The World According to Vince - A romantic comedy (Gym or Chocolate Book 2)

by Stuart Reardon

  “Mate,” Rick said, leaning forward, “what was that speech all about?”

  I grinned. “Yeah, well, I saw a camera crew and just went for it. Media whore, right? All about the opportunity, me.”

  “It was wonderful,” Grace said faintly.

  “Yeah? Cheers, Gracie!”

  I was surprised and pleased that she’d actually paid me a compliment. Maybe my strategy was working.

  “Dinner tonight, my treat?” I asked hopefully, deciding to strike while the woman was hot.

  “Not if you paid me in gold bars,” she said, her eyes returning to her phone.

  She didn’t even look up. Rick did, and the grin he gave me was well irritating.

  “Crash and burn,” he muttered.

  “What did you say?” Grace snapped, turning her frown on Rick.

  “Nothing,” he lied.

  He melted into the back seat as her eyes bore into him.

  She turned and tapped on the taxi’s dividing panel. “You can drop me here.” Then she turned back and stared at both of us. “You,” she said, stabbing her finger at Rick, “keep him out of trouble,” and then pointed at me as if she wanted to poke me in the eye.

  Throwing another scathing look, she swept out of the taxi like royalty. Fookin’ hot!

  “Are you sure you want to keep trying to date her?” asked Rick. “She’s a bit scary.”

  “Nah, she’s a softie really, I can tell.”

  I watched her march down the street and sighed when she disappeared into her office building.

  “Right, you want to come and run me dogs?”

  “Nah,” Rick grimaced. “I’ve got some paperwork to do at the gym. We still on for the suit-fitting at three?”

  “Yep, I’ll see you there.” I was about to wave him off when I realized I had no money. “Eh, you couldn’t lend us fifty for the cab, could you?”

  Rick groaned. “Sure. What’s fifty on top of ten thousand? You’re killing me, buddy.”

  “I’ll pay you back, no worries.”

  I grinned and gave him a thumbs up as he climbed out of the taxi and headed for his gym.

  Now I spend a lot of time in the gym. Physical perfection—that would be me—takes time and effort to get my body as amazing as it is, but I don’t live at the gym like Rick does. The dude literally has an apartment over his fitness center. Until he met Cady, he didn’t have anything else in his life. I did persuade him to try Tinder once, but that didn’t go so well. Cough, stalker!

  The kids were happy to see me when I opened my front door and walked into the hall. Zeus yipped loudly, telling me in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t impressed by my absence. Tyson hung back, grinning at me goofily while his tail ricocheted off the wall. And sweet little Tap was trying to climb my leg and jump into my arms, but she couldn’t quite make it. So I scooped her up and let her lick my face, giving her the reassurance she needed.

  There’s nothing like the welcome from your four-legged (and three-legged) family. Always happy to see you. Always sharing the love. Best feeling ever.

  I let them all outside for a slash and a crap while I changed into my running clothes. But Tap followed me around the bedroom, nuzzling my calf from time to time, as if she was checking that I really was home.

  “Poor little lass, aren’t you?” I said, stroking her soft fur. “But don’t worry—dad’s home now. So, what did you think of Gracie? I know you ate the Milk-Bone she gave you so I think you must like her. You don’t take treats from just anyone, do you?” And I pulled her ears as she stared up at me like I was her sun and moon.

  That’s the other thing about having dogs in your life—you are their whole life. It’s not like they’re going to write their novel while you’re out and about. They’re pack animals for a reason, and I was the pack leader, I was their everything. And in return their love was unconditional. Human beings are never that cool. Dogs don’t stab you in the back.

  It was an awesome responsibility and one I didn’t take lightly. If I couldn’t get a good sitter when I was on a shoot, I didn’t take the job. Simple as.

  And I was still worried about those dogs at the shelter. I needed to go over there and check on them, even though Gracie had told me to stay away.

  I looked around my apartment and wondered how I’d fit in five more dogs, even temporarily. I sighed, wishing I had room for all 17, but now I was completely sober, it didn’t seem like my best idea ever, but five more I could manage until they were re-homed. It would be a squeeze, and my kids would be jealous, but I couldn’t let innocent lives be lost. I’d get over there after the suit-fitting.

