Slasher Summer(90)
Patrick found the place he was looking for, a diner with a cozy, retro feel. The door chimes jingled as he entered and strode across the scuffed black-and-white-checkered floor. The brunch rush hadn’t started yet. Only a single server stood behind the laminate countertop, refilling a coffee cup for an old white man hunched on a vinyl-upholstered barstool. The old man glanced up from his newspaper crossword and tilted his baseball cap at Patrick in salute. Patrick nodded in return and then focused his attention on the server.
“I hear you’re looking for a line cook for the summer.”
The young man’s eyes narrowed. “I might be. Can I afford you? You look like a fancy Boston culinary school type.”
“I’ll work for cheap. Got a boyfriend in town I want to stay close to.” Patrick’s mouth quirked. “I have to warn you, though. I only cook vegetarian.”
Having seen his friends reduced to meat had turned him off all animal butchery.
The young man eyed him appraisingly. “I think I can work with that.”
Patrick grinned and then went behind the counter to throw his arms around Jason, enjoying the feel of his wiry body against his. Jason had lost some of his football-playing bulk while recovering from Mikey’s stabbing, but he wore his new leanness well. It suited the friendly manager of this sleepy small-town diner.
God, Patrick had missed him, and had felt bad he’d had to stay in Boston to prep for his end-of-year culinary school tests during the past month. Patrick might sleep soundly, but Jason slept with a restlessness that only Patrick’s presence could abate. The dark circles under his eyes were a testament to how much Jason needed him, and Patrick’s heart bled at the sight.
“Oh, just kiss already,” the old man grumbled.
“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Patrick took Jason’s face between his hands and kissed him enthusiastically.
The world wasn’t safe. Clare’s death and Carrie’s murder spree had taught him that. But Jason was safe. The Slasher cabin had always felt like home to Patrick, because he was home wherever Jason was.
And Jason had chosen to move to this small Cape Cod tourist town, where there were beaches and lighthouses and an ocean. As far away from the hinterlands of their youth as possible. Not that Jason was welcome to return to Cedar Lake. Coach Ackerman wasn’t speaking to him—because Jason had quit football and dropped out of college, not because he’d brought Patrick home for Thanksgiving. Though Mrs. Ackerman had texted Patrick to say her husband was coming around, and even making noises about coaching any children Jason and Patrick might have.
That was way too far in the future for even Patrick to contemplate. For now, he wanted to savor the present for a change. Although it was occasionally difficult to leave the past behind. He’d come so close to losing Jason. After Patrick had stabbed Carrie, and Jason lost consciousness, Patrick had tried Ranger Russ’s car one more time. By some miracle, it had started. He’d driven until he could get a signal—past the speed limit, too—and called the authorities, and then he’d come right back and held Jason’s hand until the ambulance arrived.
The door chime jingled. Patrick broke away from Jason to welcome the new customer—and froze.
A dark-haired girl wearing a red buffalo plaid jacket thrown over a gray hoodie approached the counter, hefting a long object in her hand.
Jason’s fingers dug into Patrick’s arm. Patrick’s teeth gritted, and he catalogued all potential weapons within reach. The full coffeepot. The stack of mugs in the corner. The fire extinguisher. The baseball bat Jason kept under the counter, as well as the locked safe that held a gun. Jason’s right arm moved stiffly, due to tendon damage from Mikey’s stabbing, but he was turning into a crack shot with his left.
After what had happened with Carrie, you couldn’t be too careful.
The girl came a little closer and Patrick relaxed. She held a plastic-capped cardboard tube, like something you might store a poster in. She flashed a cheery grin and cracked her gum. “Delivery for Jason Ackerman?”
Jason cleared his throat and let go of Patrick. “That’s me.”
The girl handed over the tube. “There ya go.”
She flounced out of the diner, sending the door chimes jingling merrily. Jason frowned at the cardboard tube, and then his brow smoothed out. “Oh, it must be my poster sample from the printers. I was thinking all-you-can-eat waffles on Mondays.”
The old man at the counter—Gerald, the diner’s most faithful regular—pumped his fist triumphantly.
Jason pried the cap out of the tube and pulled out a large, rolled-up sheet of glossy paper. Patrick helped him flatten it on the counter, weighing down the corners with empty coffee mugs.
And stared.
“What the fuck?” Jason said.
Patrick was already sprinting out the door. The girl in the buffalo plaid jacket was just about to climb into a battered sedan. “Hey!” he shouted. “Hey, stop!”
The girl paused, her face screwed up with concern. “What’s wrong?”
Patrick caught up to her, panting. “What the hell was that?” He gestured at the diner. Through the windows he could see Jason hadn’t moved, his face as white as the countertop.
“I dunno, I’m just an Uber driver, dude.” She whipped out her phone, showing Patrick the completed journey. “Aw, man. Did I fuck up the delivery? Is he the wrong Jason? The instructions were very specific.”