Leonardo Di Caprio is a Vampire

Excerpt

"Did you know that Leonardo di Caprio is a vampire?"

Fisher Roberts stopped in mid-chew of a mouthful of high fiber cereal to cast a wary, disbelieving glance at his best friend and roommate Hunter Long on the other side of the table. Wary, because he wondered what in the world Hunter was going on about so early in the morning. Disbelieving, because he only had so much time for breakfast before he had to get going to work, and he had a bad feeling that Hunter was trying to eat into that time. Why he wanted to do that was beyond Fisher. Of course, a lot of things about his roommate were beyond Fisher, despite the fact that they'd been friends since they were--well, too young to actually remember how long they'd known each other. But for as long as Fisher could remember, he and Hunter had been best buddies. And he'd learned over the years that, with Hunter, longevity did not equate to knowledgeability, far from it.

Now, Fisher could react in one of two ways. He could ignore his roommate and keep eating. Pretend he'd heard nothing. But from past experience, that would only cause Hunter's performance to escalate. That would entail taking more time to decipher what he was saying, and in the process make Fisher even later to work. Or he could simply bow down to the inevitable and give in by asking him the question he was doubtless waiting to hear. Even if it brought about that smug smirk he was so fond of wearing.

Fisher finished chewing, swallowed, and managed not to roll his eyes as he reached for his juice to kill off what was left in the glass. Waste not, want not. "What do you mean?"

Hunter Long might be six foot two and possessed of a body that many a male model would kill for--at least that's what Fisher heard the girls who flocked around him say--with the palest of blue eyes that twinkled all the time, and a smile that could and did light up a room. But honestly, he had the capacity to be an overgrown child at times, and this was one of those times. Fisher chalked it up to it being that time of year.

"Well," Hunter replied, "look at him, going on forty, and he looks just like he did what, fifteen years ago? It only stands to reason he must be a vampire. They never age, you know. I mean take a look at us. We're almost his age, but over the years we'll grow up to be little old men and he'll still be playing sweet baby-faced guys even when he's collecting Social Security; know what I mean?"

"There are no such things as vampires," Fisher made his typical logical reply, "and just because it's Halloween tomorrow night, and you've got the house all decorated for it, doesn't mean you have to bring it to the table. Know what I mean?" He arched a no-nonsense brow at the other man. This was not Fisher's favorite time of year. Neither was Christmas, come to think of it. Or any other holiday. Ironic that he should write articles for a living that meant he was forced to expound on such seasonal topics for Midwest Home and Fantasy, a regional online magazine with a growing fan-base, when he had no real interest in them himself, being a practical, no-nonsense kind of a guy.

"I'm a vampire." Hunter smiled, leaning across the table toward Fisher. "Want to see my fangs?"

"No thanks," Fisher promptly replied, shaking his head. "Let me guess. You bought a costume and you're going trick-or-treating tomorrow night. You know something? Vampires are so overdone. You should try something else, something even slightly more original. Honestly, if you've seen one bloodsucker, you've seen them all. They're all just stupid and boring. And non-existent. Or, and here's an original idea, grow up and stop dressing up. That's what children do and we aren't children any more. We're thirty-three, Hunter. Playtime's over."

"Never." Hunter chuckled, "I refuse to grow up and I refuse to let you grow up. Besides, it's for tonight, not tomorrow night. For the Halloween party you promised we'd go to. Remember? The one you said you'd get a costume for? You didn't forget, did you?"

Fisher groaned. He had completely forgotten. Or, to be more accurate, he had pushed the promise out of his mind right after he had made it. It had actually been made under duress, when Fisher had been tired and not thinking properly, after one of their all-night bullshit sessions. If he'd been in his right mind, he'd have never made such a stupid agreement, considering how much he hated the holiday. Hunter had taken definite advantage of him. As he generally did.

"I... I can't go," he mumbled, risking a quick glance at his wrist watch. Damn, he had to go. To work, that is. He swallowed most of what was left of the milk in his bowl, careful not to spill any on his jacket, and set it down on the floor for their cat, Lady Madeline, to drink. Her full name was Lady Madeline Usher, named after the Edgar Alan Poe character. His roommate's idea, of course. She was a stray Hunter had brought home one night, said he'd found her sleeping on the street, and how could he refuse her shelter? She'd been with them ever since, some six or seven months now. She was a fluffy white cat with mismatched eyes--one blue, one green--and a gentle disposition. She rubbed gratefully against Fisher's ankle before delicately lapping from the bowl.

"Besides," Fisher continued, even though Hunter hadn't said even one word in protest, "Why do you need me around? I'll just cramp your style. Your ladies complain that you don't pay them enough attention when I'm around. They'll be glad if I don't show up, so they can claim your undivided attention. And besides, I don't have a costume." That part was true. He hadn't bothered to get one, seeing as he had completely forgotten about it. Nothing Freudian about that at all.

Fisher got up from the table, having dismissed the matter already, at least in his own mind. He carried his dishes to the sink once the Lady was finished with her milk; he rinsed them out and set them into the dishwasher for later. He was already thinking ahead to what lay in wait for him at the office. He wasn't being dismissive of Hunter's feelings; he just didn't have time to go into this at the moment. Like everything else in his life, he tucked it away for later. However, by the time that he reached the front door, laptop in hand, prepared to step outside, Hunter was already there, his long lanky body filling the space between Fisher and the outside world by leaning against the door.

"I have one."

"You're making me late," Fisher moaned, before asking, with a sigh, "You have what?"

"A costume. I also took the liberty of getting one for you. I knew you'd forget."

"Thanks," Fisher mumbled, half under his breath, squirming uncomfortably. "Now I'll just have pissed off groupies to contend with."

Hunter laughed, brushing one hand lightly over Fisher's arm, reassuringly. Fisher hated when he did that, not because he abhorred his friend's touch, far from it. He liked it too much for his own good. And because with just one touch, Hunter could get him to do damn near anything. He had once jokingly told him that he should become a masseuse, but Hunter's reply was that he didn't want to touch anyone else. Fisher knew better than to take that the way it sounded. It was just Hunter being Hunter.

"You know they come to see you, stud, not me." Hunter grinned. "They only use me to get to you."

"Yeah, right." Fisher was out of time, and anxious to get away from that intimidating touch, the one that talked him into things he should have more common sense than to go along with. It was time to be responsible in the real world. Part of that responsibility meant getting to work on time.

"What time?" he heard himself weakening. "Maybe just for a few minutes, okay? But no pressure. When I want to go, I'm going, all right?"

"Party starts about eight," Hunter replied, "and the nice thing is, we can wear our costumes again tomorrow night, when the trick-or-treaters come."

Yeah, right. Fisher didn't see that happening. Especially since he invariably managed to wriggle out of the Halloween night extravaganza that Hunter pulled off every year, the production he made out of the simple act of distributing candy to the children that came to the door specifically to beg for it. It occurred to him he hadn't even asked what costume he'd committed to wearing. He sincerely hoped it wasn't something outlandish--like Mae West or Jabba the Hutt. Hunter had a weird sense of humor. One year he tried to talk Fisher into playing Ricky Ricardo to his Lucy, an idea that had been soundly vetoed. But he had no time to worry about the costume right now.

"Fine, whatever, I gotta go, move."

Hunter leaned over and ruffled Fisher's hair lightly, before vacating his position. "See you tonight," he said with a smile, as Fisher ducked out the door and ran to his car. He couldn't help but think that Hunter'd gotten his way--again. What else was new?