Scooter
Cabot and I crouch down beside the trailer so close to each other we almost bump heads. Today's scheduled clinic scene got canned when we received a call that a cat was hiding out on a set at the studio we normally film at.
As usual, we've been paired together since our 'rivalry' is the main storyline this season.
As much as I miss filming with the other guys, I'm enjoying spending time with Cabot and will take it any way I can.
I just wish we had a second alone together to discuss what happened in my bedroom three weeks ago.
We went from hot and heavy to arctic cold so fast it made my head spin.
I've been racking my brain, replaying every moment over in my head, searching for clues.
What did I do or say to make him react the way he did?
I have no idea, but that hasn't stopped me from being racked with guilt, figuring I must have done something wrong, even if I don't know what exactly.
I've confided in Courtland, one of my closest friends back home, about it.
He's a doctor, and after theorizing a number of possible explanations, he raised an 'out there' possibility that has stuck with me ever since he said it. Maybe Cabot has experienced some sort of sexual trauma in the past? During his work in Africa last year, Courtland met a number of people who’d lived through sexual trauma and abuse, and he said Cabot's reaction fits a certain profile.
I pray to god that's not the case, but that could explain the intensity of his reaction. We started getting physically intimate, and maybe something about that triggered a memory and caused him to back away so sharply?
I really hate not knowing, but it's not like I can come out and ask the guy. He wasn't meant to be in my room, and we'd both be in big trouble if production ever found out.
"You go ahead. You’re already dressed like you rolled in the dirt this morning," he says with a smirk, acting as if nothing had happened between us so convincingly that part of me wonders whether he came into my room that night at all.
He hasn't given even the slightest sign since to acknowledge it.
"No, no. After you. Your knees are better because, you know…I'm old," I say, keeping up my side of this whole fucking stupid charade.
He leans back, gives me a once-over the camera will love, and slides his tongue along his pearly whites. "Explains the fashion choices. But fine. I'll go…Grandpa Burns."
We engage in a little villain vs. villain stare-off before he lowers to his stomach and slides under the trailer, inching forward on his elbows.
The director yells "Cut and freeze" to keep us in place as he instructs a camera operator to crawl under the trailer with Cabot to get some shots from that viewpoint.
"When we start shooting again, ask him how he's going, okay?" Riff, my least favorite producer, who's on set today bothering everyone including the director, tells me.
"Sure," I reply flatly.
"And action!"
I glance under the trailer. The space is tight and dim, but Cabot keeps making his way forward, gently murmuring to the frightened kitten hiding deep in the shadows.
"How's it going in there?"
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 make me 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 cat and stole 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 intake by 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 make me look 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.