Love is a Walk in the Park Read online

  Love is a Walk in the Park

  V.L. Locey

  Stephanie Locey

  M/M Contemporary Romance

  Sullivan Haines knows exactly what he wants out of life. Fame as a Broadway dancer and to find the man of his dreams. Sadly, his love life is a dismal mess, his roommate is PMS personified, and working at a dingy dance studio teaching old people how to tango and foxtrot is not exactly the bright lights. Actually, life in the Big Apple is pretty rotten, until he and his dog run into tall, dark, and oh-so-handsome Duane Hart in the park. Their pooches hit it right off, but can the two men find romance along the park’s winding paths?

  Duane Hart hasn’t had a lot go right in his life. His girlfriend recently broke up with him, taking everything that wasn’t nailed down or in his roommate’s name. Well, everything except the Yorkshire terrier that he didn’t want to get in the first place, and that she now refuses to take back. However, when he meets a handsome stranger and his pit bull in the dog park, will the blooming heat in his chest be able to convince him to start dating again? Or will fate prove love isn’t a walk in the park, after all?

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Love is a Walk in the Park

  Copyright © V.L. Locey & Stephanie Locey

  First E-book Publication: April 24, 2019

  Cover design by: Meredith Russell

  Edited by: Kathy Krick

  All cover art and logo copyright © Meredith Russell

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Gone Writing Publishing

  ~~*~~

  Acknowledgments

  Vicki

  To my family, who accepts me and all my foibles and quirks. Even the plastic banana in my holster.

  To my alphas, betas, editors, and proofers who work incredibly hard to help me make my books the shiniest we can make them.

  To Rachel who helps keep me on time, in line, and reasonably sane.

  If you want to keep up with all the latest news about V.L. Locey’s upcoming MM romance releases, sign up for my newsletter by visiting my website:

  http://vlloceyauthor.com/

  Stephanie

  To Mom, who followed her dream and inspired me to do the same.

  To Dad, who worked for years to give me the good life I have.

  To Dillon, who gave me countless pep talks.

  To all my friends, who keep me grounded.

  Chapter One

  Sullivan

  Oh, dear God, someone just shoot me now.

  I rolled my eyes as dramatically as I could, which was damned dramatically, but none of my elderly students cared. Truthfully, they probably couldn’t see my theatrics because they were elderly. I added a sigh as the 4/4 tempo for a foxtrot blared through the studio.

  “Okay, ladies, okay, listen up now!” I shouted to be heard over the rather appalling version of “Call Me” set to a slow foxtrot beat. I clapped loudly as I stalked to the sound system in the corner, my little black flats slapping the worn hardwood floor. If Julian would spend more money, we could afford a damn stereo with a remote, but Julian was a cheapskate old bastard of a boss.

  Several gray heads turned to look at me when I cranked the music off. I gave the oldsters my most charming smile.

  “Ladies, we have to start on our right foot.” I picked up my foot and shook it in case those in the back had their hearing aids turned down. “Two backward steps, back and back, and then side right and then close right foot to left foot.”

  “Do we do that too?” Mr. Bernstein asked from my left.

  “No, that’s for the ladies. The gentlemen start with the left foot. Two walking steps and then left side together!” My work grin was in place. Mr. Bernstein looked at me with knitted silver eyebrows. “Let me show you again.”

  And so it went. Eight hours on my feet trying to teach senior citizens and bored kids how to ballroom dance. This was not at all what I had envisioned when I graduated from NYU with a BFA in dance. Going home smelling like arthritis cream and mothballs was about as far from my dream of dancing on Broadway as was humanly possible.

  I sighed again as I pulled a zebra-print poncho over my baggy sweater and legging combo. Typical look for work, although my hair was frizzy today, so I’d swept the long mass up into a swirling sort of bun but not a bun. More like an elegant but messy knot. Now long strands hung in my face as I exited and locked my tiny studio.

