Page 7 of Don’t Watch Alone

Chapter six

Blaiz

The Party

I meet Jade at her place so we can ride together to Derrick’s party, and as usual, her apartment is a chaotic dedication to glitter, open makeup compacts, and the kind of mess that somehow works as organized in her world—even though it makes me feel uneasy just looking at it.

The moment we push through Derrick’s front door, I’m hit with a wave of noise, heat, and the distinct scent of stale beer and poor judgment.

Somebody’s already chanting around a keg in the corner, the crowd egging on a shirtless guy trying to chug upside-down from a beer hose like he’s auditioning for a fraternity-themed show.

I don’t even bother reacting—I just roll my eyes and keep moving.

I’m looking for Tony. He’s the one steady thing in this human mix of body glitter, cheap cologne, and unfiltered chaos.

But I don’t see him anywhere, and I figure he’s probably still stuck pulling that double shift at the garage.

I sigh, navigating through groups of drunk strangers until I find the punch bowl—a dark, violently red vat of sugar and regret.

I ladle some into a flimsy plastic cup, trying not to think about how many unwashed hands have been near this exact spot.

Then Footloose hits the speakers and suddenly everyone clears a space like they are part of the movie and Kevin Bacon himself just burst through the door.

People start dancing, moving wildly, and I don’t even try to resist. I down half the punch, toss the cup, and throw myself into the mess with zero shame.

I’m stomping, spinning, laughing like an idiot, my hair sticking to my face, and for the first time all night, I’m actually having fun.

And then Tony shows up.

Not just walking in—no, he pushes through the crowd with this determined shine in his eyes and, to my absolute disbelief, he starts dancing with me.

Tony, who hates dancing and hates drawing attention to himself.

He’s more of a “dirty hands, quiet sarcasm” kind of guy, but there he is, grinning, trying to match my ridiculous footwork like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.

After we’re both breathless and red-faced, we peel ourselves away from the sweaty dancing crowd and make a beeline for the kitchen.

It’s a disaster zone—overflowing trash, counters slick with spilled drinks, the air thick with the smell of liquor and something burnt.

There’s a guy standing near the sink, his back is turned and his posture is too casual.

Something about him makes the hairs on my neck stand up.

Tony, oblivious as ever to the slight shift in my body language, grabs the ladle in the punch bowl and refills my cup, then reaches into the fridge for a beer. The guy turns around. And everything inside me freezes .

The cup slips from my hand. Punch hits the floor, splashing up my legs and turning the linoleum into a messy crime scene.

Tony stares at the mess. “What the hell happened?”

“I… I don’t know,” I mutter, trying to force my mouth to work with my brain, which is short-circuiting at the sight of this creep.

Tony grabs a roll of paper towels like it’s not a big deal and crouches down to clean it up. The guy joins us—joins us like this is some fucking group project—and bends down with a smirk that makes my stomach twist.

“Hi Blaiz,” he says.

My voice barely works. “H… hi?”

It’s him. The guy from the mall. The same dead-eyed stare. The same somewhat casual force. And somehow, he knows my name. I want to scream at Tony, tell him to look, but I can’t say it with him standing right there.

Tony clears his throat, glancing up. “I got it,” he says. “I can help her.”

The guy backs off half a step, but not before locking eyes with me like we’re sharing some kind of secret. Tony stands up and gives the guy a little jab in the chest with the roll of paper towels.

“So what’s your name, pal?”

“Andy,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine. It feels like he’s trying to burn something into me.

Andy finally turns and disappears into the crowd.

I grab Tony’s arm. “Tony, that was him. That’s the guy I told you about last night.”

“The one who was watching you?” Tony’s whole expression changes.

“Yeah. And today… he did it again.”

Tony straightens up with some kind of protective rage. He drops the paper towels on the counter and storms out of the kitchen with zero hesitation.

He finds Andy leaning against the living room wall like he owns the place, watching everyone with that same unnerving look.

Tony plants himself right in front of him. “Hey, dude,” he says. “Why the fuck have you been stalking my girl?” This time when he pokes Andy in the chest, it’s not playful, it’s a warning.

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 feel safe. 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.