Isaac is sweet to me, sliding beneath the covers, close but not quite touching. We lie face-to-face on our sides, heads resting on our arms.

I haven't shared a bed with anyone since I was a kid, and it feels a little strange—intimate and charged with a pleasant, mild tension—but not uncomfortable.

"How are you so beautiful?" he asks distractedly, playing with my hair.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I laugh. "You're the good-looking one."

"No way," he shakes his head. "I've never seen a guy as pretty as you before."

I make a face.

"I'm not saying you look like a girl," he says quickly. "You're...I can't explain it." He frowns, his eyes traveling my features with a careful scrutiny that makes me glad that, overall, I have pretty good skin. "You're a man, no mistake, but...I've never felt this way looking at a man before. Like I want you all to myself—forever."

He lifts a hand and gently strokes the side of my face. Then he leans in to kiss me, but stops, his lips almost touching mine. "Can I? Kiss you, I mean?"

Rather than answer, I lift myself just enough to close the gap, and touch my lips to his.

Taking the invitation, he pushes me back into the pillow with the gentle press of his mouth, and I feel the hot, wet tip of his tongue slide along the seam of my lips.

I part them, and he deepens the kiss with a soft sound at the base of his throat—a breathy, deep-toned sigh.

Letting him take the lead, I lie back and close my eyes.

A week ago, I couldn't have imagined enjoying something like this. I'd have thought it would be disgusting—the exchange of saliva, his tongue sliding over mine—but somehow it's not, and as his fervor increases, I realize that some of the quiet gasps and little wordless sounds are coming from me.

I'm definitely turned on, and when he slides his hand down my abdomen and beneath the band of my briefs, my whole body jolts with the shock of his touch.

Misunderstanding my reaction, he stops and pulls away from me. "Sorry," he says, his eyes searching mine and his shoulders rising and falling with his breath. "I got carried away."

"No, it's okay—really," I assure him quickly. "It's...good." My face heats at my own words, but I don't let myself look away from his eyes.

"Really? You're not just saying that?" he asks, brows creasing.

I remember what he said about not being able to trust my words, and decide I'd better be honest and clear, and show him what I mean.

"I don't think I'm ready for more, but this..." I bite my bottom lip and slide my hand down his side, feeling the dormant strength in the muscles there, and then gently caress the hardness between his legs. His whole body shivers and he bites off a ragged breath as his pupils spread wide. "This is okay," I finish.

"Felix..." My name on his lips is a sweet sound; gentle music that tells me I'm safe despite the sharp hunger lighting his eyes.

I can't really help with my bandages, but he's more than capable of 'handling' us both. He takes care of himself first, and then takes his time with me. He makes me come while he kisses me, stroking me with one hand while his mouth covers mine, stifling the noises I make with the gentle press of his lips and tongue.

Afterwards we lie together, him curled against my back with one arm around my waist, holding me close.

I'm nearly asleep when he shifts and speaks in my ear.

"Hey, Felix," he murmurs, sounding barely conscious. "Guess what?"

"What?" I mumble, face pressed to the pillow that smells like him.

"I think...I love you," he says, and then, almost instantly, his breathing switches to the slow, gentle rhythm of sleep.

I, on the other hand, lie awake for a long time, listening to his words on repeat in my head.

#

The next few days seem to pass like a dream. My hands heal quickly, and I'm able to practice my wedding music without difficulty, while Isaac makes the final arrangements and gets everything in order. The afternoons and evenings are ours, and while we don't do more than touch and kiss, I'm beginning to feel more comfortable in my own skin—able to let him know what I like or don't like without turning radioactive with embarrassment.

I can't say I'm good at it, but Isaac is skilled enough for both of us. He's naturally sensual, able to communicate and learn through physical touch, until he can play me like an instrument. It makes me curious to find out what it will be like to explore further, to try something new, but at the moment I'm still not there yet.

He doesn't repeat the words he spoke that night, either, and I wonder if maybe I'd dreamed them, after all.

The day of the rehearsal dinner dawns bright and clear, and the forecast promises sun. By noon, the house has started to fill with all the major players in the affair—and I'm kept busy making sure everyone has enough to eat and drink, and with getting those who will be staying at the house settled in their rooms. Most of the attendees will be staying for the next two days, until the wedding itself.

Belle and her parents are the first to arrive, followed by Dylan and my dad. Next come the bridesmaids, and finally three of Dylan's friends, including his best man. They all have the same sort of obnoxious frat-boy look that they probably should have grown out of a long time ago, but seem to be proud of themselves for having maintained.

The recital isn't scheduled until the late afternoon, and everyone is settled, the guests start to mingle and relax. I find my dad and Dylan outside on the patio with Belle and her mom, and join them.

"How are you, Dad?" I ask, sitting at his side. "Feeling okay?"

"Oh, yeah," he says, waving a thick-fingered, semi-wrinkled hand. "The doc made me bring this stupid oxygen tank, just in case. Makes me stand out like a sore thumb, but I gotta admit it makes it easier to breathe up here."

He kicks the little portable oxygen canister at his side.

