Leonardo di Caprio is a Vampire (8 page)

"As you were?" Fisher tried to deflect him from his first words, no use thinking that way. This Arthur had no idea what he was talking about. He didn't know Fisher, and he certainly didn't know Hunter. His comments were pure speculation, and nonsensical speculation at that. "Who were you?" Although he had a feeling that he should know.

"Arthur Rimbaud, of course. Thought you would have guessed by now. You're as slow at that as you are in discerning your own heart." The spirit snorted. "No wonder you're having to do this. Have you learned nothing from what I've shown you? Is there no awareness in that pea brain of yours at all?"

Rimbaud. Right. Sure. The only reason he even knew about Rimbaud was from Hunter. He remembered that Hunter had found
Season in Hell
in a bookstore and read part of it aloud to him. He hadn't gotten it, and he couldn't exactly say that the poetry appealed to him. But Hunter obviously liked it, so to please his friend, he had listened. Hunter had a beautiful reading voice. He could make anything sound sexy.

Fisher pushed the thought aside as irrelevant. He just needed to wake up, right? He'd find out that he'd been in bed the whole time, that this was just a dream. Although how he'd gotten home from the party, he didn't quite remember, but he must have, that's the only thing that made sense. He tried to pinch his hand, but his fingers only misted right through it. Damn.

"Well, happily for me, my time with you is done." Arthur yawned, pushing one hand through his hair, adjusting his shirt, which hung slightly awry on his slender frame. "Before I depart, though, I'll be nice and tell you something you should already know, so listen well, little man." He put an arm about Fisher's shoulders, leaning in to him confidentially. "To thine own self be true."

Before Fisher could find the breath to tell him that those weren't his words, they were Shakespeare's, Arthur was gone. Wow. This was some dream. Why couldn't he wake from it? And just what did that annoying asshole mean?

Fisher's head ached. He rubbed at one temple in a circular motion in an attempt to assuage the pain. Closing his eyes, he wondered what next. Was there any rhyme or reason to all of this? If so, what did it mean?

He didn't have long to wonder.

The flip-flopping of his stomach suggested to him that he'd moved again. Been moved. However this worked. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. He lay alone on the bedroom floor. Not his bedroom, it must be one of Lana's. So he was back where he'd begun. Figured. He must have blacked out when he hit his head on that doorjamb. Passed out and had one hell of a hallucination. That had to be the most vivid dream he'd ever experienced. Maybe he should go to the emergency room and get his head looked at, to be on the safe side.

His attention was drawn to a figure leaning against the doorframe in a slinky slut kind of pose. Fisher squinted up at her for a moment before he recognized who it was. Great, just what he needed. The bitch herself. He peered up at her, wondering if Hunter was with her. There was no sign of him, though.

"Enjoying the party, Fisher, dear?"

Her saccharine concern made him ill. Why was she pretending to be interested in his welfare?

Lana advanced into the room, hand outstretched toward him. He ignored her offer of assistance, managing to stumble onto his knees and then regain his feet.

"Daddy has big plans for you." She held a martini glass in one hand, sipping from it, regarding him with a pleased smirk. "Mmmm, appletini. Delicious. Want a taste?" She held it toward him, and it took all of his self-control not to send it rushing back at her, but he refrained.

"What do you mean?" He was giving her all of two minutes to say something worthwhile, and then he would leave. He just wanted to go home, to get away from here. He certainly wasn't in the mood to listen to her gloat. She had what she wanted. She had Hunter. Why keep torturing him?

"I know he's going to talk to you about it tomorrow, and I probably shouldn't say anything…" She paused for effect, waiting for him to beg her to go on. Fisher stayed silent. She shrugged. His compliance was obviously not necessary. "I'll tell you this much. The managing editor position in San Diego is up for grabs."

"And I care why?"

"You're Daddy's choice, that's why."

San Diego? Managing editor? Why him? Yeah, he'd heard rumors that it was going to happen, but he'd paid no attention. He didn't consider himself good enough to even rate consideration. There had to be people higher up the ladder more qualified, surely? Granted, that is what he went to school for, what his degree was in. But this wasn't anything he had expected to happen, certainly not so soon. And San Diego, of all places. Why, that would mean…

The light bulb went on at last. "You're trying to get rid of me."

