Leonardo di Caprio is a Vampire (2 page)

Fisher sat at lunch with his co-worker and good friend, Holly Gale. She handled the local sports beat for MWH&F, and did a damn fine job of it. She was a natural brunette who liked to play with henna, and as a result her hair had a perpetual reddish tinge. She wore it shoulder-length and layered, and it stopped short of looking severe on her because of her naturally warm brown eyes. She was very fond of Fisher, and not shy about telling him how she felt about anything or anyone. Including Hunter Long, whom she felt was taking advantage of Fisher's innocent and generous nature. She thought Hunter was too good looking for his own good, and very conceited—although the latter was her own opinion, which Fisher did not share. He agreed that Hunter was damn good looking, though. Beautiful being the word that often sprang to mind with regard to his roommate, although he tended to quell the idea as soon as he thought it, locking it away in the recesses of his heart.

Fisher listlessly picked at his rice. Normally he was very fond of Chinese food, and tucked into it with a will, but today he seemed to have no real appetite, a fact that did not fail to escape the radar that Holly possessed where he was concerned.

"Hmmm? What do you mean?" He feigned innocence, pushing around the grains of rice until Holly felt compelled to take his spork away from him in exasperation.

"How old are you, twelve? And you know exactly what I mean. He tells you that you gotta go to this Halloween party and even though you know you hate it, you're gonna show up?"

"I promised." Fisher flailed in his own defense. He automatically played devil's advocate, although he agreed with her.

"Oh yeah?" She gave him one of her double squints, a particularly forceful look that meant that he was the sole object of her concentration at the moment and could not wriggle out of her grasp no matter what he did. "What if I said to you—'Fisher, I'm having a Halloween party, will you come'?"

He squirmed uncomfortably and glanced down at his takeout container. "You know I don't like that kind of thing," he protested.

"I do know it. And so does he. But when Hunter Long asks you to go, you not only jump for him, you ask how high."

Fisher's face flamed at her words, even as he attempted to deny them. Although his denials fell into the category of pretty damn lame. "I promised him. I can't get out of it, it's not like I want to go, or anything, as you very well know…"

"What I do know is that you like him more than you're willing to admit, and you don't have the balls to tell him." Her words might have been a little harsh, but her tone was sympathetic.

"Of course I like him, he's my best friend." He reached for the plastic utensil she still held within her grasp, reclaimed it and began to eat. Better to stuff his mouth with food, than to allow any traitorous words to escape and be heard. His thoughts were dangerously close to the surface. He felt as if they were about to suffocate him, so he held them in check and chewed.

"Stop." He felt her hand upon his wrist, and glanced up to find her full gaze directed at him. He swallowed quickly before he choked on something. Like his words. "I know you, Fisher. Better than you think. I went out with you for six months, remember?"

"Of course I remember, I'm not senile. At least not yet," he grumbled.

"I know he's your best friend, and I know how you've been friends with him since you were kids. And I know how he drives you crazy with the things he does, and the way he acts sometimes." Holly gave his hand a reassuring pat, even as he gave up any pretense at eating.

"If this is because you don't think I date enough," he began, but she cut him off before the words had barely crossed his lips.

"Enough? You don't date at all! When is the last time that you took a woman anywhere? And I don't count; we stopped dating a long time ago."

"I dunno," he stammered, embarrassed, "I don't keep track of that kind of thing."

"Well, I do, and it's been two years since the last one, unless you've neglected to mention one, which I doubt, since you tell me everything. Everything that is, except for your feelings about Hunter." She flashed him a knowing look as he tried to think back, wondering if maybe she was right. The last girl he remembered seeing was Evelyn something. And he hadn't seen her for… for at least two years, come to think of it. If not more.

"You know there hasn't been anyone," he admitted, "but that doesn't mean anything. Maybe I'm just picky about the women I see?"

"Or maybe you really don't want to see anyone who isn't Hunter?" Holly countered. "You can't lie to me, remember, I was one of them? You were the perfect gentleman with me, Fisher. You never made any advances, never tried to take advantage of me."

"And that's a bad thing?"

"No, but you also never did more than kiss me. Ever. I was the one that kissed you, come to think of it. Tell me something, Fisher, though I suspect I know the answer already. Have you ever slept with a woman? With anyone?"

If Fisher thought he was red before, that was nothing compared to how he felt now, his face growing so heated, he felt like he was having a hot flash.