  Tyson and Zeus came barreling into the bedroom, letting me know that they were ready for their run.

  I locked the back door, collected three leads and a pet sling for when Zeus and Tap got tired. I looked like a dick, but I didn’t care.

  It was half a mile to the dog play area at Pier 6. That was far enough for Zeus and Tap, but Tyson was just getting going and loved to find another dog his size to play with. Tap was too nervous to play with dogs she didn’t know, so she curled up on my knee and Zeus snoozed in the pet carrier.

  As soon as I sat down, a hot bird with a nice pair of knockers was on me like white on rice.

  “Oh my God, that’s so cute! Are these your dogs?”

  She leaned down to stroke Tap, giving me an eyeful of her tits, but Tap curled away from her, peering up with worried eyes.

  “She’s a bit shy with strangers,” I said. “Zeus is more of a slut—he’ll let anyone stroke him.”

  She giggled and tossed her hair back. “I love your accent. Are you Scottish?”

  I got that a lot. Americans heard my northern accent and assumed I was a kilt-wearing Jimmy.

  “Nope, Derby born and bred, me.”

  She obviously had no clue where I meant, but I was used to that. She stroked Zeus who raised his head and yawned, causing Miss Tits to back off as she caught a whiff of his rank breath.

  “Oh, yuk!” she huffed, waving her hand in front of her and screwing up her face.

  At which point I lost interest in her. I knew Zeus had bad breath, but there was no need to hurt his feelings.

  Love me, love my dogs.

  After I’d grabbed Tyson from the dog play pen where he’d just shoulder-barged a Jack Russell he was playing with, sending the little fella rolling like a beach ball, I apologized to the owner who at least understood that it wasn’t malicious. Tyson just got over-excited and forgot he was the size of a ten-ton truck, and he wasn’t at all keen to leave his new playmate behind. The Russell was up and shaking himself, tail going like the clappers. No grudges held.

  We jogged back slowly while Tap and Zeus curled up together in the pet carrier. Being with my dogs was my happy place. Although hot sex with a raging fox was up there, too. My thoughts turned to Grace. Was she softening towards me?

  I checked my watch and sighed; time to get back, feed the hounds, then meet Rick for a suit-fitting with Uncle Sal.

  Uncle Sal’s real name was Signor Salvatore Finotello. He was a top bloke and top tailor with Armani. In his youth, sometime in the last century, he’d been the fitter at all the catwalk shows and was definitely the best at tailoring bespoke suits. Most people had to wait six months or more for an appointment with him, but he thought I was the dog’s bollocks and made sure he had time to sort out a couple of wedding tuxes for Rick and me.

  Some models can be such wankers, and think that only the couturiers count and that fitters or senior tailors like Uncle Sal don’t matter. But it’s like a Formula One car—a nice design is going to get the fans drooling, but it’s the mechanics who make it fly. Same with designer clothes: you show some fookin’ respect.

  The kids were sleepy after I’d fed them so I didn’t feel too bad going out again. Even so, Tap tried it on.

  “Enough with the sad eyes,” I said, kissing her on the top of her furry little head. “Your dad has responsibilities. I’ll be back soon, promise.”

&n
bsp; She sighed heavily as if my promises meant nowt, which was a bit harsh, and limped off to her bed.

  I was running late, as usual, so I didn’t check my phone as I hurried out the door.

  It was ringing when I found Rick waiting for me outside Emporio. I was already a few minutes late so I just let it go to voicemail again.

  “You could have waited inside, you tosser,” I grinned at him. “It’s freezing out here.”

  He shrugged and looked uncomfortable, frowning at the enormous glass-walled entrance, several storeys high.

  “Blimey, it’s only a suit-fitting—you’re not going to be stood against a wall and shot, you sad muppet! It’s for your wedding. Cheer up a bit!”

  He grimaced, although it might have been a smile. “Let’s get it over with,” he said, the grumpy bastard.

  Uncle Sal looked about a hundred years old, maybe more. He’d been with Giorgio since the start and no one wanted to guess what would happen when he finally snuffed it. He’d come to New York to promote the opening of the Fifth Avenue store ten years ago and stayed because he said New York was his spiritual home.

