Page 4 of Don’t Watch Alone

Chapter three

Blaiz

I open my eyes. The room’s a mess of color and clutter, none of it is familiar. There is an unfinished canvas that is leaning against the wall. Books are slanting like they’re about to fall on top of a damaged nightstand. A grinning ceramic skull stares me down from the surface of the nightstand.

Shit. This isn’t Tony’s place—his reeked of burned pizza and old beer. It’s not Jade’s either; hers always smells like one of those spa ads. And it sure as hell isn’t mine. My place is clean, controlled, and also boring as hell. This is… somewhere else. But where?

I shift and nausea courses through my stomach. That’s when I see him.

Tony. Sprawled out beside me, mostly wrapped in the sheets. His head of hair is wild, and his face buried deep in the pillow. He is motionless. Almost perfectly still.

A feeling of overwhelming fear hits me immediately.

“Tony...?” My voice comes out a bit shaky. No answer.

My headache intensifies. The whole scene is blurry and spins. I squint, trying to lock onto his face, but it’s like trying to catch shadows.

I reach out towards him. My hands are shaking like hell. I touch his arm—cold, damp. I lean in and place my hand near his nose.

Warm breath.

I feel relief, but followed by pure fear.

“Tony!” I yell, grabbing his shoulders, shaking him hard. “Wake the fuck up!”

He jerks awake, his eyes shooting open. “What?!”

“Where are we? What the hell happened last night?”

He flickers his eyelids, rubbing his face, still somewhat dreaming. “We’re at Christian’s. You passed out after we talked about going to the movies or something. I dunno.”

I drop back into the pillow. My head feels like it’s splitting apart. Passed out? Me? Bullshit. I don’t just black out. I don’t drink that much, I don’t lose control. Ever.

Christian’s. Right. I remember the noise, the beer, the nonstop talking. But it’s all patchy, like trying to watch a movie with the power going on and off.

Why the hell would I have passed out?

The thought creeps in me: Someone slipped me something.

I look at Tony. No way. He wouldn’t. He’s dumb sometimes, but never cruel.

But if it wasn’t him… who?

And why?

The thought turns my stomach. Tony’s passed back out, snoring like a busted chainsaw, stinking of stale beer.

It clings to him like a damn second skin.

How the hell did I let it go this far? Another night down the drain, another bad decision soaked in cheap booze.

I’ve gotta get home, wash this night off me, scrub away the smell, the mistakes, the parts of me I don’t wanna see .

Electric Avenue’s calling my name. Greg will chew me out if I’m even a second late. One o’clock is the line—show up or get the boot. And Greg? Patience ain’t one of his accessories, especially not when it comes to his sacred store.

I ghost out the door, leaving Tony to his beer-soaked dreams. Guilt tries to creep in, tapping at my ribs, but I shut it out. Survival mode. I need to pull it together, salvage something from the wreckage.

Jade’s nowhere around. No clue how she got home, or if she even made it. I’ll call her later. Maybe. Right now, it’s tunnel vision—get to Electric Avenue.

The city air slaps me awake. I fumble for my keys, slide into the car, and hit the road. Lights blur past—red, green, yellow—like a damn arcade game gone wrong. My brain’s a loop of get it together, get it together. Gotta stop spinning out like this.

The apartment’s a disaster. Laundry’s winning the war in the living room, dishes stacked like some broken monument to chaos. No time to care.

Clothes off. Shower on. The water hits me hard, and I take it. I scrub like I’m trying to erase the night. The smell, the sweat, the shame—it all swirls down the drain.

Steam pours out as I step onto the tile, still damp, but a little more me. I grab the blow dryer, fight my hair into something wild and loud. Volume cranked. Drama dialed in. Big hair, big fuck-you to the world.

Then the fit. Neon pink and electric blue jumpsuit, loud enough to stop traffic. Snagged it from the backroom stash at the shop. Bolt earrings dangle like lightning on the edge of chaos. I’m a walking riot of color and noise.

I stare into the mirror. One word: Bitchin’. That’s my message to the world—I’m still standing. Greg can deal. Regret can wait. I grab my bag, slam the door, and hit the pavement like a live wire, buzzing, pulsing, ready to own every inch of Electric Avenue.

The November air nips at my exposed skin as I cut across the massive parking lot, navigating between rows of faded parking lines and half-frozen puddles.

Each gust carries the sharp edge of winter, cutting through my jacket no matter how tightly I pull it around me.

The mall appears ahead, the store windows flash with rebellion—mannequins dressed in wild neons and layered denim, clashing against the dull sky.

I push forward; the wind pushing back harder.

The automatic doors open, and I’m hit by a blast of artificial cinnamon and recycled air. Greg’s already present, of course—standing near the register like he’s been molded from concrete, staring at his watch as if time itself personally offends him.

“I’m literally a minute early,” I say, not exactly apologetic. My voice echoes in the nearly empty storefront, but Greg just turns and walks away like he didn’t hear me—or like he just doesn’t give a shit. Business as usual.

I head to the back and clock in, the punch of the timecard oddly satisfying, like I’ve just signed a contract with the day.

When I step back onto the floor, the store is a burst of bright colors.

Racks crammed full, clothes screaming for attention.

A fresh shipment must’ve come in—there’s a whole wall now dedicated to fluorescent-pink jumpsuits.

“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.