"You don't have to answer," Holly said compassionately, "I can see it in your face, and in your eyes. You don't really like women, do you? I mean, not like that. Not sexually."

He spluttered in protest, a few sad sounding syllables that served no useful purpose. He couldn't answer her. There was nothing he was willing to admit to. And certainly not at this time or place. He was grateful that they had taken a late lunch; there was no one around to overhear this far too revealing conversation.

She turned his hand over, and drew random designs in the palm with one finger while she talked, perhaps to distract him so that he wouldn't feel so embarrassed. "You would like to kiss Hunter, wouldn't you? Don't deny it. I've seen the way you look at him when you think no one else is looking. Yes, I know he's your best friend, and yes, I know he's a guy. Duh. But I think you might be in love with him."

Fisher didn't bother to respond, retaliating with, "Hunter dates women. Women love him. Haven't you seen them hanging on him, everywhere he goes?"

"Uh huh, I've seen it. Sure, he's a damn good looking guy. But so are you, Fisher. So don't sell yourself short. And haven't you ever noticed that none of those women last very long? And he's never gotten serious with any of them? Think about this then. How many of them has he brought home?"

"How should I know?" Fisher frowned, rubbing his thumb across his fingers agitatedly. He was irritated. Not at her, but at her questions that delved into areas best left alone. Questions that demanded answers he wasn't ready to give.

"Have you ever seen him bring one woman to the house? Surely you would've seen at least one, like the next morning, don't you think? Have you ever found a stray item that didn't belong there, or any evidence of a woman having being there? Lipstick on a glass, a pair of girly underwear in the laundry? In all the years you've lived together, has there been anyone who showed up unexpectedly at the breakfast table one morning? Or anyone come to the door, looking for Hunter?"

Fisher gave the matter serious consideration, but nothing came to mind. He really didn't have to think too hard. He knew for a fact that Hunter never brought women home. He'd have remembered that. He'd never done it himself, either. For his own reasons. And yes, whether he was willing to admit to it or not, he was a virgin. An embarrassing admission at his age.

"Who does he spend his real time with, Fisher? Who does he want to go to the Halloween party with? Think about it, I think you'll figure it out. He likes you, you like him, is that such a hard equation to balance?"

It was, and one that Fisher wasn't prepared to deal with at the moment. It was leading him into areas best avoided. Still he managed to open his mouth and insert his foot, his mind leaping to something that had been troubling him recently. "Holly, he's been acting funny lately," he blurted out. Skirting her issue, he chose to open another, in the process managing to release some of the tensions he had been operating under for the past several months. "It has to be a new girl…" Although it pained him to admit it.

"What do you mean, acting funny?" Holly frowned. "And what makes you think it's a girl?"

"I dunno. He comes and goes at odd hours sometimes. I woke up once in the middle of the night, and he wasn't home, at like three or four in the morning. He looks pale, like he's coming down with something. But if I ask him if he's sick, he denies it. And his appetite is definitely off. He never wants to eat any more, at least not at home. I think some girl is feeding him." Well, that was a definite weight off his chest, even though it also brought his latent anxieties to the fore. He realized he had not denied anything Holly had said regarding his feelings for Hunter. How could he? They were all true. And he wasn't a liar.

It took a few moments for him to realize that Holly wasn't saying anything; that silence had fallen between them. He glanced up to find her just looking at him, a self-satisfied smirk on her lips, and sympathetic eyes. What a strange combination.

"What?" he asked. But he knew. He really knew.

"You have it for him bad, Fisher. You
have
to say something to him. Soon. For both your sakes."

His stomach churned, and his head hurt. He had the feeling he was going to be ill if he stayed there any longer. "I… I gotta head back to work," he said, rising, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow. "I'll call you later. I promise." He gathered his things, tossing them into a trash receptacle on his way out of the staff lunchroom. But not to his desk. Not yet. He made a quick detour to the men's room, and promptly threw up what little he'd actually eaten. Afterward, he rinsed out his mouth and chewed on a mint, then splashed water on his face, before taking a good hard look at himself in the mirror.

Chapter Three

Nothing he hadn't seen a million times before. Just him, Fisher. Nothing special. An average looking guy, not overly tall. Five foot ten if he stretched a bit. Average build, no contender for Mr Universe certainly, but who actually needed so much muscle? Hair a light golden brown with blond highlights. It stuck up at strange angles if he didn't keep it under control with a bit of hairspray. Most of the time, though, it wasn't worth the trouble; he didn't care for the way it made his hair feel or smell. Eyes a strange blue-green hue. According to something he'd looked up once, it was called viridian. Fancy name for blue-green, but there you go. A nose a shade too big for his liking, and lips that were just lips.