"Why, Fisher, whatever do you mean? Why would I want to do that?"

Her voice reeked of insincerity. Other people might buy this act, but Fisher wasn't one of them. Now he understood. She must have put the suggestion into daddy dearest's head. Why San Diego? Because it was far away from here, and from Hunter. But he had to wonder why she would even care about that now, now that she had obviously ensnared him and was going to marry him. What difference did it make where Fisher lived? His head ached too much to give proper consideration to the matter.

Besides, her two minutes were done.

"I don't know, Lana, you tell me." He started to push past her, but she continued to block the doorway.

She tossed the empty glass onto the carpet with a careless gesture. It didn't break, rolling clumsily to a stop. She curled her hand about Fisher's chin, her eyes fixed on his. "To save you pain, darling," she cooed, "to keep you from seeing what I have and what you can't have and never will Surely you don't want to see us together? Wouldn't that be rather painful for you? Now be a good boy, and act surprised tomorrow when Daddy tells you. Take the job, and go to San Diego. It's really easy, if you try." Her smile was venomous, her words slashing across Fisher's heart like a scalpel.

Something inside Fisher snapped at that moment. He was tired of her, and tired of her spoiled rich girl attitude, her waste of a life, and her lack of a personality. He was tired of her trying to goad him into doing something he really didn't want to do, just to suit her own purposes. And he was tired of playing nice with her just because he worked for her father. He was tired of people trying to mold him into what they wanted him to be. All he had ever wanted to do was write. And be with Hunter. He'd given up his dreams of writing his book because his mother had made them sound worthless and hopeless. He'd thrown it away, hidden all of his desires and stopped dreaming, allowed himself to be turned into a journalist, allowed his life to be shaped for him. His mother had tried to separate him from Hunter, too, but he'd always managed to hang on to him. The rest of his life had been forced onto him. Maybe forced was too strong a word. Strongly suggested wasn't quite right either. He had no one to blame for that, though, but himself. He'd never stood up for himself in his whole life. He was no better than his father, letting himself be railroaded out of his only son's life. Why hadn't his father fought for him harder? Why? Did he just not care? Was that it? Or was the father as weak as the son? That whole acorn and tree thing, being played out in the pages of his life.

Hunter had always cared, though. Hunter was always there for him, with his cheesy jokes, his pleasure in playing pranks, his enthusiasm for life, his beautiful smile, and his unwavering friendship. Hunter was what mattered and always had. Certainly not this clownish excuse of a human being who was given everything and did nothing with it; a waste of space and a useless addition to the human race.

He stuck his forefinger directly in her face. "Lana, listen to me and listen to me closely, see if you can follow what I'm about to say. Keep your nose out of my business; it has nothing to do with you. I'm not going to San Diego. Not now, not ever. You can't get rid of me that easily. I'm staying here, and I'm staying in Hunter's life. And I'm going to fight you for him. With every last breath in my body I'm going to fight, because he deserves someone better than you, you overpriced painted sad little Daddy's girl. And I'm going to try to be that someone, 'cause yeah, I love him. Now get the hell out of my way." He pushed past her, although he did take a moment to pause and observe her expression, her painted lips frozen in an "o" of amazement, shocked into speechlessness. Just the way he liked her.

The party was still going on, apparently. Music poured through the house, as well as the sound of people laughing. The bonfire must either be done, or had lost its value as a pastime. No telling how long he'd been… been what? Asleep? Unconscious? Hallucinating? What was that all about, anyway? Somehow dream didn't quite cut it, 'cause he'd seen things that he'd never seen before. Things that made him wonder if they were true. Like that scene with his dad, although the rest of it was true enough, he'd lived it once already; those were obviously memories. Of course, he could have just imagined that part. No reason to think it was real, or that it had ever happened. But why did he dream about Arthur Rimbaud, of all people? And why did Rimbaud look like Leonardo Di Caprio?

As for his father, though, there was one way he knew of to find out.

