Page 8 of Don’t Watch Alone

Chapter seven

Blaiz

The fluorescent glare from Electric Avenue hits me square in the face the moment I step through the door, wiping away the rest of the mall like static on a broken screen.

At the register, Mary’s already knee-deep in conversation with a customer, her fingers flying across the keys while her mouth moves even faster.

I toss her a quick grin as I pass, appreciating the speed she works—but I don’t stop.

I head straight for the back room and clock in.

The time clock punches out that loud click, and a strange surge of calm washes over me—like I’ve stepped out of my real life and into something easier, where the rules are simple, where time ticks forward and all I have to do is keep up.

But the moment I step back onto the sales floor, that peace unravels under the harsh brightness of the storefront lights. Mary’s finished with her customer and leans over the counter, a crooked smirk tugging at her mouth.

“So,” she says, stretching the word like gum, “how was the party last night?”

I laugh, leaning against the cluttered earring display, half the pieces missing their backings or price tags. “It was a party, alright. But oh my god, I’ve got something to tell you.”

Her eyes light up like she’s a kid waiting for a ghost story.

“You remember that guy that keeps coming in here? Watching me?”

“Yes,” she blurts. “The creepy fucker. The one that pretends to care about the watches, but he never actually looks at them.”

“Exactly,” I say, and I can’t stop the grin from spreading. “Well, guess who showed up at the party last night? That same asshole. And guess who else was there? Tony. One punch and he knocked the guy on his ass.”

Mary’s jaw drops. “Shit. For real? Go Tony! That’s fucking radical.” She laughs so hard she snorts, then covers her mouth. “ Told you that guy was bad news. Creepy son of a bitch. Good fucking riddance.”

We’re still laughing when a couple wanders in, wide-eyed and blinking against the chaos of color and glitter. Instinct kicks in. We straighten up fast, pretending we’re not just gossiping like teenagers at a sleepover.

“Greg wants us to redo the far corner,” Mary mutters, nodding toward the racks where clothes are barely clinging to hangers. “It’s a war zone.”

I follow her gaze and sigh. Folding clothes. Great. The eternal punishment.

“Awesome,” I mutter, peeling myself off the counter. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Side by side, we tackle the wreckage like reluctant soldiers—folding, sorting, fluffing neon sweaters and lining up patterned leggings that somehow manage to feel soft despite their blinding colors.

The silence between us is companionable, the flow of the work almost reflective.

An hour slips by before I realize how dry my throat feels .

“I’m gonna run and grab something from Orange Julius,” I say. “Want one?”

“Hell yes. Small Original.”

I nod and slip out, grateful for the break. The mall’s alive in that specific, familiar way—families moving through crowds, teenagers laughing too loud, the scent of cinnamon sugar and fried grease coating the air. I get in line, order, step to the side. That’s when it hits.

That energy.

That tight itch behind my neck. Like someone’s breathing down it.

I glance around. Casual. Cool. Nothing out of place. Nobody seems to be looking at me. Still, the feeling lingers. I try to shrug it off. Tony handled the problem. Andy should be gone.

The drinks are in my hands, the cups sweating in my palms. I walk back toward the store—but every step tightens the tension in my stomach. My eyes won’t stop darting around like they’ve been trained to expect danger.

I get back inside the store and hand Mary her drink .

“Bless you,” she mutters, chugging like she’s been lost in a desert.

We sip in silence, letting the sweetness cool our nerves. My gaze moves past the glass storefront, across the mall walkway—and then it freezes.

He’s there.

Andy.

By the fountain drink machine. Leaning against the wall, with a magazine in his hand—except he’s not reading it. His eyes are locked on our store, steady, emotionless, like a fucking laser.

“Mary,” I whisper, the cold cup now forgotten in my hand. “He’s back by the fountain, staring right at us.”

She turns to look, and I feel the moment her body tenses up. The joking version of her disappears instantly. She sets her drink down as if it were breakable.

“I’ll be right back,” she says.

Before I can stop her, she’s already out the door.

Marching across the courtyard. Straight toward him.

I don’t move. I just stand there and watch.

Her mouth is already moving, her posture intense with rage.

I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I see the change in him—his eyes widen, his shoulders slump like someone’s pressing down on him.

Mary doesn’t back down, and he doesn’t say a damn word.

She storms back in, with intense anger blazing in her eyes.

“What the hell did you say to him?”

“I told him to stop being a fucking creep. Standing there like a damn perv watching us.”

