When you told Jason you were quite literally Patrick Bateman, he assumed you were referring to your shared love (note ─ obsession) for music and your shared hate for Jared Leto. He did not, however, assume that you were going to don a plastic raincoat and get a shitload of fake blood on it and then drag him to a Halloween house party one of your friends was hosting.

He was Paul Allen and this party was how you were going to kill him.

You'd told him you'd be at the house earlier than most, so he could come in later. He'd enjoyed this idea and took the liberty of thinking that meant he could arrive a few minutes before it would be late enough to leave, but you knew him a lot better than you knew the back of your hand and you told him to just come at ten.

It was ten. He was here. He had no clue where you were because the sweat and the smell of cheap beer were getting to his head. The red solo cup clutched between his ever-tightening fingers was nearly finished (his third since arriving) and the buzz was setting into the back of his mind. A girl was eyeing him with an annoyingly persistent eye and ─ oh, Christ, he was a hundred per cent sure your skirt was short enough to give him a nosebleed.