If the price of that friendship was hiding a piece of himself, then so be it. It wouldn't be the first time. Probably not the last.
The rain began to taper off. Fisher had ordered and drunk two more macchiatos while he waited for it to end, rationalizing the sugar intake could be offset by eating a healthy dinner. Until he remembered that he was supposed to be eating at the party tonight. The one he'd promised Hunter he'd attend with him. What about that?
He shivered, although not entirely because of his still damp clothes. He could do this, he knew he could. He glanced at his wristwatch. He still had time to go back for his car, go home and grab a very brief shower and dress for the party. He was surprised that Hunter hadn't phoned him yet. But maybe that was to be expected, considering the way Fisher had left. Hunter was undoubtedly giving him time to come back to his senses, before he dropped the other shoe, told him he was kidding and finished the joke, so that Fisher could tell him good one! Fisher was determined to be his usual self with his friend, to show nothing strange, or untoward—or romantic. He would simply shelve those ideas where they could do no harm. And carry on like the good little soldier that he was.
The rain had become an intermittent drizzle as he walked back to the office parking lot, got into his car and drove home. On the way, he began to rehearse what he would say to Hunter.
"Sorry about that, I suddenly felt sick, and I didn't want to puke on you."
"I had you fooled, didn't I? I guess I can prank with the best of them, huh?"
Or even, "Gotcha!"
While the question that was closest to his heart would remain unasked—Hunter, why did you kiss me?
Just anything, no matter how inane, to get over this hump and back to normal. He thought of saying April Fools', but the timing wasn't quite right for that one. And coming from him, it wasn't quite believable, either.
They all sounded pretty lame, come to think of it. He hoped he would find some eloquence before he was called on to use it. As he pulled into their driveway, he saw no sign of Hunter's car, and only a minimum of lights on in the house. Usually he could determine whether Hunter was home or not by the number of lights he found burning, even in unoccupied rooms. That was a slight bone of contention between them that Hunter compensated for by paying extra toward the electric bill, smirking as he did so. Fisher pushed the thought of that sexy smirk firmly out of his mind.
The house was eerily silent as he walked through the front door, and for a moment Fisher wondered if Hunter had even bothered to come home. His first clue that his roommate had returned came when Lady Madeline approached him, meowing. He scooped her up into his arms, and carried her into the kitchen. His intention had been to feed her but he could tell at a glance that she had already been fed and watered, evidence that the other man had indeed been there. Duh. So he carried the purring feline down the hall, resisting the urge to peek into Hunter's room, continuing on to his own. There he and the cat parted company as he stripped off his still damp clothes and threw them into his hamper. He grabbed a towel from the linen closet, proceeded to the bathroom and took a quick but refreshing shower.
He returned to his room, a large towel affixed about his hips, another in his hand rubbing at his hair. He noticed what he had missed before—clothing had been laid out for him upon his bed, as well as an envelope, his name penned on it in Hunter's familiar scrawl. This must be his costume, though for the life of him, looking at the suit, he didn't know what he was meant to be, but he supposed it could have been worse. He was obviously neither a superhero nor a damsel in distress. That had to be a good sign, right? He was more interested in the contents of the envelope though, and carefully opened it. Even though in his present state of mind he was tempted to just rip into it, he allowed his normal common sense to prevail, and carefully slit it open.
Fisher,
I 'm sorry that my kiss upset you. I swear that's not what I intended. I'll be at the party. I hope you're still coming. Please come.
Hunter
At the bottom of the page was a hand-drawn map, as well as the address of the party. That was something that Fisher had never even inquired about, assuming that they were going together. It had to be a good sign that Hunter still wanted him to go. And that he was concerned about him, cared enough to apologize. See? The kiss hadn't turned out the way Hunter intended—it had obviously been no more than a prank, and Fisher had overreacted. Anything was surmountable, as long as they both wanted it to be. Fisher wanted more than anything to put their friendship back the way it was. He couldn't imagine his life without Hunter in it, and he didn't even want to try. He would never try anything so foolish as kissing his friend again. Although it was Hunter who had initiated the kiss that Fisher had longed for just as much as he did. But he wasn't going to think about that. Not now. Not ever.
