Marcus sighed, a theatrical expression of disappointment. With a slow, fluid motion, he rose from the lounger. He carefully laid Trent’s limp, heavy body down along the length of the cushions, adjusting the younger man’s head so it rested comfortably.
"Continue for me, Trent," Marcus whispered into the sleeping man’s ear, his voice laced with a lingering post-hypnotic suggestion. "Slowly... keep that rhythm. We'll begin another round the moment I handle this distraction."
As if on cue, Trent’s hand moved in his sleep, his fingers curling around his cooling length in a slow, mechanical mimicry of the earlier session. Satisfied, Marcus reached over and snatched the purple-and-black striped towel from Alistair’s stone-still shoulders. He draped it around his own waist, covering himself with casual elegance, and stepped toward Gabe.
He stopped just a few feet away, his aviators hiding his eyes as he appraised Gabe with a cold, calculating intensity. "You know, I think we started on the wrong foot," Marcus said, his tone shifting to something almost appreciative. "Now that I have a moment to actually look at you... I see a great deal of potential. I understand what Trent saw in you. There’s a raw, jagged energy in your frame that would be fascinating to capture."
"Get out of my way, you freak," Gabe growled, his fists clenched so tight they were shaking. "I'm taking him."
"No, you aren't," Marcus said calmly. He reached back toward Alistair, gesturing for the tray. "Here. Take a glass of whiskey. Let’s speak like civilized men."
"I don't want your fucking whiskey!" Gabe roared. Instead of taking the glass, he lunged forward, his arm swinging in a wide, violent arc. He struck the silver tray with the full weight of his fury.
The tray flew from Alistair’s hand, the glasses shattering against the stone floor in a spray of amber liquid. The sudden, violent force caught the living statue off guard. Alistair, weighted by the heavy polymer coating and locked in a rigid flex, began to tilt. His center of gravity was gone.
"Alistair!" Marcus’s voice broke into a rare, genuine panic. He didn't look at Gabe; his entire focus shifted to his falling masterpiece. He lunged forward, his arms reaching out to catch the hundreds of pounds of shimmering, glossy meat before it could crash onto the hard stone floor.
Gabe didn't waste a second. He turned toward the lounger, ignoring Marcus’s frantic struggle to balance the giant statue. He reached down and hoisted Trent’s dead weight over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The performer's massive, unconscious frame hung limp, his hairy chest pressed against Gabe's back as Gabe's legs strained under the sudden, monumental load.
"Put him back, Gabe!" Marcus screamed, his voice muffled as he strained against the cold, unyielding weight of Alistair’s torso. "You’re ruining everything!"
"Go to hell!" Gabe shouted back, turning around one last time. As he did, he couldn't help but notice the biological glitch in Marcus’s "art." Despite Alistair’s vacant stare and frozen limbs, the giant's dark, heavy member was pulsing, a fierce erection rising in response to the frantic, skin-to-skin contact of Marcus trying to stabilize him.
"This fucking place..." Gabe hissed to himself. He turned his back on the scene and began to sprint toward the service elevator, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm of escape as he carried his broken lover away.