"How 'bout you, kid? Doin' alright?" he asks, rubbing a hand across my shoulders. "I missed you at home, but I'm glad you had a chance to get away. You work too hard. Gotta learn to enjoy yourself, you know? Life's short."

I don't like it when he talks like that, even if it is true.

"Yeah, I'm good," I say, and smile. "Isaac and I have...had a lot of fun." I feel my face grow warm, and carefully avoid looking at Dylan, who I can feel watching me.

My dad leans closer, gripping my upper arm for support. "You know," he stage-whispers, "I think that boy is sweet on you. Handsome, too."

"Dad!" I protest, blushing harder.

"What? He seems nice. You should take a chance." He smacks my arm good-naturedly.

"Dad!" I hiss.

Fortunately, Dylan, Belle and Belle's mom are engaged in a conversation about the housing market, and aren't listening.

Despite my reflexive embarrassment, I can't help smiling. From the other side of the pool where he's talking to his own dad and Dylan's friends, Isaac catches my eye and winks.

"Actually, Dad, you're right. Isaac is sweet, and handsome, and...he's a really good kisser, too."

His grizzled gray brows lift and he peers at me with interest. "You know that from experience?" he asks.

"Yeah." My ears feel so hot I wonder if the tips are glowing.

"Huh. Good for you, kid. Good for you." He pats my arm, then turns away and covers his mouth with a bandana as he coughs.

"Hey, you want something to drink?" I ask. "Water, or lemonade or something?"

He nods. "Yeah, some water, maybe. Actually, it's about time I took my pills anyway." He checks his watch, and then reaches in his shirt pocket and swears. "Ah, crap. I must'a left 'em at the hotel. Dylan—" he calls, looking up, but Dylan has wandered off to join his friends, and they're all laughing loudly, beers in hand.

"Ah well. It can wait. Won't kill me to miss one dose," he grumbles.

"Don't worry about it," I say. "Give me your room keys and I'll go. Just tell me where they are."

"Thanks, kid," he smiles, fishing out the room keys and handing them over. "They're in my black bag in my room, inside pocket. We're in suite 5A—closest to the water. Great view," he adds, frowning at the pool and the lake beyond. "Not like this place, but...nice."

"Yeah," I say, touching his shoulder. "I know what you mean."

He'd always done his best—a single dad raising two boys—but I knew he wished he could've given us more, and that he felt as out-of-place as I did among the opulence of this house.

"Okay. I'll be back soon."

I stand and make my way through the house and up to my room to get my car keys, looking for Isaac on the way. I spot him, but he's busy setting up a volleyball net on the beach, so I just wave when he looks my way. He waves back and grins unselfconsciously, and I feel my own smile widen at his look of blatant, undisguised happiness.

Keys and wallet in hand, I head out to my car and then drive the short distance to the place where Dylan and my dad have a room. It looks more like a bunch of nice apartments than a hotel, and each suite includes at least two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, and a sitting area. I drive around until I find the building where suite 5A is, and park.

Using the keycard, I unlock the door and go in, taking a quick look around. As he'd promised, Dylan had rented a handicap-friendly suite, all on the ground level. Dad had told me his room was the one nearest the kitchen, so I try that first, but there's no sign of his black travel bag, or any of his stuff, for that matter.

The rest of the suite seems empty, too, so I try the other bedroom. Maybe Dad got the rooms mixed up, I think, and this one is his. Pushing the door open, I spot the bag right away, poking out from under the bed as though it had been stuffed there in haste. I pull it out, plop it on the bed and unzip it, but it doesn't contain Dad's travel kit.

Instead, it's full of unmarked DVD cases.

I pull one out and open it, and what I see makes my stomach drop. There's not a cover image—for which I'm thankful—but the words printed on the disk are descriptive enough.

Words like "school-girls," "jail-bait," and "lolitas."

Feeling ill, I pull out another, and another, each seeming worse than the last. I see words like "torture," and "rape," and others that I don't know the meaning of but which I'm sure aren't anything good.

I have no idea what might be illegal and what might not; whether the actors in these films were just acting, or if they were coerced, or how old they really might have been.

But one thing is clear: this isn't just Dylan's personal collection of sick porn. It's his oeuvre.

I know because his name is on them. Not his real name, but the made-up joke name he'd used when he'd made silly amateur videos with me as a kid—before he changed—and later, too, with other friends—one of whom is currently serving as his best man. Dyl A Nonymous—not exactly the most imaginative of fake monikers, but clearly one he'd carried with him to film school and—apparently—well beyond.

I stare at the pile of open cases, hands shaking, mind racing.

This is bad stuff. I don't know how bad, but I know it's bad, and that I can't possibly just shove it back under the bed and pretend I never saw it. I take out my phone and pull up Isaac's number, tapping the "call" icon. I don't know why, but he's the one I reach for first.

Before it can connect, though, a hand closes over mine, cold and hard, and yanks the device from my grasp. Surprised, I leap up and turn, heart hammering in my chest, to see Dylan tap the red button and end the call. He pockets my phone, looks up at me, and sighs.

"You couldn't just leave well-enough alone, could you?" he says, shaking his head. "You had to go and fuck things up. And now what, Felix? Now what are you gonna make me do?"