“I’m never eating cucumbers again,” McCormick mutters, crossing himself with a half-eaten protein bar.
“I didn’taskyou to,” Nash replies smoothly, not even looking at him.
From behind the camera, Margaret Anne is fanning herself with a clipboard. “Oh myword, that one’s going on the cover.”
“Seriously?” Nash deadpans. “All I did was water a houseplant with my balls out.”
“Yes,” she says, “but withdignity.” Though there’s nothing dignified about it.
Then, before they can tear down the set, Nash—still gloriously nude except for the gloves and the well-positioned ficus—clears his throat.
“Uh… is it cool if we get a few bonus shots with my cat?”
The photographer blinks. “Your cat?”
“Yeah. Valor.” Nash nods toward his gym bag, where a sleek black cat peeks out with an expression of pure judgment. “He’s got a little straw hat. We practiced last night.”
There’s a long pause.
Then Margaret Anne stands, one hand on her hip, the other over her heart. “That cat’s about to be Miss May, too.”
“Surprised you didn’t bring Leif,” Brewer points out, referring to Nash’s beloved house plant.
“I would never subject him to this.”
“But you’ll subject the cat?” Brewer asks.
“He owes me. Just wait till you get home and see what he did to your heating pad.”
Mr. June:
JUNE is McCormick’s personal Super Bowl. The theme? Cookouts. Fireworks. Freedom. Patriotic meat. In other words: his natural habitat.
He shows up thirty minutes early with a duffel bag full of costume pieces no one asked for, including a glittery cowboy hat, red knee socks, a sparkler that may or may not be legal, and two hot dogs mounted on dowel rods for “dramatic handling.” He’s already shirtless. Already oiled. Already grinning like a man who knows he’s about to ruin the photographer’s day.
McCormick’s prosthetic leg gleams with chrome polish and custom red, white, and blue detailing—a bald eagle decal across the shin. He props it up on a small charcoal grill for the opening shot, flexing dramatically while someone blasts “Born in the U.S.A.” through a Bluetooth speaker. He’s got ketchup on one nipple and a mustard smear down his ribcage. It is intentional. It isart.
“I swear to God,” the photographer says, lowering their camera. “This looks like if Uncle Sam opened a fetish food truck.”
“This isheritage,” McCormick declares, brandishing a hot dog like it’s a saber. “This is sacrifice. This is grilling for freedom.”
Someone from the peanut gallery (probably Rhett) mutters, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
Stiles just leans against the wall, sipping a soda, watching McCormick with the kind of fond exasperation that only comes from knowing exactly what’s under that flag-print swimsuit. “You’ve got relish in your hair, babe,” he calls.
“Good!” McCormick shouts. “It’s my war paint!”
And the thing is, beneath the ridiculousness, heownsit. The prosthetic leg isn’t something he hides or downplays. He jokes about it, poses with it, even uses it to hold an extra hot dog in one shot. He’s not trying to inspire anyone. He just wants to make people laugh and maybe sell a few calendars for BALLS while doing the full-frontal patriotic wiener tango.
When the shoot wraps, McCormick starts loading hot dog props into a tote bag.
“You can’t take those home,” the photographer says.
“Icanand Iwill,” McCormick replies. “We’re having a themed night.”
Stiles groans. “God help me.”
McCormick grins, holding up a condiment-streaked bun. “You’re gonna.”
