Untouchable (boyxboy)

Chapter 12

I return to the house in the mid-afternoon. I'd managed to find a caterer who'd been able to promise most of the things Dylan and Isabelle each wanted.

Dylan wanted champagne and caviar, crab-cakes, and endive hors d'oeuvres. Belle wanted a beach-side barbecue. The caterer assured me she could make it work; I wondered if the same could be said for Dylan and Belle's marriage. They seemed to have vastly divergent tastes, and I wondered what had brought them together in the first place.

When I get back, everyone is relaxing by the pool, furniture relocation complete. I'm not sure why a man who lives mere yards from one of the largest lakes in the world would want a pool, but when I dip my hand in the water, I understand: it's heated.

Spencer and Mike are splashing around, playing a spirited game of 'Who Can Drown the Other First,' while Isaac and Dylan lounge on a luxury patio sectional beneath an enormous, canopy-like umbrella that hangs from a stand.

"Felix!" Isaac calls, waving me over. "Come join us!"

I obey, and Isaac lifts the top of the ottoman to reveal a refrigerated compartment full of bottles of beer. He pulls one out, pops the cap off, and hands it to me.

"Sierra Nevada Pale Ale—seasonal staple," he says.

I take it, although if he'd asked I might have refused, and sit beside him opposite Dylan.

"Got us a caterer," I say, breaking into a yawn as I do.

She'd been very kind and amenable, especially given the short notice, but talking to her was exhausting. She spoke at about a million miles an hour, and had the energy of a hummingbird on meth. I'd only been able to follow what she said about fifty-percent of the time, but the portfolios she'd shown me were lovely, and I was confident she'd do a good job. Still, when I finally escaped her office I'd been worn out, and even now I feel like an injection of caffeine would do me more good than a dose of beer.

"What about the bartender?" Dylan asks. "I don't want some shit mixologist-wanna-be handing out drinks. I want the real deal."

"That's for tomorrow," I say, rubbing my eyes.

Dylan frowns, and as I raise the bottle to my lips to take a drink, he nods at it. "You sure you should have that?"

I pause and return his scowl, confused. I don't drink often, and when I do I don't drink much. "What do you mean?" I ask.

He shrugs. "You're a light-weight. You know how you get."

I feel my frown deepen. I don't know what he's getting at or why, but I don't like it. "I think I can handle one beer, Dylan," I say, aware of how defensive I sound.

A tiny smile crooks the corner of his mouth, and I realize he thinks he just scored a point.

I take a drink of beer and turn the conversation back on him.

"How's Dad, anyway?" I ask.

"He's great," Dylan answers, leaning into the cushions at his back with a smug smile. "Didn't even notice you were gone."

I doubt that. Dad has good and bad days, sure, but there's nothing wrong with his cognition.

"Did he say when he was thinking to come up? It'd be best if he had at least a day to get used to the altitude," I say, ignoring Dylan's attempt at a jibe.

"How should I know?" Dylan shrugs and takes a swig of beer, his nonchalance confirming my suspicion that he didn't spend any time with Dad at all.

"Did you even talk to him?" I ask, feeling a coal of anger and resentment begin to smolder in my chest.