  Julian’s Dance Academy on 41st Street in Brooklyn had four instructors, each with their own little space. Julian Girard, the fat French toad had his, which was the biggest, of course. Egoist. Julian was as gay as I was but didn’t wear it nearly as well. He’d had a two-bit role as a dancer in an off-Broadway show back in the late eighties. One show and then done. He’d used his glimmer of success to open this rat-trap studio in 1989. So far he had made no improvements to the building or the sound system, and he hit on me at least once a week. As. If. I truly hated the man, but jobs in the business were scarce and until one of my damn auditions panned out, or my YouTube Channel took off, I was stuck here with the Viagra crowd. Another sigh burst out of me. I’d pass out soon if I didn’t stop sighing, but it was just so depressing.

  I passed the locked door of Minnie Markle’s small studio. Minnie was no relation to the now Duchess of Sussex. She taught tap and was an okay sort but rather mousy in comparison to me, but then again, who wasn’t? I snuck past the closed door that belonged to Ekaterina Petrov who was a ballerina back when Nicholas the Second was sitting on the Russian throne in 1868. No shit, the woman was ancient. A mere husk of a human being that shuffled around in a tight tutu—gag and shudder—barking at terrified students in a confusing mix of Russian and English. She also carried a walking stick that matched her chosen tutu for the day. When the petite allegros were not to her standards, she beat on the floor with her stick and cursed in Russian until a child cried then she would smile and resume class. She scared me. Dead people walking around brandishing sticks were scary.

  I’d almost made it out the front door when Julian cut me off, sliding his big belly between me and freedom. I tossed my chin up and met him sneer for leer. The thought of waffling him with my tote entered my mind, but I opted not to batter the boss this evening.

  “The Ricci’s complimented you today,” he said as he ran his tongue along his upper lip.

  “That’s good. I have a date so…” I lied and waved a hand at the door his bulk was in front of.

  The man pouted. It was not a good look on such a jowly face. He slicked his upper lip again.

  “And yet you say no to me for nearly two years. Why is this?”

  “Because sleeping with the boss is wrong,” I countered, tugging my jacket shut when I caught him eyeballing my sweater. “And I have standards.”

  “Oh, Sullivan, you wound me!” He smiled widely then licked at his upper lip again. The man was amphibious. It made me queasy to think of him fantasizing about his tongue and my flesh. “Someday, my pretty little star, you will lower your standards and I’ll be waiting.”

  He lapped at his upper lip yet again. I pushed past him and burst out onto the sidewalk, the lovely smells of Red Hook an improvement o
ver the froggy smelling cologne Julian bathed in.

  “Yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck!” I shimmied around in a circle as the heebie-jeebies overtook me. I’d enter a monastery before I’d sleep with Julian. Giving my boss a glower as he watched me through the dirty glass panes fronting the shop, I scurried away, skin still covered with gooseflesh.

  The subway ride home was grimy and delayed for some obscure reason, so I spent an extra twenty minutes packed into a train with my nose in some guy’s armpit. Wouldn’t my folks care or be proud of me if they could see me? They’d kind of lost interest in me when I began showing a preference for dance over football. We did live in Ohio and they so wanted a son who went to Ohio State to be a fullback for the Buckeyes. They’d been so bitterly disappointed when I ended up going to NYU for dance that they kind of stopped reaching out. Actually, they’d been disenchanted with me long before I chose my major. It started when I’d come out at thirteen. Oh yes, I’d known who I was at quite the tender age. Dad was the first to pull back emotionally, and then Mom soon followed. They were never outwardly mean or ugly to their eye-high kicking gay son, they just kind of slithered into the shadows in the hopes that they’d not have to be associated with me.

  I sighed again, right into an armpit. Thank God it was spring and a chill was still in the air. Mr. Armpit was wearing a coat, so my nose wasn’t right in his armpit hair.

  “Life in New York is just so glamorous,” I muttered factiously. Mr. Armpit gave me a confused look. I smiled and willed the train to get moving soon. When it lurched into motion, I cheered internally.