  “Ciao, Vincent! Come sta il mio bellissimo ragazzo? Vieni a dare a papà un bacio!”

  He was gay as a coot and flamboyant as a flamingo, always wearing eye-watering waistcoats and matching cravats in orange, yellow or salmon pink. He belonged in a 1950s film with Doris Day. I fookin’ adored him.

  I bent down so he could kiss me on both cheeks, and then he pressed my hands to his chest.

  “You are naughty boy, Vincent! You break my heart to stay away so long!”

  I winked and didn’t bother to remind him that I’d dropped by the previous week to arrange our fittings.

  “And who is this beautiful brute?” he asked, eyeing Rick up and down.

  The look on Rick’s face was priceless.

  “This is me mate Rick Roberts, the happy groom,” I said introducing them. “Rick, this is Signor Salvatore Finotello, top tailor in the biz.”

  “Bellissimo!” Uncle Sal sighed, pulling Rick down to kiss him. “But why you boys so big? You are like un toro.”

  Uncle Sal had known me a lot of years. We’d been based in Milan together when I was doing the catwalk shows. I was straight out of school and skinny as a rake. I had muscle tone because I was into kickboxing at the time, but I’d never really put on any weight. My teeth were crooked as fook, but even so, that’s when I got talent-spotted to be a model. As long as I didn’t smile.

  Runway models are tall, skinny aliens—the women and the men. On the catwalk, we were kings, but see us in real life and we looked like we’d been made in Plasticine and stretched, all gangly arms and knobbly knees.

  That’s what Uncle Sal was used to and that’s what he liked. He didn’t approve of the muscles I’d gained since I stopped fashion modelling. Now fitness modelling—that was a different world, and one I was still exploring.

  “I know, Uncle Sal,” I grinned at him. “Built like a brick shithouse these days, but you’ll fix us up.”

  “I don’t know how I work with all this mooscle,” he wailed, pulling out his tape measure. “Clothes off! Adesso!”

  Rick looked horrified but I just shrugged. I was used to being down to my keks or less in front of twenty other dudes, girls, too. No glamor behind the scenes at a catwalk show.

  My phone started ringing again but I ignored it, stripping off and getting ready to be sized up by a professional.

  Rick took it more slowly, side-eyeing me as I let Uncle Sal wedge the end of the tape measure up by my meat and two veg, and measured to the ground (my leg, not the crown jewels, although my wanger is nearly to the ground). Uncle Sal muttered something and his assistant pencilled it into his notebook, then Sal measured the circumference of my thigh.

  “No, it’s impossible!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “You are too much meat, Vincent! The pants will not hang well.”

  “Nah, it’ll be fine, Uncle Sal,” I grinned at him. “You’re a wizard in the cutting room.”

  “Wizard, yes; miracles, no,” he muttered unhappily.

  Then he turned his tape measure on Rick. “Dresses to the right,” he commented, and the assistant made a note in his book as a red flush started at Rick’s neck.

  “Don’t worry if he tickles your tiny todger,” I said cheerfully. “It’s all part of the service.”

  “You are cheeky boy, Vincent,” Uncle Sal said, wagging his finger at me. “Why do I stand for this?”

  “Because I’m your favorite,” I winked.

  Uncle Sal muttered to himself but I could see that he was smiling.

  Rick looked as miserable as a turkey in November while Uncle Sal fluttered around him, measuring and muttering and thoroughly enjoying himself.

  Rick completely tuned out when me and Uncle Sal started discussing whether these tuxes should have peak lapels, shawl collars or notch lapels; nixed a slim fit, discussed traditional cut, but went for modern fit in the end.

  Rick just nodded when I told him to, about a million miles out of his comfort zone. At the end he handed over his credit card and said he didn’t want to know, unless it was more than my bail charge. It was close. Quality costs.

  “Eh, trust me, mate. You don’t want to know. But Uncle Sal will cut you a deal.”

  Rick winced and stuffed the receipt in his wallet without looking.

  We fixed up a time for our next fitting, then I hugged Uncle Sal and gave him a big smackeroo. Rick tried to shake his hand but ended up getting kissed anyway.

