Scott

"What did you get, Tay?" Isaac Hanson questioned from his position in the doorway, where he was hovering, much like a moth hovers around a flame.

Taylor and I both jumped - we'd forgotten about Isaac. I flashed Taylor a look of alarm. Oh man, Ike would probably want to see the pic - and no fucking way that was happening.

Taylor laughed like a nervous chipmunk. "Ahahaha, oh, just a stupid drawing some fan drew. I swear, it makes me look like Richard Simmons or something."

He snapped his hand forward and grabbed the photograph from me.

Ike laughed. "Well, Tay . . . I wasn't going to say anything about it, but . . . the resemblance is striking . . ."

"Okay, now we know how valid their attempts are at saying we look alike if Ike says you look like Richard Simmons," I said, watching as Taylor carefully but quickly slid the photo back in its innocent envelope. Words couldn't describe the kind of sudden paranoia and fear running through my veins. There wasn't just a picture in that envelope. Held so tightly in Tay's trembling hands, my entire career . . . no, scratch that . . . my entire life, was sealed in that plain, ugly brown envelope. But it wasn't just my life, or my career. It was Taylor's, it was Dave's, and Zac's - it was Clint and Bob and Isaac's, too.

"Breakfast," Isaac reminded us, heading back into the living room portion of the hotel suite. "The most important meal of the day!"

I saw Walker strolling through the room throwing a doughnut hole up in the air and tossing his head back, to catch it in his mouth. "I taught Zac everything he knows!" he crowed merrily. Walker's early-morning enthusiasm was hardly infectious. Taylor and I sat there like stone figures, both lost in our own rivers of thought, until Taylor whispered,

"Shit."

I couldn't think of a reply. It was an understatement, that was for sure!! Oh my God, it seemed like . . . it seemed like I had just gotten in a car crash or something. The shock had only barely begin to paralyze my mind. If I had thought that meeting Taylor was a shock, and finding love in him a bigger one, and then, yet, our probing, intimate sexual experiences a yet larger surprise, then I was probably having a heart attack right now and wouldn't know it till I woke up in a hospital somewhere.

"This is fucked," Taylor murmured slowly. "So fucked."

"Who do you think saw us? I looked around . . . there was no one!" I then asked.

Taylor picked up his hands in preparation to rip up the envelope. At first, every vein in my body screamed out for him to do so and be rid of the black evidence of our relationship, but then I shook my head.

"No, Tay . . . it won't do any good."

"Oh shit - you're right . . . whoever our voyeuristic friend is, he or she probably has, you know, the negatives or more copies, or even more pictures."

I raised my eyebrows. "Well, we only kissed for like two seconds."

"But whoever took this succeeded at getting that tiny amount of time on film," Taylor pointed out. I folded. He was right. There was no telling who saw us, what they saw, what they wanted, and why they were choosing to let us know in such a I Know What You Did Last Summer way. It kind of made me feel stalked, as if whoever saw us wanted us to be afraid, and wanted to give me an early heart attack.

"This is creepy," I pointed out.

"I'm scared. What if our dads find out? What if our brothers find out?" Tay wondered, his voice hushed. "You know, besides Zac and Dave, those little spies. They probably have our shoelaces bugged."

I shivered. "Quit, you're blowing this way out of proportion."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to. But what if . . . what if . . . what if this gets out to the press? On the internet? Out to fans? Do you have any idea what kind of stir this would cause?"

"I can only imagine. It's not a pretty picture, in both ways," I sighed.

Taylor's body gave a visible shudder. "God. This is one of those sudden, weird things that has been happening a lot lately."

"Tell me about it. I plow you over. The next day, I tell you I love you. The day after that, we've been found out by an amateur photographer," I said, small spiky feelings beginning to prick on my skin. I could feel the sudden nausea coming on.

"Aw, shit. Shit, shit, shit."

"Does your coarse language make you feel better?" I questioned Taylor, gripping at the bed as the room began to swirl around me and lose its form.

"Yes. Shit."

"Okay, good, because guess what, I'm about to have a panic attack, and I just felt I should warn you."

"Huh?"

I screwed my eyes shut in effort to squeeze away the fear mounting in my chest.

"Panic attack," I wheezed to Taylor as an invisible, icy grip wrapped my abdomen in a temporary state of suspended animation. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, nor could I see straight for the indescribable paranoia and unexplainable fear racing through my brain. Thoughts began to pop up out of nowhere.

Now everyone will know about your little secret. You'll never work in music again. Your brothers will hate you, your fans will hate you, your parents will be so disappointed, and no one will ever see you the same way ever again. It felt like there was somebody chasing me or somebody trying to hurt me and I couldn't prevent the person from harming me. I felt naked and unprotected, and gasped in relief as the grip lightened a little and the thoughts ran ragged and dry.