He removed the towel, tossed it into his hamper, and began to dress. You couldn't really call this a costume, it looked like normal clothing. All right, clothing of the evening variety, not everyday wear. But still. No tights, no chaps, no peacock feathers, nothing even vaguely ludicrous, nothing he had to worry about refusing to wear—just a three piece suit, a dark gray pinstripe, a long-sleeved white dress shirt, button-down, a pale green silk vest, with a matching tie…
And suddenly Fisher's head cleared and he recognized the clothes for what they actually were. A prom outfit. And not just any prom outfit, but the very ensemble that he himself had worn to his senior prom, some fifteen some years ago. What was the purpose behind this, he wondered, even as he finished buttoning the vest, leaving the jacket open, just as he had worn it then. As they had worn theirs then, to be more accurate. They had shopped for their suits together, and had chosen to wear the same one, the only difference being that Hunter had picked out a baby blue vest and tie, as they were more flattering to his eyes. So this is what he was going as, a high school nerd? Was this a subtle reminder that he hadn't changed any over the years? He didn't have time to mull this thought over, or to argue with the selection—it was either this or no costume at all. The mask was a nice touch, though, one they certainly hadn't used for their prom. It was a full mask, silver, like the kind worn during Mardi Gras, with some sort of black headpiece attached, bordered in silver.
Fisher checked his reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of his bedroom door to see that he appeared to be presentable. There was a duplicate of this mirror in Hunter's room. They'd come with the house. Fisher had always maintained that he hated his and threatened to take it down, but Hunter invariably talked him out of it, some line about maintaining the integrity of the house or something. He had such a silver tongue, and he knew how to use it. Especially when it came to Fisher.
Chapter Six
Following Hunter's directions, Fisher drove for about half an hour to the spot on the map where the party was being held, somewhere on the far edge of civilization. It was in a private residence, one that was located in a fairly well-to-do area. The houses had nice price tags, and the architects had obviously had some fun with their design, not like the cookie-cutter suburbia that Fisher and Hunter had grown up in. Still lived in, actually, but it was what they could afford, and they never minded, because it was theirs.
The street was already fairly well blocked with vehicles, as he pulled up as close as he could get. The house itself sat at the end of an isolated cul-de-sac, which backed onto a large wooded area. Only then did he recognize it as belonging to one of Hunter's exes. He'd seen pictures of it before, but had never actually been there. The ex's name was Lana, and she and Hunter had fallen apart as had all of Hunter's relationships, but she had managed to stay in his good graces just enough to maintain a position on the periphery of his existence. Like an annoying flashback of a drug-induced trip that you never enjoyed, she came around often enough to make herself a nuisance, but not often enough for Hunter to tell her off. She possessed a fierce and abiding hatred for Fisher, one which she carefully concealed from her ex beneath a pseudo sweet exterior, but
Fisher was well aware of it and the feeling was decidedly mutual. It was a situation that was further exacerbated by the fact that her father just happened to be the owner/editor of the magazine Fisher wrote for. It was one of several publications that he owned in cities around the country. This meant that he had to play nice with the daughter to some degree. Why the hell hadn't Hunter apprised him of this earlier?
Already this did not bode well. But a promise was a promise. Especially one made to Hunter.
Fisher slid the mask over his face. He looked around, trying not to feel too obvious as he approached the house. Already he could hear the sounds of people having fun, and his first impulse was to turn around and go home. He saw no sign of Hunter's car, but that meant nothing. There were so many people here that he could have parked anywhere. Or he could be late. Fisher refused to entertain the notion that Hunter would be a no-show. That was simply not acceptable, and not in his friend's character.
