to hold it in place.

He winks.

That same damn wink.

The second I’m off this shift, I’m going home, throwing these clothes in the trash, and scrubbing this day off my skin. Then I’m updating my resume, because there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’m working alongside the guy who’s been watching me like I’m his personal obsession.

No. Fucking. Way.

***

After I get home, I try calling Mary, but she doesn’t pick up.

I head into the bathroom for a quick shower, planning to call her again once I’m done.

My mind is racing the entire time—I can’t wash my hair fast enough.

As soon as I step out, I wrap a towel around myself and rush to the phone to try her again.

I call Mary again. Still nothing. It’s the third time in ten minutes, and the uneasy feeling moving up my spine is intensifying, like something cold pushing against my skin.

This isn’t like her. Not Mary. She lives by her schedule, color-coded and detailed—she’s never late, never flaky, and definitely never no-shows without a word. Something isn’t adding up here .

I know we’re not best friends, not like the kind who hang out on the weekends or share juicy secrets over drinks. But we’ve been through enough rough shifts together and weird customer run-ins to have built a friendship. She wouldn’t just vanish. Not without saying something.

I grab my keys. My thoughts are focused on one goal: to go to Mary’s house and check on her.

It is a short drive. Every red light feels like a surge of panic.

My mind is filled with disturbing images I can’t get rid of.

When I finally get to her street, my stomach just drops. Her Pinto isn’t in the driveway.

Still, I park and get out. I walk to her door, knocking once, then again, more forcefully.

The heavy sound echoes back at me. Nothing.

No footsteps. No voice. Just the distant birds chirping and wind through the trees, blowing the dead leaves around.

I press my face to the window, blocking the glare with my hand, but the curtains are pulled tight. I can’t see in her house at all .

My thoughts return to Saturday night. We closed together, easy shift, steady flow.

Mary had been fine. Tired, maybe, but her usual self, joking about her plans that night and how she was going to have so much fun.

She clocked out before me. “See you Tuesday!” she’d called over her shoulder, giving that little wave she always did.

I’d gotten everything together, counted the drawer, and headed out into the near-empty lot.

And then—Andy.

That’s when the uneasiness started, the kind that’s hard to explain because it doesn’t come with facts, just feeling.

I remember digging in my purse for my keys, my hands struggling, my eyes darting around the deserted lot.

It felt out of place. I felt watched. And then a shape pulled itself out of the shadows by one of the concrete pillars.

Andy.

He held my keys out like a peace offering, the familiar birthday keychain Mary had given me reflecting in the light. “Looking for these?” he’d said, but his smile felt too sharp and rehearsed.

At the time, I’d been so thrown off—relieved, really—that I didn’t question it. I mean, sure, there’s a hole in the lining of my purse, and sure, things fell out. But for him to be just standing there? At that exact moment? And being the one that found my keys?

The more I consider it, the more it bothers me. The odds. The timing. The way he just… appeared.

I get goosebumps at the thought of it. Every instinct I have is screaming now, because something’s wrong. With Mary. With Andy. With this whole damn situation.

And tomorrow… tomorrow is his first day on the job at Electric Avenue. And I’m scheduled to work the closing shift. With him. Alone.