Then he forced himself to think of Hunter, although it wasn't all that hard to do. Silky hair a rich brown so dark, it almost appeared to be black. It didn't obey any particular code of neatness, but on him, messy looked good. His pale blue eyes framed by the silkiest of lashes were always filled with good humor. And pretty pink lips, to die for, or to kiss. He had never admitted before, even to himself, that he wanted to kiss Hunter. But he did. Hunter was always smiling. Always happy. In other words, he was the perfect man. So why didn't Fisher want to admit to Holly that he did indeed carry a torch for Hunter Long and probably had for a very long time, and would like nothing more than to know what those perfect lips tasted like?

'Cause he was having a hard time admitting it to himself.

He didn't want to be different. He wanted to blend in, not to stand out. To do the things he was supposed to do. To be a good boy. Er, man. To make his mother proud of him. Didn't all sons want that? But it was getting harder and harder to lie to himself, even though he never lied to others. Self-delusion could be a very powerful thing. He supposed the catalyst to this new state of mind was Hunter's increasingly erratic behaviour. He knew what he was afraid of. Time to be honest with himself.

He was afraid that Hunter had found THE one. The girl of girls. Or woman of women. The holy grail of all romantic searches. The one and only, I-want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with female. That one. Which would explain so much. But would, when the time came for Hunter to make his departure into the land of happily ever after, be very difficult to take. The thought went straight to his heart and caused it nothing but pain.

He realized there was also nothing he could do about it. What would be would be, and he had no power to affect the outcome one way or another. Despite Holly's amateur detective work, which claimed to validate her assertion that he should go after what he wanted, that was just nonsense. This was real life—that was fantasy, and that was not how real life worked.

Drying his hands with two paper towels, he tossed them away, while waiting for a few minutes before he returned to his desk. Slowly but surely his skin went from pink to pale, and his breathing began to return to some semblance of normality. He had articles to write, things to look up online, and no desire to explain anything to anyone. The Halloween issue of MWH&F was available, naturally. He had already turned in his Thanksgiving thoughts, time to begin on Christmas. Oh joy.

He was pulling out his chair when he saw it. What was this? A pink inter-office memo lay upon his desk, suspicious by its very conspicuousness. It hadn't been there before he left for lunch. He picked it up apprehensively. It was from the editor. THE editor. Requesting him to meet with him the following morning at 9am. Great. Happy Halloween, here's your hat, what's your hurry.

Fisher sat there numbly, trying to think, but it wasn't easy. At least not to think of the work-related things he should be thinking of. Other topics simply insisted on intruding. Just when he began to get the glimmerings of an
idea he wanted to research, his cell phone went off in his pocket, which meant it had to be personal, not business. He kept it on vibrate when he was in the office. He expected it to be Hunter, reminding him of the party tonight. He was prepared to be annoyed, even though the thumping of his heart was not exactly a sign of anger, more like anticipation. But he was wrong, it was his mother. He held on to his annoyance, just in case. Beatrice Roberts was a very straightforward no-nonsense kind of woman, much like her son. She had raised him single-handedly since his father had left them when Fisher was ten, never to be seen or heard from again. Beatrice had encouraged him to do well academically, to rise to his potential. She had been there for every major event in his life. She encouraged him to get into journalism school, proudly watched him graduate. She had disapproved when he had chosen to buy a house with Hunter, and had been very vocal about it—she was no wallflower, she told him what she thought in no uncertain terms. It wasn't that she hadn't known Hunter for as long as Fisher had, she was good friends with Hunter's mother, Lisa. And it wasn't that she disliked him for any reason, or that she felt Hunter outshone her son in any way—although she conceded that he was good looking, she made it sound like he was very stuck on himself, and that his looks were almost feminine, which Fisher vehemently
denied. But she felt that having a roommate, even one he knew well, was no substitute for marriage, children, and making her a grandmother, which was the logical orderly progression of the way life worked. Even if it hadn't worked out exactly that way for her. But, at least she'd tried it, which was more than Fisher had, which was also why she had this annoying habit of bringing up girls she met whom he just might like to date. His own personal eHarmony.com. As if. Even if he were so inclined, which he wasn't, his mother was the last person he would ever think of calling on when seeking a love life. He hoped this wasn't going to be one of
those
calls.