From what he remembered of what Hunter had told him, this was Lana's playhouse, the place she went to get away from home and the watchful eyes of her parents. It had been provided by daddy dearest, of course, as Lana did nothing in the world that was useful, other than pretending to a sham interest in various charitable organizations. She played Lady Bountiful when the mood struck her, rode her thoroughbreds, which were stabled in quarters better than most people's homes, and entertained her friends in the style to which they wished to become accustomed. They were more hangers-on than friends.
Fisher remembered reading an article about this house in MWH&F when the house was first built; something about the architectural style of the house being a lake house design (although without the lake). It was a split-level, with lots of windows, and a number of politically correct green features, such as hydronic radiant-heated floors, energy efficient lighting and non-toxic materials. Being well-to-do made it easier to be green. Fisher noticed that the house was very well lit as he approached the steps leading up to the door, its inhabitants well displayed to the gaze of a casual passerby. The party seemed to stretch throughout the house, dancing guests in evidence on the lower level, gyrating to as yet unheard music, just on the other side of the sliding patio doors.
The front door was open; Fisher was grateful for small favors. Perhaps he could get through the evening without exchanging so much as a single word with the viper. Or was that viperess? Either way, that was Lana—fanged and poisonous.
The interior of the house was laid out in an open design, and the rooms flowed into one another, as did the guests—dancing, chattering, mingling, and posturing. Everywhere Fisher looked, he saw food and drinks. Catered, no doubt, as the kitchen showed little evidence of actual usage, certainly not by the chatelaine of the manor. Costumes of all varieties were on display in this colorful crowd, but Fisher paid them little heed. He was looking for one costume in particular. Intuition told him that the one he sought would be the mate to his own, the only difference being that it would have a baby blue vest in place of his green. He didn't know why he thought that Hunter was wearing the match to this outfit, but he did, and 'til he saw otherwise, that's what he was going with.
A smiling Harley Quinn offered Fisher a glass of something, which he politely refused. He had no intention of drinking anything alcoholic. He couldn't afford to lose control tonight.
With the costumes and the masks, it was impossible to identify anyone, but he suspected that he didn't know too many of the other guests anyway. He wondered how many were Lana's cronies, how many were aspiring sycophants, and how many were clients or potential clients she wanted to dazzle with her generosity. Or rather, Daddy's generosity.
Speak of the devil, there she was. He had wandered into the entertainment area. A DJ was visible in one corner, playing selected tunes over an elaborate home stereo system. He'd seen smaller speakers in concert halls. Leave it to Lana to be ostentatious in any way she could.
She held court in the center of the room, standing in the middle of a kitschy sunken conversation pit. That was her favorite position—in the center of things, and the object of attention. Her braying laughter was unmistakable. It elicited answering laughs of the mandatory kind from her group of toadies. They filled the couches on all four sides, hanging onto every syllable which dripped from her carmine lips. Her costume did nothing to conceal her identity whatsoever. Why was he not surprised? She was playing the part of Cleopatra tonight, in a figure-hugging gold lamé shift with matching cape and sandals. The dress was slit up the side, the better to show off her waxed, toned and glittered legs. She wore a bejeweled collar and a matching belt, with an elaborate gold headdress, probably real gold. It looked rather heavy. He hoped it gave her a headache. Her dark tresses were twined into braids, also jeweled, and extensions had been added to give her hair a fuller appearance. But she wore no mask, unless one counted the tons of make-up on her face, which made her easy to identify. Of course that was the idea, wasn't it, as she was never one to hide her light under a bushel.
Fisher hovered on the periphery of the room. He hoped to stay beneath the queen's radar long enough to scan for Hunter's presence. That shouldn't be hard; she was too wrapped up in herself to pay attention to anyone else. Still no sign of Hunter. His promised few minutes were up—he'd guaranteed no more than that. Still, he had no intention of leaving without at least seeing his friend. He wanted Hunter to know that he had actually shown up just for him, as he'd said he would. It was important to him that Hunter know he'd been there.