Taylor's voice cut through the haziness.

"Scott?"

I realized he was holding my shoulders and shaking me a little. I cracked an eye open, focusing on his worried face before mine, his brow screwed up in a concerned furrow and his eyes piercing at mine. My mouth opened before I could think about what I was saying.

"Wow, you're cute when you're scared shitless."

"Wish I could say the same for you. You looked like you were trying to give birth to an alien out your ass," replied Tay. "Listen. Scott. I just realized, do you think whoever left the photo left one at your room, too?"

"Oh, fork!" I moaned, slapping my hand against my forehead. "God, I hope my family has the common decency not to look at the contents, if the person did leave an envelope."

"We should go check," Tay said tensely.

I agreed, and we leapt up to search for clothing in our urge to prevent the wildfire from spreading further. I found the pair of black pants and the light blue button-up shirt I'd brought and slid into them in record time. As I was buttoning up my shirt to the collar, I checked out what Taylor was wearing, and it turned out to be a pair of black, well-fitting Dickies, a thin white T-shirt, and a slim-cut black button-up shirt that was meant to be left open over the clothing. He was smoothing his hair back into a ponytail. His fair skin practically shimmered in the late morning light, and the golden glints hidden in the wheat blond of his hair were being picked up. Something gleaming and silver caught my eye.

"Taylor Hanson."

"Yeah? Oh - shit. Scott." He eyed me up and down for a moment. "Fuck, that looks great on you."

I forgot about what I was going to say for a moment and smiled importantly. "Thanks."

"Hell, you knew it already, didn't you," he teased. I just nodded and said in a serious tone,

"You're a little punk, Tay!"

Taylor

"What?" I asked, taken aback.

"How come I never noticed you have an earring?!" he demanded. "Jesus, boy!"

I reached up and fingered the small, modest, narrow silver hoop in the cartilage of my left ear, then let it rest gently on the side of my ear again. "You likey?"

Scott suppressed a laugh. "Got any tattoos you wanna show me?"

I turned around and hooked my thumbs in my belt, pretending to be preparing to pull my pants down. "Yeah, now that you mention it . . ."

His eyes brightened. "Am I going to see a flash of naked white ass? Hope hope hope."

I giggled. "Dumbass. Come on, I'm still nervous about that stupid picture."

"Do you think it's safe for us to go out in public?" he asked, his dark eyebrows arching a bit in fear.

"Yeah . . . it should be. We're only going up a few floors."

"Yeah, but . . . we're in full view of the public the entire time. Glass elevators. Lobby," Scott shrugged. His fingers toyed nervously at one of his buttons, unbuttoning it and then rebuttoning it immediately, in a repetitive loop.

"We can take the stairs," I suggested. "They're pretty out-of-the-way."

"That's an idea. You up for climbing up three floors?"

"If you are," I replied.

"It'll take longer," he said, pointing out the disadvantage.

"Would you rather have whoever our little stalker friend is see us, that is, if he is here?"

"What if we don't do anything raunchy?"

"Well, he or she could still get more proof that we spend time together and know each other. If the picture ever got leaked out into the press, or on the internet, I suppose it would be easy enough to pin as a fake. Every time a picture of us in the same vicinity of a girl pops up, it's quickly proven a fake. I'm sure angry fans would do the same. But if our photographic crony got more evidence, the image would be hard to place as a fault."

"The saddest thing is, is that it's just close enough to where you can tell it's us, and that we're kissing. It's kinda obvious it's us, if you know what we look like. Whoever took it got a really good vantage."

I recalled the picture in my memory, and a brilliant idea flooded my mind.

"Scott! We could figure out where they were."

Scott seemed to read my mind. "Oh my God. Fork. Exactly! Look at the background of the photo! It's the fountain on the left and the coffee shop on the right. What's across from those?"

"Um, um, the elevators, the stairwell, and a few hallways I'm not sure of," I replied, mapping out the hotel in my brain.

"Let's go stand right were we were and look the other way. We can pretty much figure out where the person or persons was standing," Scott said, as taken with the idea of playing Maxwell Smart as I was.

"Okay, but let's do it after we go by your apartment. Then we can grab Zac and Dave and get them to help us," I suggested.

"Yes, great. Like we said five minutes ago, let's go." Scott snatched up his tie and I took my wallet, pager, and keycard from the dresser. We headed out into the living room, Scott placing his tie around his neck and tying as he walked. It reminded me of a business man on his way out the door in the morning, late for his carpool or something.

"All dressed up? Where are you going?" Ike questioned from his seat on the couch, reclining in his pajama pants and T-shirt, with the morning newspaper and a doughnut hole. His hair, which hadn't been fine-tuned this morning, made him look like Shirley Temple on steroids. It would be ironed flat soon enough.