  Twenty-five minutes later the doors opened for my stop. I wiggled and shoved my way to the door and then out onto the platform. Immediately I dug into the tiny zebra print tote dangling off my arm and found a bottle of hand sanitizer. Climbing up out of the subway smearing gel all over my arms and nose, I hit fresh air—relatively speaking—and inhaled. Just four blocks to my fashionable little apartment. I could kick off my flats, curl up with my sweet little baby puppy girl, and hopefully not have to hear my roommate bitching about something. I loved Aliyah dearly. She was like the miserable sister I never had, but on the days Julian slathered and slobbered all over me, I just did not want to deal.

  The brisk walk in the cooling evening made me feel a little less icky. A shower and a shave would be the only things to truly cleanse me properly, but the hint of spring on the breeze was nice. Brooklyn Heights was lively tonight, maybe because others felt the fingers of a long, cold winter slipping away just as I did. I’d lucked out being able to move into this historic neighborhood. Aliyah, as I had found out in my freshman year, was a wealthy and giving little cranky-pants. Her parents had divorced when she was young and made up for that split by spoiling her rotten. Her mother was a Manhattan princess, born into money, and was a famous author who wrote terrifyingly graphic horror novels. Her father was a Japanese businessman who owned the world’s largest medical robotics firm. He’d moved back to Tokyo after the divorce, remarried, and had two young children, twin boys. So yeah, Aliyah was loaded. Totally unpretentious about it, but rich as fuck and happy to share her wealthy ways with her poor, struggling dancing friends.

  She and I had been living here together for over a year, enjoying life in a huge refurbished apartment building that overlooked the river and Manhattan, which was just across the water. There were four condos in the building. One was ours, one was for her mother, one for her father, and one was for storage. Yeah, a flat that was worth about two million dollars was used for storage. Boggles the mind, does it not? My measly hundred bucks a month donation to the grocery bill was a joke, but I insisted on paying for my food even though Aliyah always argued vehemently about the check when I shoved it under her nose.

  I pranced up the steps and under the arched doorway, eager to see my dog and rest for a bit. Before I went inside, I paused and turned, casting my gaze to the island where all my dreams resided. Manhattan. Broadway. It was right over there. I could be there in less than thirty minutes, under the marquees, touching the bricks of famous old theaters, inhaling the greasepaint. The dream lay just over there. I reached out to touch the glittering skyscrapers with a shaking finger.

  “Really? Are we doing this ‘I can almost touch my dreams bullshit on the stoop’ again?”

  My arm flopped down dejectedly. I threw Aliyah a dark look over my shoulder. “Truly you are a blistering cow bag.”

  I flounced past her, tossed my tote to the table just inside the door, and waited in the foyer. The scrabble of dog claws signaled the approach of my sweetie pear, Princess Pizazz Periwinkle. I opened my arms.

  “Come to Mama, Princess Pea!” I shouted and braced myself. A fifty-eight-pound black and white pit bull rounded the corner, tongue lolling, drool dripping, and launched herself into my arms. I stumbled back into Aliyah as my face was washed thoroughly. “Oh gosh! Oh yes! Who is Mommy’s precious Princess Pizazz Periwinkle? Is it you?! Is it you!? Yes, it is!”

  “There is something wrong with you, you do know that, right?” Aliyah said as she passed the love fest taking place in the foyer. “I’m working on the floor in the living room, so the gate is up.”

  “Right.” I hefted the squirmy pit higher up into my arms then followed Aliyah down the hall to the living room. She threw one long leg over the dog gate then the other and stood just on the other side of the gate. “Wow, that’s looking cool as hell.”

  “Thanks. I was in the mood for something aquatic.” She studied the fresh mural on the oak hardwood floor while tapping at her chin, which was speckled with aquamarine paint. “Do mermen have dicks?”

  “One would think so,” I replied, my arms tiring. I let Pizzy, as we called her, down to the floor. The dog sat down beside me, tail wagging, one ear pricked up. “It’s probably a fishy kind of dick.”

