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“No, I wouldn’t be that presumptuous. I do want to borrow your assets, though.” He’s crossed his arms over his chest and is cocking an eyebrow at me. Such a skeptic. “Come on,” I grab his arm and drag him into the door.
Inside there are three small rooms and dozens of cats, some walking around freely, some in wire kennels, some missing an eye or a leg, all waiting for a new home. Each kennel has a card listing the name of the cat and how they came to be here at this rescue, their life story condensed to a few lines of handwritten text.
“Oh my goodness, you’re here!” A short middle-aged woman rushes into the main entry room and clasps her hands together in excitement. “Thank you so much, Mr. Gibbes, Mallory, you have no idea how much this means to us! I got your phone call and oh, I just,” she starts fanning her eyes as tears well up, “I just cried! You’re angels!”
“That’s Lennox,” I smile and elbow him in the gut, “a real angel!”
He clears his throat and throws me his best side-eye while introducing himself. Mrs. Callister, the rescue founder I concocted this idea with late last night, gushes over his kindness and generosity.
“We’re all set up in the back, come right this way,” Mrs. Callister says as she rushes into one of the attached rooms.
I start to follow her and Lennox grabs my arm. “What have you done?” He leans and whispers into my ear.
Thirty minutes and a dozen more sarcastic comments whispered into my ear about how he’ll get me back for this, Lennox Gibbes is shirtless and posing while cuddling different rescue cats and kittens. Mrs. Callister has a white sheet hung up on the wall behind him and has brought in assorted props she was able to source on the fly. Her daughter is taking photos on an entry-level camera borrowed from the high school photo lab. It is assuredly the most low budget photoshoot Lennox has ever participated in.
Mrs. Callister is carrying a construction worker hat for the next shot and passes Lennox “Brad Kitt,” an orange kitten with a little blue cast on a hind leg and she tells us the story of how he was found after being hit by a car. Lennox takes Brad in his arms so carefully and gently brings him against his chest to cradle him. He’s been trying to be macho but I hear him cooing every cat she gives to him, and there’s been many.
I snort when she places the construction worker hat on Lennox’s head but my ovaries are on fire. As he was with Francisca and Tatiana and all of his fans, Lennox is patient and kind with Mrs. Callister, even when she drapes an Australian flag around his shoulders and has him pose with an ancient, haggard-looking black cat that would rather maul him than be a part of this hilarious low brow photo shoot.
We wrap up after Mrs. Callister’s daughter says they have enough photos for the charity calendar they’ll be able to fundraise with and, with his shirt back on, Lennox spends some time walking around the shelter and meeting more cats, learning about the rescue that Mrs. Callister founded because there was no place in this small town for animals to go when they needed help. I don’t rush him out the door this time, I just watch him, so very different outside of the racing paddock.
I wonder if I have him wrong but then again, photos don’t lie and he has encyclopedia levels of incriminating evidence against him.
Eight
Headline: Lennox Gibbes Rescues Local Cat Rescue
Headline: Cocky and Cuddly F1 Star Makes Surprise Fundraising Appearance
Photo: Big Dick AND Big Heart? A Sneak Peek at Lennox Gibbes’ Smoking Hot Charity Calendar Shoot
Lennox
“They’re going to think this was a publicity act,” I tell Mallory who is shoving her iPad at me to show me the results of her overnight work on ‘reforming my image.’ I don’t know, or particularly care, what all the engagement rates and metrics are she’s so excited about mean, but she’s all plump smiling lips and touchy-feely this morning. I won’t complain about that.
It was a sneaky trick; I give her props for that. I didn’t hate the time spent with her, not that I’ll let her know it. It was nice to get away from the track, that’s all. Still, I may have paid a hotel worker handsomely to put a snake in Jack’s hotel room toilet as retribution for telling Mallory about the bloody cats.
As soon as I got back to my hotel room yesterday and watched through the peephole of my door to make sure Mallory got into her room across the hall safely and Digby-Free, I told Jack to wire the cat rescue money. Not that I told Mallory about it. I donate generously to several charities but I do it anonymously because I don’t want the attention. As opposed to the jackass in the garage bay next to mine who is a cheap prick and only performs the smallest act of charity when he gets credit and media for it. Not my style, not that Digby has any style beyond the latest fashions at Douchebag Unlimited.
“Do you need to personally verify these ‘big dick’ credentials this blog is talking about? I know you value integrity in your work.” I rib Mallory while she keeps swiping through articles and photos.
“God, Aria would love proof of that,” she says, not looking up from the iPad that has her so entranced.
“Who?”
Mallory stops her incessant scrolling and looks up at me, snaps a curvy hip out to one side and eyes me beneath her long eyelashes, “Promise not to make fun?”
“There’s nothing funny about my dick, Mallory. I cannot emphasize this enough.” I’m trying to put my race suit on in my suite in our motorhome before the race and I can already tell it’s going to be another long, uncomfortable drive in the car thanks to my sassy nanny talking about my cock all the time. Or maybe it’s me who keeps bringing it up when she’s around.
“My roommate Aria is kind of obsessed with you,” she rolls her eyes. “She texts me every day asking when I’m going to send her nudes.”
I have one leg in my race suit and one leg out but I drop the suit to the ground entirely and take Mallory by the shoulders. “Wait, wait, wait. This is serious. Tell me now, is a nanny three-way a possibility?”
“You’re such a pig,” she laughs and shoves me in the chest making me nearly topple over my in the small room.
More touchy feely. More laughing.
I finish climbing into my suit and zip it up. Grabbing my helmet, I let her know I need to get to the garage and we’ll table the three-way conversation until after the race. She follows me the entire way, chatting endlessly about what she’s going to post next and reading me online comments from fans.
