The kitten jolts at the sound of my voice, scrambling farther away from Cabot and the cameraman with a sharp, panicked hiss.
"Can you keep your voice down?" Cabot growls, facing the camera. "It isn't exactly soothing."
I sigh, not out of frustration at Cabot's response, but at how this scene will play out. It's bad enough the producers want me out of a show I helped make a huge hit, but do they need to makeme look like a buffoon in the process? What next? They get me to wet my pants so I look like an incontinent geriatric?
"Since you're going to be like that, if you get stuck, don't ask me to pull you out," I quip to save some face.
"It won't come to that. Some of us actually use the gym equipment for working out and not as a leaning post while we inhale our four breakfast croissants every morning."
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling. That was a good one. Something I would have had no problem saying myself.
I don't engage, just huff, roll my eyes for the camera, then turn my attention back to Cabot who's almost reached the scared kitten.
He stays perfectly still, holding out a bit of food the camera operator must have handed him, and murmurs something I'm too far away to hear. The kitten trembles but flicks an ear before crawling toward him and taking a bite of the treat.
With the kitten cupped securely in his hands, Cabot wriggles out from beneath the trailer, blinking against the sudden sunlight.
Cradling the trembling kitten against his solid, dust-covered chest, Cabot looks right at me, smiling victoriously like he got the catandstole the scene.
If only he knew the scene wasn't the only thing he was stealing.
"That's a wrap on the group shots. Well done, everyone." The photographer steps out from behind the lens, smiling like he's genuinely pleased with how our Speedo shoot went.
Ever since we started wearing these things this season, it's all magazines and online media want to see us in. I've actually had to cut my daily breakfast croissant intakeby half,which does not make me a happy camper.
We all start heading toward the change room when the photographer yells out, "Cabot, Scooter. Could you guys come back for a few more photos?"
"Sure thing," I call back, and we both turn around.
I'm fine with taking a few more photos since this is the main storyline of the season—a term that if I never hear it again for the rest of my life, it will be too soon.
What I'm not okay with is the position the photographer wants me in.
"No," I say as soon as I cotton on to what's happening. "I am not kneeling beside him like this."
"Why not?" the photographer asks, having the audacity to sound surprised.
"Because it makes me look like I'm about to suck him off."
"So what? This is for a gay magazine. It's fine. A little innuendo is harmless."
"Then why isn't Cabot on his knees in front of me?"
"Are you assuming being on your knees is inferior?"
"I don't think that at all. My dick sucking skills are next level, and I am very proud of them. But that's not what people seeing these images will think. These shots are designed to makemelook weak, and I'm not going to play into that."
A few tense seconds pass.
"Fine," the photographer relents. "You can stand next to each other."
"Good. And don't even think about it," I bark, pointing to the assistant who's walking over with a riser platform for Cabot who's barely a couple of inches shorter than me.
He drops his head and spins around.
I swear, the shit I have to deal with.
6