  Aliyah wrinkled her nose as she studied her work. The woman was a gifted artist who sometimes felt the need to move off her canvas to other areas such as the floors, walls, and ceilings. Our apartment was richly decorated with murals in vibrant colors and scenes that ranged from the Serengeti to Atlantis, or whatever underwater world that was coming to life on the living room floor as we spoke. We’d met in college and had hit it right off, our bitchiness levels being equal. Now we were roomies. She smoked and painted and babysat Pizazz and bitched, and I taught old Jewish people how to Cha-Cha and made vlogs and pampered my hair and bitched. It was a match made in heaven.

  “Fishy dicks sound gross.” She walked over to the scene on the floor, barefooted, her short black hair falling into her face when she bent over to inspect a mermaid boob. “I like this breast though.” She touched the dark blue nipple. “Sometimes I wonder if I should give up men and go gay. Did I mention that Nick, the talking scrotum, has not called me back?”

  “I told you not to hand over the sweets so quickly, but did you listen to me?” She flipped me off. “She didn’t listen to Mama, Princess Pi-Zazz,” I cooed to my dog. “Right. I’m off to find some food and then shower, condition my hair, and tidy up my honey trail.”

  “Julian hit on you again, eh?” She was lost to the artwork already, I could tell by her distant tone.

  “Yes, the disgusting blob. Any callbacks today?” Sweet Lord, that sounded so needy. Aliyah did glance my way, pity in her pretty brown eyes. “Okay, I can tell by that look no one has called. By all the gods above! Why are you torturing me like this?! I have talent. I can dance and sing and have all this glorious golden hair!” I freed my messy knot and let my tresses tumble down over my shoulders. “I’m so sad. I think I may weep.”

  “Go shave your pubes. That will make you feel better.” She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in my direction. I coughed discreetly. I’d bitch at her about her nasty habit but since I lived here rent free…

  “Unfeeling Jezebel,” I huffed and stalked to the kitchen, Pizazz on my heels.

  “I made some meatloaf. It’s in the fridge.”

  “Thank you, honey cakes,” I called back as I sailed i
nto the kitchen. “We love Ally-Boots don’t we?”

  Pizazz barked softly for yes. Such a smart dog! She was the only good thing my old boyfriend Dirk had ever given me. The first Dirk, not the second Dirk. The second Dirk was a loser with no aspirations but a cock like a Clydesdale. The first Dirk was in love with me, or so he professed, and gave me my precious puppy for my birthday two years ago. Then he left me for some bartender at The Rub, my favorite gay bar. Dirks are dicks.

  I laid a slice of meatloaf on a plate, tossed a small salad for myself because Aliyah didn’t do plants unless it was dried tobacco, and grabbed a bottle of sparkling mango water and went to my bedroom to eat and mope. Even though no one wanted me in their play I still had to stay trim. Maybe someone would callback someday…

  “Woe is me,” I moaned as I laid over my bed.

  I nibbled on meatloaf and forced some salad with low-calorie French dressing down, then fed the remains to my dog. Rolling to my back, I stared at the ceiling. There was a scene from some fictional realm painted over my bed, courtesy of my bestie. In the painting was a dragon with two men riding its back. One was me. I knew that because it was a stunning man with luxurious long blond hair. Also, Aliyah had told me it was me. I was riding behind a bigger man, dark-haired and strapping just as I like them, my arms around him as we soared through the stars on that pink dragon’s back. How delightful was that fantasy?! Every night I’d spin a different tale about the man I was seated behind. Tonight I was having trouble coming up with anything romantic or whimsical, which bummed me out even more.

  While Pizazz cleaned my plate, I stripped off my sweaty work togs, tossed them into the hamper, and padded into the bath off my bedroom. Blues and yellows greeted me. I slipped into the shower stall and turned the water on. Soap and a tidy treasure trail would erase the yuck of another come-on from my boss off. I scrubbed and washed my hair, conditioning the hell out of it, and then did some touchup work around my tiny patch of gold private curls.