𝒹𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒹𝒾𝑜𝓇 .•* PATRICK BATEMAN

2. something horrible is happening inside me

Patrick Bateman was in everything you did.

It had been a week since you'd met, and nobody else in the building caught your interest like he did. A few of the women seemed like sweethearts and one or two of the other men stayed polite, but they didn't have the same intrigue. You talked to as many people as you could, but something about everyone felt... hollow.

Writing down Paul Allen's itinerary, you wondered what Patrick's handwriting looked like. You found your mind wandering to him as you worked, wondering what he was doing, what he was like, how he grew up, how his lips would feel on yours. Very forward, you knew, but based on the other women's opinions, you weren't the only one thinking it.

Although they said the same things about every man in the building, so the compliments weren't high.

You felt a little bit like a creep doing it, but you often planned your breaks to be at the same time as his just to give you an excuse to run into him. Your schedules weren't similar, but there was enough overlap to get away with it. You'd see him in the break room or walking in the hall and desperately try to scrap up any piece of information to share.

Unfortunately, you could never tell what he was thinking. He always engaged with you, but seldom did he initiate conversation.  Never did he show enthusiasm. He was so calculated, every move planned out ten seconds before it happened. All it did was make you more curious, to know the man behind the facade.  To catch him in the chase.

When you weren't trying to break down Bateman, you were chatting with your other coworkers. The other secretaries were pretty nice, and the men of the workplace were surprisingly polite (to your face at least). Paul Allen was the person you talked to the most, thanks to proximity, and it seemed he had already taken a liking to you.

You weren't a big fan of him.  He was nice enough, sure, and never yelled, but he was far from a gentleman.  His advances were often unwanted, and although he tried to play things off as friendly once he started to get the hint, he was always just a little bit too touchy.  Dancing around him was a chore.  It was the apparent trade off for such a simple, cushy job.

"Is my evening cleared, (Y/N)?" Paul asked, leaning over your desk.  His hands were placed on the edge, but his weight was shifted forward, leveling him above you. A friendly smile graced his face

You couldn't deny that he was handsome, with his well groomed brown hair and button nose, but you just... weren't attracted to him.  It felt like all of his cards were on the table already, you could see right through him.

You weren't looking for a mystery, but you knew guys like this.  He was looking to wine and dine you, have sex a few times, and then move on to the next.  He didn't even bother with subtlety.

You pretended to look through a catalogue, flipping through as if you didn't already have his schedule memorized front to back.  Tapping your pen on your chin. Buying time not to respond.

"It looks like you're all clear, Mr. Allen," you remarked simply, glancing up to meet his eyes.  It was painful for you to lock eyes with his hungry gaze, leaving you uncomfortably staring anywhere else.

If you were lucky, he'd dismiss you and be done with it. You were not.

Paul Allen nodded, removing his hands from the table and standing up straight.  "How would you like to get dinner with me?"

Your face lit up bright red and you shook your head slowly.  No amount of 'expecting the outcome' could prepare you for it actually happening.

"Well, Mr. Allen..." your voice trailed off as you concocted a response.  Your brain was short circuiting.