He almost made it out of the room when one word caught his attention. Hunter's name. It stopped him in mid-stride.
He wasn't trying to listen in on Lana's conversation. He'd tuned out her voice until he heard Hunter's name casually bandied about. Then curiosity ensnared him. He sidled a little closer "Yes, tell us about you and Hunter," a female voice was urging. "You promised a major announcement tonight."
"I did, didn't I?" An unpleasant smirk crossed the pseudo Egyptian's face. "All in due time, all in due time. Be patient, loves, be patient."
"You can't choose one man over the rest of us," a male voice protested. This was coming from a guy in a Boba Fett outfit, the mask serving to muffle his words. "That isn't fair, Lana!"
"Life isn't fair," she fairly purred, her eyes glittering. "But don't worry. Just 'cause I'm taking myself out of circulation doesn't mean I'm dying!"
"Lana, you can't marry him," Boba Fett continued to protest. "Marry me. I can make you happier than he can. And I have more money than he does…."
What? Fisher's head felt like it was ready to explode. He backed away from the laughing chattering group, feeling the need for some fresh air. Now. He worked his way through some minglers meandering about, going nowhere in particular but managing to get in his way. Maybe he could find the bathroom. He turned down a hallway, but the first door he tried led him into a bedroom, occupied by a furiously necking couple. They never noticed when he hastily closed the door behind him, moving on.
The next door he tried led into a powder room, done up in frilly pinks and purples and matching plush animals, but he was grateful for what he could find. He pulled off his mask, setting it on the back of the toilet. Cupping his hands together, he splashed cool water upon his face, ignoring the silent stuffed audience arrayed around him. Hunter's words were assuming a more sinister significance, one he didn't care for in the slightest. Knowing he was with someone else would be hard enough, but to have that someone else be Lana was well nigh unbearable.
Who was he kidding? He stared at his too pale face in the oval mirror, a picture of unhappiness. He would be miserable no matter who Hunter chose to spend his life with, if it wasn't him. So why not tell him that he loved him? Tell Hunter that he was so much a part of himself, and his life, that he felt as if his heart would break without him; that if Hunter left there would be a hole inside of him where he fit so perfectly now? Why not tell him all this and more? Because he knew it wouldn't make any difference. And he couldn't bear the rejection that was sure to follo
w upon such a declaration. And maybe worse.
Real life didn't work like that. That was the movies. Fisher knew better.
He replaced the mask and slipped out of the powder room, almost colliding with a tall blonde girl with meatball-ponytails, gawky in a school uniform, a makeshift scepter in her hand. "Oops!" she giggled as they danced around one another. "Sailor Moon drink too much!" She giggled again, pushed past him and disappeared from view, hastily slamming the door in her wake.
Continuing, Fisher found a door which led outside. He welcomed the rush of the chill night air. There was a terraced garden/patio on this side of the house, and a path that led to the woods. All of the furniture had been removed, leaving the stones bare, other than a pile of something in the middle. No one else was here, probably apprehensive over the threat of more rain and the potential ruination of their costumes. Fisher appreciated the temporary solitude.
Why did his life seem to be unraveling at this moment? Hadn't he done everything he should, taken the path that people thought he should take, chosen the right course of action? He had gone into journalism, just as his mom had told him he should, put away the novel he'd begun during his high school years—buried it so deeply that it only came to mind during times of great agitation, such as now. He'd gotten his degree, gotten a good job, bought his own house, paid his bills on time, and supported himself. He donated as much as he could spare to charitable causes. He visited his mother regularly. In fact he was the perfect son in all ways but one—he had never taken the big step with any of the girls that he dated, never made a commitment to any of them, and certainly never asked one of them the big question to end all questions.
Leonardo di Caprio is a Vampire Page 4