  While we took the stairs back to the ground floor, I was vaguely aware that my mobile phone had hardly stopped buzzing with texts and messages. But I was in a rush to get over to the animal shelter.

  Rick was going back to the gym (what a surprise) and I headed through the busy streets, but as I neared the shelter, the road was partially blocked by news crews and crowds of people. Police were frantically trying to keep the traffic moving, and losing the battle.

  As I neared the shelter, the crowd was thicker and then I heard someone yelling.

  “There he is! The Canine Crusader!”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see who they were talking about, but suddenly a reporter with a microphone the size of a koala was in my face.

  “Vincent Azzo! You’re back at the scene of the crime!”

  “Uh, well…”

  “How does it feel to know that every single dog at this shelter has been adopted because of you?”

  A broad grin swept across my face. “Really? Every single one? Even the old fella with the torn ear? They’ve all been adopted?”

  “Yes! You didn’t know? Would you like to give us a quote, Mr. Azzo?”

  “It’s fookin’ fab! I’m really happy that all the dogs have gone to good homes.”

  “Every dog shelter in the state of New York is reporting the same phenomenon, and dogs are being adopted all over the city. They’re calling you the Canine Crusader!”

  “Wow! I got a superhero name! That’s cool! Do I get a cape?”

  “Ha, I don’t know. But you’re certainly a hero to these dogs.”

  “I’m right happy about that.”

  “I believe that you’ve been charged with burglarizing this shelter, is that correct?”

  “Yeah, I had to go to court this morning, but it weren’t too bad. The judge let me out on bail.”

  “Would you break the law again to save a furry friend?”

  I answered seriously. “If a dog is on a kill list, then yes I would. No dog deserves to be on death row just because he hasn’t got a home. What kind of people let that happen? It’s wrong!”

  The reporter turned back to the camera.

  “And there you have it. The Canine Crusader would break the law again to save the life of another dog. And they say we don’t have real heroes anymore.”

  I winked at the camera because I didn’t know what else to say, then pushed my way towards the entrance to the shelter.

  A harassed woman wi
th a clipboard didn’t want to let me through, but when she recognized me, I was allowed in. I found myself face-to-face with a stiff in a suit who was the shelter’s director.

  “Do you know what you’ve done here?” he hissed at me. “We’ve been under siege all day. I’ve personally been threatened with violence!”

  I stare at him, puzzled. “But I thought all the dogs had been adopted. What’s the problem?”

  He turned purple and spittle flew from his mouth.

  “The problem is that people are calling me a dog killer!”

  My gaze hardened.

  “Five dogs were on your kill list. Five dogs who now have a home. If you’d been doing your fookin’ job right in the first place, this wouldn’t have had to happen.”

  “How dare you!” he screeched, pointing a trembling finger at me. “You have no idea of the pressures we’re under! Costs go up year on year but our budget doesn’t. We’ve lost another part-time member of staff, and now we’ve got a broken door to pay for, no thanks to you!”

  I felt a bit guilty about that. “I’ll pay for your door.”

  “You most certainly will!” he snapped. “I’ll make sure of it.” He took a breath, his piggy little eyes narrowing. “You know, nothing about this is easy—we have shelters in five boroughs for the whole city and take in 30,000 animals every year. One in five have to be euthanized because we have no space! We know which animals we can help and the ones no one wants. Even if we had the room—which we don’t—is it better for an animal to be in here for three, four, five years with no hope of being rehomed?”

  He had me there. I had no idea that homeless dogs were such a huge problem in the city. And I had to consider the idea of a kill list against a beastie being kept in prison for years instead. Neither was something I wanted on my conscience.

  “You need more money, mate,” I said. “And better publicity. And seeing as I seem to be flavor of the month for the next 15 minutes, why don’t I use it to try and get the donations flowing in?”

  He gave me a skeptical look and answered stiffly. “All donations will be gratefully received.”

  “Right then! The Canine Crusader is on the case!” and I stepped back outside. “Right! Everyone here, give us five bucks for the shelter. Yeah, and you journalists! It’s the price of a coffee and a muffin—you’ll hardly miss it. Come on, hand it over!”