“And?” I’m not sure what I expect—maybe a lie, maybe some twisted excuse.

“He said he wasn’t. Claimed he was reading his magazine.” She rolls her eyes.

“Bullshit. He was staring at us, period.”

We let it drop, not because it’s over, but because there’s nothing else to say. We go back to dressing a mannequin in overpriced denim, pretending everything’s fine, though the tension still hangs in the air.

The rest of the shift crawls by. Quiet and eerie. Just the sound of the HVAC and the occasional squeak of a lost shopper’ s footsteps.

Eventually, Mary glances at the clock and stretches. “I’m heading out. You okay to close by yourself?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine,” I lie. My voice is calm, but something in me knows I’m full of shit. I hate closing alone.

She slings her bag over her shoulder. “I’ve got plans tonight. This is my first time out in like forever.”

“Good. You deserve it.”

She smiles, calls out, “See you Tuesday,” and slips into the mall.

I check the clock. Thirty minutes left. Just me, the clothes, the vacant silence, and whatever might be hidden just out of sight.

Andy’s gone, I remind myself. Mary ran him off.

I move through the closing routine—straightening tables, dumping trash, wiping down the smudged glass cases with practiced ease. Every sound echoes too loud. The silence isn’t peaceful; it’s thick, like plastic wrap clinging to my skin .

Finally, the clock gives me permission to leave. I kill the lights, drop the gate, and head to the back to clock out. I step into the parking lot—a deserted collection of cars, shadows, and cold air that cuts through my jacket.

My car is parked out toward the edge tonight. Of course it is.

I walk fast, my heels are clicking. Every dark shape feels alive. Every car is like a good hiding place for someone. I dig through my purse, fingers touching lipsticks, gum wrappers, crumpled receipts—everything except what I need.

“Come on,” I whisper, just as I hear it.

Footsteps.

Slow. Steady. Behind me.

I freeze.

“You dropped these.”

It’s a man’s voice. Low. Controlled. Not friendly.

I turn.

Andy’s there. Partially lit by the security lights, his eyes were even more empty than they looked in the mall .

My fingers wrap around the pepper spray in my bag, and I raise it between us.

“Don’t come any closer.”

He lifts his hands, like I’m pointing a gun. “I just wanted to give you your keys.”

“How the fuck did you get my keys?” I don’t lower the spray.

“I saw them fall,” he says quickly, nodding at my bag. “There’s a hole in the bottom.”

I look and he’s right, there is a hole. The lining’s ripped. A tube of lip gloss hangs, nearly falling out of my purse.

“Thanks,” I mutter, snatching the keys from his hand, trying not to touch him—but our skin makes light contact anyway, and something cold twists in my stomach.

“Blaiz,” he says, and the way he says my name makes me want to hit something.

“What?”

“I know I’ve probably seemed... weird,” he starts, then the words tumble out in a breathless rush. “But I think you’re beautiful.”

There it is. The line no woman wants to hear alone in a dark parking lot from the guy who’s been stalking her for weeks.

“Thanks,” I say flatly.

But then his voice shifts. Lower this time.

“You and your friends... when you go to that midnight movie on November 9th you all need to be careful,” he says, “or just don’t go at all. Something bad’s going to happen. I don’t know what is going to happen. Just... please don’t go.”

He turns before I can respond. Walks into the dark like he just felt relief.

I stand there, stunned, fingers struggling with the keys, trying to make sense of what just happened.

A scare tactic?

Some twisted pickup line?

Or something else entirely?

When I finally slide into my car, I lock the doors with a satisfying click and just sit there, hands gripping the wheel, his words looping through my head like a warning I didn’t ask for.

November 9th .

We’ve had that night planned for weeks—Tony, Jade, a bunch of us. But now, Andy’s voice is stuck in my head. And I hate that part of me isn’t ignoring it.

The engine starts, headlights sweep the lot, but nothing feels familiar. The world feels slightly unbalanced now, like I’ve stepped into a version of my life where the shadows are deeper, and the edges don’t completely match up.

By the time I pull into my apartment complex, I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for miles. The parking lot lights cut through the dark, making everything look worse.

I slam the car door and rush to my building, clutching my bag tight. I struggle with the key before forcing it into the door, opening it and locking it behind me.

Safe.

I should feel safe. But my apartment feels off. Smaller. Tighter. Like the walls moved in while I was gone.

My phone rings.

“Hey,” Jade says when I answer. “You feel like having company tonight?”

“You’re not with Derrick?”