He walked down the hallway, skirting a couple of partygoers whose unconscious forms littered the passageway, apparently having passed out at some point. He was careful not to tread on them. Reaching the same door he'd gone out before, he opened it, and stepped outside. The evening air was refreshing. A cool breeze caressed his cheek. The threat of rain seemed to be a thing of the past. The moon alone greeted his return. The horde of partying pyromaniacs was gone, no doubt dispersed about the house, engaged in other wacky hijinks. The bonfire was forgotten for other games. Ignored, it was burning itself out.

He was here for a purpose, though, which did not include playing Smokey the Bear. He pulled out his phone, punched in the familiar number. He hoped she was home, and alone. That would make things much easier. She answered quickly.

"Hello, sweetheart, I didn't expect to hear from you tonight. Did you come to your senses and decide not to go to that dreadful party?"

"No, Mom, I didn't. I'm here." For a moment he quailed at her tone. How would he do this? Ask her about things he'd never questioned before? Wouldn't it be easier to just say he'd wanted to say hello, nothing more?

A vision of Hunter appeared before him. God, he was so beautiful. Fisher wanted to cry in frustration. He clenched his free hand into a fist, the nails digging into his skin. A technique he'd used before to focus himself. No, he wasn't going to cry. He was stronger than this, if he'd only try. He knew he was. He knew he could do this. He was entitled to the truth, wasn't he? To know if what he saw was real, or just a strange dream?

"With him?" Why did she have to do that?

"Hunter's here somewhere, yeah. Mom, that's not why I called. I don't want to talk about Hunter right now. I want to talk about Dad."

His words were met with an abrupt silence. Well, what did he expect? He'd never talked about his father before, never even asked about him, not that he remembered. He'd been an obedient child, and accepted what she had told him without question. She must be shocked at this unexpected turn of events, and rightly so. He gave her a moment to respond, and when she didn't, he continued.

"Why did Dad leave us?"

"Fisher, why are you asking me this now?"

"Mom, please humor me. I need to know now, that's all."

"Fisher, be reasonable, you can't expect me to rehash everything. And certainly not over the phone."

"I don't want a rehash of all your arguments," he persisted. "I just need to know why. And why he never came back for me. When he left, did he… did he say anything about me, about wanting to tell me good-bye or anything?" He almost held his breath, forcing himself to breathe. Don't back down, not now. He had a right to know, didn't he, about his own father? Of course, she could lie about it, even if it was true, but he didn't think she would. She was like him, honest to a fault. Her sin was a sin of omission, not one of deception.

There was another long moment of silence. He began to think he'd lost the connection. He shifted the phone to his other hand as he began to walk the perimeter of the patio. He found his jacket where he had dropped it earlier, or rather where Hunter had dropped it. Picking it up, he shook off the leaves that covered it and shrugged it on. "Mom, you still there?"

"Yes, I'm still here, Fisher."

"You didn't say anything, I wasn't sure."

"Fisher, everything I've ever done has been for your own good, and because I love you." She sounded flustered. He wasn't used to hearing that in her. Suddenly he knew it was true.

"He did, didn't he? And you told him no. And you told him never to come back, or you'd call the police on him. That's why he stayed away, isn't it? It had nothing to do with me…"

"With you? Why would it have do to… Fisher, what's gotten into you? Why are you making these accusations?" He could hear the pain in her voice, and he winced. That hadn't been his intention.

Why indeed? How could he explain his sudden need to verify the truth? He couldn't very well say because he'd seen it with his own eyes, and that Arthur Rimbaud had seen it too. She'd have him locked up for sure, and he honestly couldn't blame her. He had been there and yet he found it hard to believe, himself.

On the other hand, her refusal to answer could be seen as an admission. Of what? Guilt? Duplicity? Being a mother? He sighed, attempting to order his thoughts. Even now, he found he couldn't be really angry with her. She was his mom. He decided to try a different tack.

"Was my writing really that bad, Mom?"

"What do you mean? You know I think you're a wonderful writer!" she said indignantly.

"No, you don't. You think I'm a good journalist. Admit it, you hated my writing. You told me I needed to quit wasting my time writing about things that aren't true, and to stick to the facts."